move.
She saw that Dion had finished writing.
“How goes it, love?”
“Ferkinorrible.”
“What were you writing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“If you want a label,” he said irritably, “let’s call it ‘Footnote to a Monograph on the Possible After-Effects of Armageddon’.”
The computer replied to the move as Juno had expectedit would, and the R5 square on her chess board glowed where the computer had just eliminated her bishop with its knight. She took the knight with a pawn and some resignation. The computer had its rooks doubled.
Juno turned to Dion once more. “There will be no Armageddon,” she said confidently. “Because the affairs of the world are now virtually controlled by women.”
“You stupid, big-breasted bitch.”
Juno stood up. As an afterthought she signalled her resignation to the computer. Then she faced Dion, arms akimbo.
“Don’t mix it with me, little troubadour. Otherwise, I may have to snap you in two.”
“Stupid, big-breasted bitch,” he repeated calmly. “What the Stopes do you know about anything, you arrogant cow?”
“You’re trying to needle me.”
“Ah, the dawn of intelligence in the master sex… No Armageddon, quoth the dom. And, lo, the
pronunciamento
becomes graven on a stone tablet… Armageddon arrived some time ago, dear dim playmate. It started with a Hollywood musical called Hiroshima and worked up to a genetic climax with the usurpation of the human female.” He hiccupped once more. “People got burned at Hiroshima, but by Stopes the rest of us got fresh-frozen when you shrivel-wombs became pill-happy.”
“I think I should order some coffee,” retorted Juno with dignity.
“Do that thing. It indicates the limit of your imagination.”
Juno lost her temper. She lunged across the room. Dion met her with what he hoped would be a devastating blow to the solar plexus. It never arrived. Juno snatched at hisarm, translated the movement into a whip and side-stepped. He somersaulted over the bed.
“Try again, playboy,” she taunted.
With an angry growl he leaped back across the bed. Juno hit him once. He fell, retching.
“Little one,” she murmured, cradling his head. “Oh, my little lost one. What is it?”
“Life,” he said, when he could breathe freely. “Life and vodka. Poetry and lack of hope… I’m sorry, shrivel-womb. This one is on me.”
“Read me your poem—please.”
“There isn’t enough time. Kismet, via the royal command, calls us to Stonehenge.”
“Victoria can wait. Besides, I doubt if we shall be presented. I’m only a second grade… Read me the poem.”
Dion took the piece of paper. “You won’t like it.”
“Read it—please.”
“You won’t understand it. I’m damned if I do.”
“Read it.”
When he had finished, he was amazed to see that Juno was crying. There were no sounds, but the tears flowed freely down her face.
“What is it?” he asked. “Surely not recognition of genius at my time of disintegration.”
“Love me,” pleaded Juno. “For Stopes sake, love me… It’s the damned ticking of the clock.”
Dion shook his head. “Start learning, Amazon,” he said. “I’ll do it in my time—not in yours.”
Thirteen
F ROM an altitude of five hundred feet, Stonehenge looked like the wreckage of some monstrous Christmas cake. The whole area was covered by a high transparent tepee through the top of which the smoke from a butane-fed bonfire and a hundred torches rose like a solid column in the still air. The megaliths were covered with sheets of iridescent metal foil pressed hard against their contours so that metal and stone seemed as one. In the great circle, witches and warlocks seethed like a colony of disturbed ants. Victoria had evidently not yet arrived, for the royal standard was nowhere to be seen.
Dion and Juno were riding separate broomsticks. Their night sky suits glowed dully green against the star-pricked darkness. Juno’s witch hat
She saw that Dion had finished writing.
“How goes it, love?”
“Ferkinorrible.”
“What were you writing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“If you want a label,” he said irritably, “let’s call it ‘Footnote to a Monograph on the Possible After-Effects of Armageddon’.”
The computer replied to the move as Juno had expectedit would, and the R5 square on her chess board glowed where the computer had just eliminated her bishop with its knight. She took the knight with a pawn and some resignation. The computer had its rooks doubled.
Juno turned to Dion once more. “There will be no Armageddon,” she said confidently. “Because the affairs of the world are now virtually controlled by women.”
“You stupid, big-breasted bitch.”
Juno stood up. As an afterthought she signalled her resignation to the computer. Then she faced Dion, arms akimbo.
“Don’t mix it with me, little troubadour. Otherwise, I may have to snap you in two.”
“Stupid, big-breasted bitch,” he repeated calmly. “What the Stopes do you know about anything, you arrogant cow?”
“You’re trying to needle me.”
“Ah, the dawn of intelligence in the master sex… No Armageddon, quoth the dom. And, lo, the
pronunciamento
becomes graven on a stone tablet… Armageddon arrived some time ago, dear dim playmate. It started with a Hollywood musical called Hiroshima and worked up to a genetic climax with the usurpation of the human female.” He hiccupped once more. “People got burned at Hiroshima, but by Stopes the rest of us got fresh-frozen when you shrivel-wombs became pill-happy.”
“I think I should order some coffee,” retorted Juno with dignity.
“Do that thing. It indicates the limit of your imagination.”
Juno lost her temper. She lunged across the room. Dion met her with what he hoped would be a devastating blow to the solar plexus. It never arrived. Juno snatched at hisarm, translated the movement into a whip and side-stepped. He somersaulted over the bed.
“Try again, playboy,” she taunted.
With an angry growl he leaped back across the bed. Juno hit him once. He fell, retching.
“Little one,” she murmured, cradling his head. “Oh, my little lost one. What is it?”
“Life,” he said, when he could breathe freely. “Life and vodka. Poetry and lack of hope… I’m sorry, shrivel-womb. This one is on me.”
“Read me your poem—please.”
“There isn’t enough time. Kismet, via the royal command, calls us to Stonehenge.”
“Victoria can wait. Besides, I doubt if we shall be presented. I’m only a second grade… Read me the poem.”
Dion took the piece of paper. “You won’t like it.”
“Read it—please.”
“You won’t understand it. I’m damned if I do.”
“Read it.”
When he had finished, he was amazed to see that Juno was crying. There were no sounds, but the tears flowed freely down her face.
“What is it?” he asked. “Surely not recognition of genius at my time of disintegration.”
“Love me,” pleaded Juno. “For Stopes sake, love me… It’s the damned ticking of the clock.”
Dion shook his head. “Start learning, Amazon,” he said. “I’ll do it in my time—not in yours.”
Thirteen
F ROM an altitude of five hundred feet, Stonehenge looked like the wreckage of some monstrous Christmas cake. The whole area was covered by a high transparent tepee through the top of which the smoke from a butane-fed bonfire and a hundred torches rose like a solid column in the still air. The megaliths were covered with sheets of iridescent metal foil pressed hard against their contours so that metal and stone seemed as one. In the great circle, witches and warlocks seethed like a colony of disturbed ants. Victoria had evidently not yet arrived, for the royal standard was nowhere to be seen.
Dion and Juno were riding separate broomsticks. Their night sky suits glowed dully green against the star-pricked darkness. Juno’s witch hat
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