Read Online The Reproductive System (Gollancz SF Library) by John Sladek - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Sladek
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could see it in his mind’s eye : palm trees, intrigue, a chance to clean up corruption at the very source !
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, smiling through his tears.
THE GULLS OF MARRAKECH
‘They four had one likeness, as if a wheel had been in the midst of a wheel.’
Ezekiel 10:10
Haroun Al Raschid was being difficult, pretending not to understand what Suggs was asking him to sell.
‘This puts me in an embarrassing position,’ he said, sighing
kif
smoke behind his bejewelled hand. ‘You see, M’sieur Suggs, I
do not officially even know of the French mission in this city. How can I give you the information you seek? If you used it, my reputation with the French might be—as you say—battered? I might lose friends, influence—and for what?’
‘You must help us,’ Suggs said grimly. ‘Give us the name of their man, at least. I know you know it; Haroun knows everything that goes on in Marrakech.’
Al Raschid leaned back slightly, his fat mouth rounding in a moue of disavowel. ‘You flatter me, M’sieur.’ The tight linen of his suit prevented him from sprawling on the low couch, as he so obviously wished to do; it was with great effort that he moved in any direction, even to reach for his mint tea. ‘I tell you, it is in my mind to help you, M’sieur Suggs, as a friend helps a friend. But—I do not know. The risk is great.’
‘You must know
something
of use.’ The CIA man tried to hold his breath whenever a whiff of
kif
smoke came near, but now he leaned across the low brass table and spoke in an earnest whisper. ‘Just give us the man’s name, that’s all. It is for the good of Morocco as well as that of the United S—Nations. The whole world will benefit.’
‘Ah, but that is what the Russian gentleman says. Which of you is telling the truth?’ With a cunning gleam in his eye, Haroun added, ‘What is a simple man to believe? I am not well-educated. I am only a poor merchant, as you see.’
The sweep of his glittering hand indicated the parquet floor, rich carpets, mosaic walls; it took in the stained glass lancets and the delicate, jewel-like chandeliers. The room was a chaos of textures : brass, wood, leather, silk, wool, silver, velvet. Through a marble doorway Suggs could see the cool garden where a white peacock stalked to and fro beneath the lemon trees.
‘As you see, I have not the air conditioning. I have not the television set. I have none of the luxuries so commonplace in your land, no, not even the electric toothbrush.’
Hiking up his jelaba, Suggs brought out a slim billfold. ‘We are prepared to pay, of course,’ he said. ‘Anything reasonable.’
‘Ah !’ Haroun’s tiny nostrils exhaled twin jets of aromatic smoke. ‘Then I must overcome the scruple of my conscience. Here is the right half of a picture of the man you seek. His name is Brioche, Marcel Brioche. He is a pilot of planes for the French Air Force—and who knows what else, eh?’
‘No one is exactly what he seems,’ Suggs said pleasantly. As his left hand reached out to take the half-picture his right, still
inside his jelaba, fired his silenced gun. Haroun Al Raschid did not move, but only grunted slightly as the front of his silk shirt grew purple with blood.
Suggs did not wait to see the inevitable look of surprise on his victim’s face—after nine years in the CIA, one grew weary of such looks—but tucked the photo in his billfold and hurried out into the sun-drenched street. He drew up his hood as he ran. The motion set scalding pangs of diarrhoea growling in his guts.
A crowd of ragged boys besieged him almost at once, and followed him to his hotel, chanting :
‘M’soo, M’soo ! You want gull, nice gull? You want nice boy?
Kif
, smoke? Mister ! ’Allo ! You like picture? You like see dancing gull? You like camel whip? Me very strong, M’soo ! You want shoes shine? Me guide, M’soo. Me guide. You want nice gull?’
His disguise had not been as effective as he had
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, smiling through his tears.
THE GULLS OF MARRAKECH
‘They four had one likeness, as if a wheel had been in the midst of a wheel.’
Ezekiel 10:10
Haroun Al Raschid was being difficult, pretending not to understand what Suggs was asking him to sell.
‘This puts me in an embarrassing position,’ he said, sighing
kif
smoke behind his bejewelled hand. ‘You see, M’sieur Suggs, I
do not officially even know of the French mission in this city. How can I give you the information you seek? If you used it, my reputation with the French might be—as you say—battered? I might lose friends, influence—and for what?’
‘You must help us,’ Suggs said grimly. ‘Give us the name of their man, at least. I know you know it; Haroun knows everything that goes on in Marrakech.’
Al Raschid leaned back slightly, his fat mouth rounding in a moue of disavowel. ‘You flatter me, M’sieur.’ The tight linen of his suit prevented him from sprawling on the low couch, as he so obviously wished to do; it was with great effort that he moved in any direction, even to reach for his mint tea. ‘I tell you, it is in my mind to help you, M’sieur Suggs, as a friend helps a friend. But—I do not know. The risk is great.’
‘You must know
something
of use.’ The CIA man tried to hold his breath whenever a whiff of
kif
smoke came near, but now he leaned across the low brass table and spoke in an earnest whisper. ‘Just give us the man’s name, that’s all. It is for the good of Morocco as well as that of the United S—Nations. The whole world will benefit.’
‘Ah, but that is what the Russian gentleman says. Which of you is telling the truth?’ With a cunning gleam in his eye, Haroun added, ‘What is a simple man to believe? I am not well-educated. I am only a poor merchant, as you see.’
The sweep of his glittering hand indicated the parquet floor, rich carpets, mosaic walls; it took in the stained glass lancets and the delicate, jewel-like chandeliers. The room was a chaos of textures : brass, wood, leather, silk, wool, silver, velvet. Through a marble doorway Suggs could see the cool garden where a white peacock stalked to and fro beneath the lemon trees.
‘As you see, I have not the air conditioning. I have not the television set. I have none of the luxuries so commonplace in your land, no, not even the electric toothbrush.’
Hiking up his jelaba, Suggs brought out a slim billfold. ‘We are prepared to pay, of course,’ he said. ‘Anything reasonable.’
‘Ah !’ Haroun’s tiny nostrils exhaled twin jets of aromatic smoke. ‘Then I must overcome the scruple of my conscience. Here is the right half of a picture of the man you seek. His name is Brioche, Marcel Brioche. He is a pilot of planes for the French Air Force—and who knows what else, eh?’
‘No one is exactly what he seems,’ Suggs said pleasantly. As his left hand reached out to take the half-picture his right, still
inside his jelaba, fired his silenced gun. Haroun Al Raschid did not move, but only grunted slightly as the front of his silk shirt grew purple with blood.
Suggs did not wait to see the inevitable look of surprise on his victim’s face—after nine years in the CIA, one grew weary of such looks—but tucked the photo in his billfold and hurried out into the sun-drenched street. He drew up his hood as he ran. The motion set scalding pangs of diarrhoea growling in his guts.
A crowd of ragged boys besieged him almost at once, and followed him to his hotel, chanting :
‘M’soo, M’soo ! You want gull, nice gull? You want nice boy?
Kif
, smoke? Mister ! ’Allo ! You like picture? You like see dancing gull? You like camel whip? Me very strong, M’soo ! You want shoes shine? Me guide, M’soo. Me guide. You want nice gull?’
His disguise had not been as effective as he had
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