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Authors: John Brunner
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later-"
Meantime he was putting his arm around Lora and hopefully trying to insert his fingers through the slots of her dress, but she obviously was not one of the many who felt it a privilege to be touched by Prexy. The fact that she wriggled away, however, did not disconcert him in the
slightest. Snap. He altered. his pose with practiced skill. Snap again. Sheklov stood numb, wearing a feeble grin. He was terribly aware of the eyes of Cashew and Levitt fixed on him, saying without words: "We'll know you next time we see you."
Snap once more, and finished. As though a spell had been lifted, people started moving about and talking as loudly as before, while Turpin found Prexy a drink and ushered him towards the densest part of the crowd, his favorite spot. Watching him go, Sheklov heard again that slick alliterative catch-phrase-"where business binds, friendship follows"-and felt briefly haunted by the ghosts of a million Asian peasants.
He realized abruptly that he was being stared at. By the young man Lora had insisted on pulling into the photograph with her, the lean black. the only black here. Blacks didn't make it to Lakonia, he'd been told.
The instant he met that dark gaze, it flicked away. But it left a dismayingly deep dent, for no apparent reason, in his hitherto impermeable composure.
(r)X
After that music began, and Sheklov had to circulate. Almost at once he had an alarming encounter with a TV producer named Ambow, who was eager for praise of some historical-drama series he had made. Sheklov, not having seen the show, had no opinion at first, but by the time Ambow found a more promising victim he had a very firm opinion indeed, The series was decadent bourgeois non-representational escapism of the worst conceivable kind. A man like Ambow couldn't possibly create anything better.
Indeed, this whole function had a curious quasi-historical air. The tunes being played, for example, dated back fifteen, even twenty-five years, and in the identical style of their originals. The clothes, too, struck him as subtly behind the times-what you might have seen at a Kremlin reception a decade ago. Growing more and more depressed, he drifted from one group to another, and heard lectures on the spics ("A billion bucks we spent on aid, and the Cubans put 'em in their pocket!"), on the gooks ("All those American boys who died trying to save them from the Reds!"), and the black Africans ("Can't trust anyone over there except the Boers, and I don't think we do enough for them!") . . .
1 didn't believe it, he thought. But it's true!
He wondered whether someone like Ambow, working with material from the past, recognized the analogies you could draw, one-for-one, with other places and other times. And concluded that if anyone did, he must prefer to ignore them. It made him desperately sad.
Eventually, passing the half-open door that led into the living-room of the Turnips' apartment, he heard a familiar sound.
"Well, well!" he murmured under his teeth. "Prokofievl"
He debated for a moment whether it was in character for Holtzer to like "The Love of Three Oranges," and decided that that was irrelevant. Shrugging, he pushed open the door. Beyond, the lights were down to a dim glow, but
he had been in here earlier today and thought he knew the layout well enough not to turn them up. He headed for a chair facing the player. It was not until he almost fell over an outstretched leg that he realized the room's long lounge, end-on to the door, was occupied by Lora and her dark-skinned friend. She was crawling all over him, but although his hands were inside her dress, fondling her back, he didn't seem to be acting very passionately.
"Sorry" he murmured, and made to withdraw.
And backed straight into a tall, good-looking man with a shock of sleek gray hair, who in the same moment snapped the lights to full.
"Oh, Loral" he exclaimed. "Do you know what's become of your
Meantime he was putting his arm around Lora and hopefully trying to insert his fingers through the slots of her dress, but she obviously was not one of the many who felt it a privilege to be touched by Prexy. The fact that she wriggled away, however, did not disconcert him in the
slightest. Snap. He altered. his pose with practiced skill. Snap again. Sheklov stood numb, wearing a feeble grin. He was terribly aware of the eyes of Cashew and Levitt fixed on him, saying without words: "We'll know you next time we see you."
Snap once more, and finished. As though a spell had been lifted, people started moving about and talking as loudly as before, while Turpin found Prexy a drink and ushered him towards the densest part of the crowd, his favorite spot. Watching him go, Sheklov heard again that slick alliterative catch-phrase-"where business binds, friendship follows"-and felt briefly haunted by the ghosts of a million Asian peasants.
He realized abruptly that he was being stared at. By the young man Lora had insisted on pulling into the photograph with her, the lean black. the only black here. Blacks didn't make it to Lakonia, he'd been told.
The instant he met that dark gaze, it flicked away. But it left a dismayingly deep dent, for no apparent reason, in his hitherto impermeable composure.
(r)X
After that music began, and Sheklov had to circulate. Almost at once he had an alarming encounter with a TV producer named Ambow, who was eager for praise of some historical-drama series he had made. Sheklov, not having seen the show, had no opinion at first, but by the time Ambow found a more promising victim he had a very firm opinion indeed, The series was decadent bourgeois non-representational escapism of the worst conceivable kind. A man like Ambow couldn't possibly create anything better.
Indeed, this whole function had a curious quasi-historical air. The tunes being played, for example, dated back fifteen, even twenty-five years, and in the identical style of their originals. The clothes, too, struck him as subtly behind the times-what you might have seen at a Kremlin reception a decade ago. Growing more and more depressed, he drifted from one group to another, and heard lectures on the spics ("A billion bucks we spent on aid, and the Cubans put 'em in their pocket!"), on the gooks ("All those American boys who died trying to save them from the Reds!"), and the black Africans ("Can't trust anyone over there except the Boers, and I don't think we do enough for them!") . . .
1 didn't believe it, he thought. But it's true!
He wondered whether someone like Ambow, working with material from the past, recognized the analogies you could draw, one-for-one, with other places and other times. And concluded that if anyone did, he must prefer to ignore them. It made him desperately sad.
Eventually, passing the half-open door that led into the living-room of the Turnips' apartment, he heard a familiar sound.
"Well, well!" he murmured under his teeth. "Prokofievl"
He debated for a moment whether it was in character for Holtzer to like "The Love of Three Oranges," and decided that that was irrelevant. Shrugging, he pushed open the door. Beyond, the lights were down to a dim glow, but
he had been in here earlier today and thought he knew the layout well enough not to turn them up. He headed for a chair facing the player. It was not until he almost fell over an outstretched leg that he realized the room's long lounge, end-on to the door, was occupied by Lora and her dark-skinned friend. She was crawling all over him, but although his hands were inside her dress, fondling her back, he didn't seem to be acting very passionately.
"Sorry" he murmured, and made to withdraw.
And backed straight into a tall, good-looking man with a shock of sleek gray hair, who in the same moment snapped the lights to full.
"Oh, Loral" he exclaimed. "Do you know what's become of your
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