goes to Harlem, remember?’
‘Oh, right.’
The taxi-driver muttered something in an alien language.
‘Give it a chance,’ Fred said. ‘We’ll go to Bloomingdale’s.’
Pratt had opened his office door again, and invited people in. It was there he said to Fred: ‘I’ve been thinking about feet.’
‘Feet.’
‘Feet or foot. Think of all the ways we use that word. The foot of the table, foot of the page, footnotes. Foothills. One foot in the grave. Put your best foot forward.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got a quote here from something: “The longest journey begins with a single two-step.”’ Pratt paused. ‘Foot and mouth. The game’s afoot. Footsteps in the sands of time.’
‘Fear in a handful of dust,’ Fred contributed.
‘That’s not a foot. Try to concentrate.’ Pratt looked annoyed. ‘Think of foot soldiers. Think of marching, walking, running, jumping, skipping, dancing. Climbing mountains, wading in oceans. They have pierced my hands and feet, they have numbered all my bones.’
‘Pierced?’
‘Another quote from somewhere, maybe the Bible. One step at a time. People use their feet when they go stepping out. Or skip out on their bills. The Lord makes mine enemy the footstool of my feet. And Robinson Crusoe, finding that footprint in the sands of time. Maybe that’s it!’
‘What?’
But Pratt swivelled round to his terminal and began typing rapidly with his long gecko fingers. He ignored Fred and seemed to forget his existence.
After a few moments, Fred crept back to his own desk. Heopened a book, but did not focus on its pages. His thoughts sailed from Pratt’s word-games to word-play in general, to Freud and Joyce, to Bloomsday and beyond.
The visit to Bloomingdale’s was cut short by a bomb scare. Fred and Susan had hardly entered those dark halls with their expensive gleams when they were herded out of the door again. They stood outside for a moment, watching the rest of the herd emerge. There was a great deal of loud protest; these were not people who were used to being pushed about. These were men and women in silk suits and gold chains, dowagers in trousers and neck-scarves, rich young people with their hair carefully mussed and their sleeves pushed up, even a small clamouring group of Arabs (no doubt the bomb target) who swept into their limousine and sped away.
‘How about a subway ride, then?’ Fred suggested, by way of rescuing the day.
It seemed a mistake from the moment they descended the urine-smelling stairs to behold a mad woman screaming and cursing in front of the token-booth.
‘You fuck, you fuck, you fuck! Sit there in your bulletproof booth – I wish they’d drop the fuckin’ bomb right on you – you hear me?’
The middle-aged man or woman in the booth went on counting coins carefully. The screaming lunatic paused while Fred bought two tokens, then renewed the attack: ‘I wish they’d drop it right on your …’
Fred and Susan descended to a platform that was long and very dark. All the people waited in one small pool of light, huddled together against the unknown.
When the train came, it was covered with spray-painted graffiti – the exterior, the doors, the walls and ceilings, the windows inside and out, the signs and maps, the seats and floors. These were not love-notes, dirty words or gang announcements. These were alien inhuman markings, the work of the insect heads from Aldebaran. For the first time,Fred and Susan realized there was a great inhuman force at large in this city.
When the passengers were trapped aboard, a legless man made his way through the car, forcing money from them by the sheer power of his ugly scowl.
Above them, a sign advertised something called a Cockroach Motel. Another sign, in Spanish, depicted thousands of cockroaches bred from one fertile pair.
‘No wonder nobody rides the subway unless they have to,’ said Susan.
‘Right. No more subway. Tomorrow we take the bus to the Metropolitan
‘Oh, right.’
The taxi-driver muttered something in an alien language.
‘Give it a chance,’ Fred said. ‘We’ll go to Bloomingdale’s.’
Pratt had opened his office door again, and invited people in. It was there he said to Fred: ‘I’ve been thinking about feet.’
‘Feet.’
‘Feet or foot. Think of all the ways we use that word. The foot of the table, foot of the page, footnotes. Foothills. One foot in the grave. Put your best foot forward.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got a quote here from something: “The longest journey begins with a single two-step.”’ Pratt paused. ‘Foot and mouth. The game’s afoot. Footsteps in the sands of time.’
‘Fear in a handful of dust,’ Fred contributed.
‘That’s not a foot. Try to concentrate.’ Pratt looked annoyed. ‘Think of foot soldiers. Think of marching, walking, running, jumping, skipping, dancing. Climbing mountains, wading in oceans. They have pierced my hands and feet, they have numbered all my bones.’
‘Pierced?’
‘Another quote from somewhere, maybe the Bible. One step at a time. People use their feet when they go stepping out. Or skip out on their bills. The Lord makes mine enemy the footstool of my feet. And Robinson Crusoe, finding that footprint in the sands of time. Maybe that’s it!’
‘What?’
But Pratt swivelled round to his terminal and began typing rapidly with his long gecko fingers. He ignored Fred and seemed to forget his existence.
After a few moments, Fred crept back to his own desk. Heopened a book, but did not focus on its pages. His thoughts sailed from Pratt’s word-games to word-play in general, to Freud and Joyce, to Bloomsday and beyond.
The visit to Bloomingdale’s was cut short by a bomb scare. Fred and Susan had hardly entered those dark halls with their expensive gleams when they were herded out of the door again. They stood outside for a moment, watching the rest of the herd emerge. There was a great deal of loud protest; these were not people who were used to being pushed about. These were men and women in silk suits and gold chains, dowagers in trousers and neck-scarves, rich young people with their hair carefully mussed and their sleeves pushed up, even a small clamouring group of Arabs (no doubt the bomb target) who swept into their limousine and sped away.
‘How about a subway ride, then?’ Fred suggested, by way of rescuing the day.
It seemed a mistake from the moment they descended the urine-smelling stairs to behold a mad woman screaming and cursing in front of the token-booth.
‘You fuck, you fuck, you fuck! Sit there in your bulletproof booth – I wish they’d drop the fuckin’ bomb right on you – you hear me?’
The middle-aged man or woman in the booth went on counting coins carefully. The screaming lunatic paused while Fred bought two tokens, then renewed the attack: ‘I wish they’d drop it right on your …’
Fred and Susan descended to a platform that was long and very dark. All the people waited in one small pool of light, huddled together against the unknown.
When the train came, it was covered with spray-painted graffiti – the exterior, the doors, the walls and ceilings, the windows inside and out, the signs and maps, the seats and floors. These were not love-notes, dirty words or gang announcements. These were alien inhuman markings, the work of the insect heads from Aldebaran. For the first time,Fred and Susan realized there was a great inhuman force at large in this city.
When the passengers were trapped aboard, a legless man made his way through the car, forcing money from them by the sheer power of his ugly scowl.
Above them, a sign advertised something called a Cockroach Motel. Another sign, in Spanish, depicted thousands of cockroaches bred from one fertile pair.
‘No wonder nobody rides the subway unless they have to,’ said Susan.
‘Right. No more subway. Tomorrow we take the bus to the Metropolitan
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