Read Online Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel by Rudy Rucker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rudy Rucker
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shouldn’t hold the grudge. Sit, sit. What does your family do, Mr. Burroughs?” She peered at him near-sightedly, her soft face friendly.
Alan groped for the Burroughs’s memories—it was like catching carp in a muddy pond. “Business machines,” he announced as he took a chair. “Originally, that is. And now they run a gift shop in, ah, Palm Beach.”
“We’re in sugar,” said Frau Pelikaan. “My husband has an enormous plantation in Florida. Katje and I have been back to Brussels to renew our wardrobes.”
“You two look very top-shelf,” said Vassar. “Like stained-glass butterflies.”
Frau Pelikaan looked down in a gesture of modesty, tripling her chin. And then she threw back her head and laughed. “Let’s order champagne. Really, it’s still Christmas.”
“Apple cider for me,” said Alan. Hosting a skug had rather put him off spirits.
The portholes showed the dark and moonlit winter sea, its swells as smooth as oil. The Phos was knifing through the waters at a remarkable speed. Candles lit the tables, and the steward served a very nice turkey velouté in pastry shells. Alan’s apple cider went down well. The others started on a second bottle of wine.
Alan was glad to note that the disturbing Ned Strunk was off at the other end of the room, sitting with a Norwegian couple and a Spanish businessman. Strunk’s face was empty, his long arms were like vines.
“Not bad for leftovers,” Vassar said, as he spooned the last of his sauce off his plate. “You missed the rubber gut eat-orgy yesterday, Bill.”
“I do hope they have more of that bûche de Noël cake,” put in Frau Pelikaan.
“Are you single, Mr. Burroughs?” asked Katje.
“Indeed,” said Alan. “A confirmed bachelor by now.”
“Bill here was running wild when I met him in Tangier,” volunteered Vassar, who now seemed quite drunk. Evidently he’d prepped himself before the meal. “Let me tell you girls about it.”
“Are you sure this—” began Alan, but Lafia was not to be stopped. Gesturing for a third bottle, he leaned back in his chair, and began his narration.
“Bill here may not remember this tale, but I’ll unspool it just the same. You ever heard of a magic carpet ride? There’s a reason they talk about that in this part of the world. Those oriental carpets are windows, you might say, and travel devices as well. Bill and I rode a carpet to inner outer space. We started out at the Café Central. There’s a bunch of drifters, con-men, expats, and degenerates that hang there—it’s a party every day. I’d just come in from Gibraltar, and I found Bill here loading up a hookah with kief. The guy next to him, a chump name of Brian Howard, had tossed in a ball of opium. The tears of the poppy. Magic carpet fuel. I’m a student of the Thousand And One Nights .”
Vassar’s cheerful, reckless voice was filling the room. The subtle motions of Ned Strunk’s head indicated that he was listening to every word. At one level, Alan was in fact delighted to see Vassar shocking the stuffy crowd. But, given Alan’s peculiar circumstances, it seemed prudent to stem the flow. “Vassar, I’d really rather that you—”
“So Bill and me are blasting on the happy hookah, and suddenly there’s this wild stink and I’m so wasted I think maybe I’ve crapped my pants,” boomed Vassar. “But it’s just a mangy dog has come in and is rolling on his back on the carpet by our table. Old cur’s got his legs spread, wanting a friendly rub. And then Burroughs here gets down on all fours and starts sniffing the dog’s dick! I nudge Bill with my foot, I’m like, ‘Don’t do that, man, they’ll eighty-six us,’ and Bill yelps back, ‘We’re dump dogs on a magic carpet! Come down here and ride !’ You don’t remember any of this at all, do you, Bill?”
Turing shook his head, fighting back a bark of laughter. He’d always found it amusing when someone’s behavior was utterly beyond the pale.
“Now,
Alan groped for the Burroughs’s memories—it was like catching carp in a muddy pond. “Business machines,” he announced as he took a chair. “Originally, that is. And now they run a gift shop in, ah, Palm Beach.”
“We’re in sugar,” said Frau Pelikaan. “My husband has an enormous plantation in Florida. Katje and I have been back to Brussels to renew our wardrobes.”
“You two look very top-shelf,” said Vassar. “Like stained-glass butterflies.”
Frau Pelikaan looked down in a gesture of modesty, tripling her chin. And then she threw back her head and laughed. “Let’s order champagne. Really, it’s still Christmas.”
“Apple cider for me,” said Alan. Hosting a skug had rather put him off spirits.
The portholes showed the dark and moonlit winter sea, its swells as smooth as oil. The Phos was knifing through the waters at a remarkable speed. Candles lit the tables, and the steward served a very nice turkey velouté in pastry shells. Alan’s apple cider went down well. The others started on a second bottle of wine.
Alan was glad to note that the disturbing Ned Strunk was off at the other end of the room, sitting with a Norwegian couple and a Spanish businessman. Strunk’s face was empty, his long arms were like vines.
“Not bad for leftovers,” Vassar said, as he spooned the last of his sauce off his plate. “You missed the rubber gut eat-orgy yesterday, Bill.”
“I do hope they have more of that bûche de Noël cake,” put in Frau Pelikaan.
“Are you single, Mr. Burroughs?” asked Katje.
“Indeed,” said Alan. “A confirmed bachelor by now.”
“Bill here was running wild when I met him in Tangier,” volunteered Vassar, who now seemed quite drunk. Evidently he’d prepped himself before the meal. “Let me tell you girls about it.”
“Are you sure this—” began Alan, but Lafia was not to be stopped. Gesturing for a third bottle, he leaned back in his chair, and began his narration.
“Bill here may not remember this tale, but I’ll unspool it just the same. You ever heard of a magic carpet ride? There’s a reason they talk about that in this part of the world. Those oriental carpets are windows, you might say, and travel devices as well. Bill and I rode a carpet to inner outer space. We started out at the Café Central. There’s a bunch of drifters, con-men, expats, and degenerates that hang there—it’s a party every day. I’d just come in from Gibraltar, and I found Bill here loading up a hookah with kief. The guy next to him, a chump name of Brian Howard, had tossed in a ball of opium. The tears of the poppy. Magic carpet fuel. I’m a student of the Thousand And One Nights .”
Vassar’s cheerful, reckless voice was filling the room. The subtle motions of Ned Strunk’s head indicated that he was listening to every word. At one level, Alan was in fact delighted to see Vassar shocking the stuffy crowd. But, given Alan’s peculiar circumstances, it seemed prudent to stem the flow. “Vassar, I’d really rather that you—”
“So Bill and me are blasting on the happy hookah, and suddenly there’s this wild stink and I’m so wasted I think maybe I’ve crapped my pants,” boomed Vassar. “But it’s just a mangy dog has come in and is rolling on his back on the carpet by our table. Old cur’s got his legs spread, wanting a friendly rub. And then Burroughs here gets down on all fours and starts sniffing the dog’s dick! I nudge Bill with my foot, I’m like, ‘Don’t do that, man, they’ll eighty-six us,’ and Bill yelps back, ‘We’re dump dogs on a magic carpet! Come down here and ride !’ You don’t remember any of this at all, do you, Bill?”
Turing shook his head, fighting back a bark of laughter. He’d always found it amusing when someone’s behavior was utterly beyond the pale.
“Now,
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