Read Online Narabedla Ltd by Frederik Pohl - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frederik Pohl
Ads: Link
scurried out the door.
“So they say,” Shipperton said sourly after it. Then to me: “What a mess. You’ve turned up at a bad time, Stennis. But come on in, while I figure out what the hell to do with you.”
I was still half asleep. I had no better ideas, so I followed, munching on the sandwich and staring around.
In my time I’ve been in any number of booking agents’ offices. Never one like that. Like any agent, Shipperton had a big desk. It didn’t resemble any regular desk. It wasn’t mahogany or bleached oak or knotty pine or any of those other trendy things. It wasn’t wood at all. I didn’t know what it was. Most of the desk was ebony black, but the top of it was, I suspected, one huge computer screen. It was a mosaic of small, square images. As Shipperton absently reached out and tapped on one or another of them, they flickered and flowed, faster than my eye could follow. They meant something to Shipperton, though, because he was staring at them disconsolately.
The rest of the furnishings were standard enough—well, some of them were. Somewhat standard. That is, he had the kind of impressive-expensive furniture that you’d get in the office of a really big-time agent, or a small-timer willing to invest the money to look big. There was the traditional casting couch, huge, deep blue, and upholstered in what looked and felt like real leather. There were a chair and a hassock to match, and a coffee table with a vase of fresh-cut flowers between two tastefully displayed sheaves of magazines. The magazines were dentist’s-office regulars —National Geographic and People and so on, with Variety and the Hollywood Reporter mixed in. All recent issues, too. The flowers were harder to be sure of. One kind was lilacs. Another might have been hibiscus, and another I didn’t recognize at all, but collectively they smelled sweet. There was a deep, figured rug, maybe Persian. And there were no windows at all.
The reason there were no windows was that every inch of wall space was filled with small, square pictures, from about hip height to the ceiling.
I thought at first they were photographs. Silly me! They were more of those computery kinds of things, because I saw that as Shipperton played with his desk top some of them blurred and changed. The one good thing was that they were all of people. Human people. Most of the pictures were of people I’d never seen, but then I recognized the sweet old face of Norah Platt. It occurred to me to see if I could find Woody Calderon among them, but Shipperton didn’t give me time.
He took his attention off the desk top and gave it to me. “What a day,” he said morosely. “The Polyphase Index is still dropping, in spite of everything, and what I just had to tell the Mother was that your audition was a bust.”
I had already made up my mind to say what I wanted to get off my chest regardless of anything this man might have to say. I plunged right in. “Shipperton, I was brought here by force and against my will. That’s kidnapping, and that makes you an accessory to a capital crime. And—” I stopped in the middle of my planned speech, having taken in what he had just said. I finished, “What do you mean, my audition was a bust?”
He said sourly, “A bust. As in forget it. I thought for a minute that I might talk some of them into letting you sing for them, like any regular artist. But you stank. So that’s out; and now what am I going to do with you?”
I opened my mouth. Then I closed it again. I’d made my protest; it was on record, for whatever that was worth— certainly not much. I didn’t really have anything more to say.
Sighing, Shipperton got up and went to a little desk at the side of the room; it opened and revealed a coffeepot with cups. He filled two of them and shoved one at me before he sat down again. “I wish they hadn’t dumped you on me right now,” he complained. “Things are still real tense over that colonization thing with the
“So they say,” Shipperton said sourly after it. Then to me: “What a mess. You’ve turned up at a bad time, Stennis. But come on in, while I figure out what the hell to do with you.”
I was still half asleep. I had no better ideas, so I followed, munching on the sandwich and staring around.
In my time I’ve been in any number of booking agents’ offices. Never one like that. Like any agent, Shipperton had a big desk. It didn’t resemble any regular desk. It wasn’t mahogany or bleached oak or knotty pine or any of those other trendy things. It wasn’t wood at all. I didn’t know what it was. Most of the desk was ebony black, but the top of it was, I suspected, one huge computer screen. It was a mosaic of small, square images. As Shipperton absently reached out and tapped on one or another of them, they flickered and flowed, faster than my eye could follow. They meant something to Shipperton, though, because he was staring at them disconsolately.
The rest of the furnishings were standard enough—well, some of them were. Somewhat standard. That is, he had the kind of impressive-expensive furniture that you’d get in the office of a really big-time agent, or a small-timer willing to invest the money to look big. There was the traditional casting couch, huge, deep blue, and upholstered in what looked and felt like real leather. There were a chair and a hassock to match, and a coffee table with a vase of fresh-cut flowers between two tastefully displayed sheaves of magazines. The magazines were dentist’s-office regulars —National Geographic and People and so on, with Variety and the Hollywood Reporter mixed in. All recent issues, too. The flowers were harder to be sure of. One kind was lilacs. Another might have been hibiscus, and another I didn’t recognize at all, but collectively they smelled sweet. There was a deep, figured rug, maybe Persian. And there were no windows at all.
The reason there were no windows was that every inch of wall space was filled with small, square pictures, from about hip height to the ceiling.
I thought at first they were photographs. Silly me! They were more of those computery kinds of things, because I saw that as Shipperton played with his desk top some of them blurred and changed. The one good thing was that they were all of people. Human people. Most of the pictures were of people I’d never seen, but then I recognized the sweet old face of Norah Platt. It occurred to me to see if I could find Woody Calderon among them, but Shipperton didn’t give me time.
He took his attention off the desk top and gave it to me. “What a day,” he said morosely. “The Polyphase Index is still dropping, in spite of everything, and what I just had to tell the Mother was that your audition was a bust.”
I had already made up my mind to say what I wanted to get off my chest regardless of anything this man might have to say. I plunged right in. “Shipperton, I was brought here by force and against my will. That’s kidnapping, and that makes you an accessory to a capital crime. And—” I stopped in the middle of my planned speech, having taken in what he had just said. I finished, “What do you mean, my audition was a bust?”
He said sourly, “A bust. As in forget it. I thought for a minute that I might talk some of them into letting you sing for them, like any regular artist. But you stank. So that’s out; and now what am I going to do with you?”
I opened my mouth. Then I closed it again. I’d made my protest; it was on record, for whatever that was worth— certainly not much. I didn’t really have anything more to say.
Sighing, Shipperton got up and went to a little desk at the side of the room; it opened and revealed a coffeepot with cups. He filled two of them and shoved one at me before he sat down again. “I wish they hadn’t dumped you on me right now,” he complained. “Things are still real tense over that colonization thing with the
Similar Books
