gettin’ ridda her will change things, do you?” asked Mooly.
“Change my irritation some,” Ashes growled. “Teach her a lesson. Woman had no right to go off like that. I shoulda had daughters! I shoulda had riches! Woulda had, but for her!”
“Still got no ship,” murmured Mooly.
“We’ll get the ship. No reason for hurry. Mountains are gonna roll, Mooly-boy. Mountains are gonna roll.” He leaned back, opened his mouth and sang, “An’ when they do, it’s me and you, and devil take the hindmost.”
Everyone in the place began talking of something, anything, to cover the sound of that song, for it held a horridly broken quality, as though it issued from the throat of something not quite complete.
“Well, we’re ready,” said Mooly, glaring at Ashes, his long yellow nails, ridged as washboards, making a dry tattoo upon the tabletop, like the rattling of bones. “Been ready some time.”
Ashes squirmed, perhaps uncomfortable at this challenge. “I know, I know. Gotta be patient. Gotta wait on events. You tell ‘em Ashes said so. Wait on events.”
“I done my part,” whispered the Machinist. “Nothing new, here, Ashes. Why’d you need me here? I don’t like coming here.”
“Got to show the flag to the bloody Hag, Mah-cheeny. Got to come out in the open, ever now and then, listen to people talk, see ‘em wander, figure ‘em out.”
“You’re drunk,” said Machinist, who drank nothing but water. “You’re pickled.”
“And if I am? Who’s got more right? Never mind, Mah-cheeny, old boy. These little get-togethers keep us in touch. You over there near Nehbe. Mooly over the mountain with our folk. Me wanderin’ around in Sendoph and Naibah, keepin track of this one and that one. Now you can go back to your con-stit-you-encies and tell ‘em what’s goin’ on.”
“Got no constituency,” grated Machinist. “Don’t want none.”
Ashes sneered, “You got one, whether you want it or not. There’s still folks remember you well, Mah-cheeny. Folks that speak of you often. Shatter sends regards. So does old Crawley! Meetin’ here keeps us all together, keeps us on track. Whatever happens, we’re gonna be all together. No matter what happens.”
“What happens better be what we planned to happen,” said Machinist. “That’s what’d better happen.”
“Sure, sure,” soothed Ashes. “All in good time.”
“There’s been too damn much good time!”
“You want it sooner, you can lead it.”
“Don’t want to lead it,” said Machinist. “Never did.”
“Well then, don’t be so impatient. It’ll all come to pass. You can rely on that. It’ll all come to pass. No more Hags. No more smart-ass women dyin’ when we do ‘em. No more g’this and g’that. You relax, old boy. All’s going just the way it should.”
They drank, they muttered, and around them the air seemed to seethe with frustration, expressed and repressed, a kind of livid glow that exhausted the air, leaving it without sustenance. Not a moment too soon, they left, this time with no assaults and no insults beyond the assault of their smell and the insult of their presence. Everyone in the room gasped with relief and those nearest the windows rose to throw them wide.
The barman propped the door ajar as well, then summoned two supernumes-of-all-work to scrub the table and chairs where the three had sat. He bought drinks for the house just to restore a little conviviality. Every time the trio descended on him, he swore it would be the last, but he still hadn’t come up with a way to keep them out without insulting them, and somehow he didn’t think insulting them was a good idea.
11
On Old Earth: History House
On Old Earth, History House #8739 (one of 10,000) glowed golden in dawn, shone rose-pink in sunset, a mountain of mirrored surfaces set like the facets of a gem. The interior ambience fulfilled the exterior promise; all was brilliance and luxury. Gilded columns towered, white faux marble stairs curved away to unseen marvels, while the tall mirrors on every wall expanded the interiors into infinite, though often fragmentary, spaces. Carpets were thick and mattress-soft, and they led past fountains and sculptures and flowering trees, artificial but scented like real ones, to wide corridors that opened into the exhibits: Old Earth, 20th-century America; Old Earth, Asian Heritage; Old Earth, the Arts; Old Earth, Africa, Cradle of Man; Old Earth, the Primordial Fauna; Old Earth, Trees, Trees, Trees. And so on, and so on.
The exhibits were an artful combination of theme park, resort, museum, concert, theater, and zoo. They were even partly, though by far the lesser part, authentic. Late