[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Tropile leaned forward and deliberately put his hand on his wife's arm. She
started and flushed, of course; he could feel her trembling.
"You can,"
he said, "and what's more, you will. You can help me get out of here. I insist
on it, Gala, because I must save you that pain." He took his hand off her arm,
content. He said harshly: "Darling, don't you think I
know how much we've always meant to each other?"
She looked at him wretchedly. Fretfully she tore at the billowing filmy sleeve
of her summer blouse. The seams hadn't been loosened, there hadn't been time.
She had just been getting into the appropriate Sun Re-creation Day costume, to
be worn under the parka, when the messenger had come with the news about her
husband.
She avoided his eyes. "If you're really Wolf. . ."
Tropile's sub-adrenals pulsed and filled him with confident strength. "Yew
know what I
am. You better than anyone else." It was a sly reminder of their curious
furtive behavior together; like the hand on her arm, it had its effect. "After
all, why do we quarrel the way we did last night?" He hurried on; the job of
the rowel was to spur her to action, not to inflame a wound. "Because we're
important to each other. I know that you would count on me to help if you were
in trouble. And I know that you'd be hurt deeply, Gala! if I
didn't count on you."
She sniffled and scuffed the bright strap over her open-toed sandal.
Then she met his eyes.
It was the after-effect of the quarrel, of course; Glenn Tropile knew just how
heavily he could count on the after-spiral of a quarrel. She was submitting.
She glanced furtively at Citizen Boyne and lowered her voice. "What do I have
to do?"
she whispered.
In five minutes she was gone, but that was more than enough time; Tropile had
at least thirty minutes left. They would take Boyne first, he had seen to
that. And once Boyne was gone
Tropile wrenched a leg off his three-legged stool, and sat precariously
balanced on the other two. He tossed the loose leg clattering into a corner.
The Keeper of the House of the Five Regulations ambled slack-bodied by and
glanced into the room. "Wolf, what happened to your stool?"
Tropile made a left-handed sign:
no importance.
"It doesn't matter. Except it hard to is meditate, sitting on this thing,
with every muscle tensing and fighting against every other to keep my balance.
..."
The Keeper made an overruling sign:
please-let-me-help.
"It's your last half hour, Wolf,"
he reminded Tropile. "I'll fix the stool for you." He entered and slammed and
banged it together, and left with an expression of mild concern. Even a Son of
the Wolf was entitled to the fullest appreciation of that unique opportunity
for meditation, the last half hour before a Donation.
In five minutes he was back, looking solemn and yet glad, like a bearer of
serious but welcome tidings. "It is the time for the first Donation," he
announced. "Which of you "
"Him," said Tropile quickly, pointing. Boyne opened his eyes calmly and
nodded. He got to his feet, made a formal leavetaking bow to Tropile, and
Page 18
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
followed the Keeper toward his
Donation and his death. As they were going out Tropile coughed a minor
supplication.
The Keeper paused. "What is it, Wolf?"
Tropile showed him the empty water pitcher empty, all right; he had emptied it
out the window.
"My apologies," the Keeper said, blushing, and hurried Boyne along. He came
back almost at once to fill it. He didn't even wait to watch the ceremonial
Donation.
Tropile stood watching him, his sub-adrenals beginning to pound like the
rolling boil of
Well-Aged Water. The Keeper was at a disadvantage. He had been neglectful of
his charge a broken stool; no water in the pitcher. And a Citizen, brought up
in a Citizen's mores of consideration and tact, could not help but be
humiliated, seek to make amends.
Tropile pressed his advantage home. "Wait," he said winsomely to the Keeper.
"I'd like to talk to you."
The Keeper hesitated, torn. "The Donation "
"Damn the Donation," Tropile said calmly.
"After all, what is it but sticking a pipe into a man's backbone and sucking
out the juice that keeps him alive? It's killing, that's all."
Crash, crash, crash. The Keeper turned literally white. Tropile was speaking
blasphemy, and he wasn't stopping.
"I want to tell you about my wife," Tropile went on, assuming a confidential
air. "You know, there's a real woman. Not one of those frozen-up Citizenesses,
you know? Why, she and I used to " He hesitated. "You're a man of the world,
aren't you?" he demanded.
"I mean, you've seen life."
"I suppose so," the Keeper said faintly.
"Then you won't be shocked, I know," Tropile lied. "Well, let me tell you,
there's a lot to women that these stuffed-shirt Citizens don't know about.
Boy! Ever see a woman's knee?" He sniggered. "Ever kiss one, with " He winked
"with the light on? Ever sit in a big arm-chair, say, with a woman in your
lap?
all soft and heavy, and kind of warm, and slumped up against your chest, you
know, and " He stopped and swallowed; he was almost making himself retch; it
was hard to say these things. But he forced himself to go on: "Well, she and I
used to do those things. Plenty. All the time. That's what I call a real
woman," [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Tropile leaned forward and deliberately put his hand on his wife's arm. She
started and flushed, of course; he could feel her trembling.
"You can,"
he said, "and what's more, you will. You can help me get out of here. I insist
on it, Gala, because I must save you that pain." He took his hand off her arm,
content. He said harshly: "Darling, don't you think I
know how much we've always meant to each other?"
She looked at him wretchedly. Fretfully she tore at the billowing filmy sleeve
of her summer blouse. The seams hadn't been loosened, there hadn't been time.
She had just been getting into the appropriate Sun Re-creation Day costume, to
be worn under the parka, when the messenger had come with the news about her
husband.
She avoided his eyes. "If you're really Wolf. . ."
Tropile's sub-adrenals pulsed and filled him with confident strength. "Yew
know what I
am. You better than anyone else." It was a sly reminder of their curious
furtive behavior together; like the hand on her arm, it had its effect. "After
all, why do we quarrel the way we did last night?" He hurried on; the job of
the rowel was to spur her to action, not to inflame a wound. "Because we're
important to each other. I know that you would count on me to help if you were
in trouble. And I know that you'd be hurt deeply, Gala! if I
didn't count on you."
She sniffled and scuffed the bright strap over her open-toed sandal.
Then she met his eyes.
It was the after-effect of the quarrel, of course; Glenn Tropile knew just how
heavily he could count on the after-spiral of a quarrel. She was submitting.
She glanced furtively at Citizen Boyne and lowered her voice. "What do I have
to do?"
she whispered.
In five minutes she was gone, but that was more than enough time; Tropile had
at least thirty minutes left. They would take Boyne first, he had seen to
that. And once Boyne was gone
Tropile wrenched a leg off his three-legged stool, and sat precariously
balanced on the other two. He tossed the loose leg clattering into a corner.
The Keeper of the House of the Five Regulations ambled slack-bodied by and
glanced into the room. "Wolf, what happened to your stool?"
Tropile made a left-handed sign:
no importance.
"It doesn't matter. Except it hard to is meditate, sitting on this thing,
with every muscle tensing and fighting against every other to keep my balance.
..."
The Keeper made an overruling sign:
please-let-me-help.
"It's your last half hour, Wolf,"
he reminded Tropile. "I'll fix the stool for you." He entered and slammed and
banged it together, and left with an expression of mild concern. Even a Son of
the Wolf was entitled to the fullest appreciation of that unique opportunity
for meditation, the last half hour before a Donation.
In five minutes he was back, looking solemn and yet glad, like a bearer of
serious but welcome tidings. "It is the time for the first Donation," he
announced. "Which of you "
"Him," said Tropile quickly, pointing. Boyne opened his eyes calmly and
nodded. He got to his feet, made a formal leavetaking bow to Tropile, and
Page 18
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
followed the Keeper toward his
Donation and his death. As they were going out Tropile coughed a minor
supplication.
The Keeper paused. "What is it, Wolf?"
Tropile showed him the empty water pitcher empty, all right; he had emptied it
out the window.
"My apologies," the Keeper said, blushing, and hurried Boyne along. He came
back almost at once to fill it. He didn't even wait to watch the ceremonial
Donation.
Tropile stood watching him, his sub-adrenals beginning to pound like the
rolling boil of
Well-Aged Water. The Keeper was at a disadvantage. He had been neglectful of
his charge a broken stool; no water in the pitcher. And a Citizen, brought up
in a Citizen's mores of consideration and tact, could not help but be
humiliated, seek to make amends.
Tropile pressed his advantage home. "Wait," he said winsomely to the Keeper.
"I'd like to talk to you."
The Keeper hesitated, torn. "The Donation "
"Damn the Donation," Tropile said calmly.
"After all, what is it but sticking a pipe into a man's backbone and sucking
out the juice that keeps him alive? It's killing, that's all."
Crash, crash, crash. The Keeper turned literally white. Tropile was speaking
blasphemy, and he wasn't stopping.
"I want to tell you about my wife," Tropile went on, assuming a confidential
air. "You know, there's a real woman. Not one of those frozen-up Citizenesses,
you know? Why, she and I used to " He hesitated. "You're a man of the world,
aren't you?" he demanded.
"I mean, you've seen life."
"I suppose so," the Keeper said faintly.
"Then you won't be shocked, I know," Tropile lied. "Well, let me tell you,
there's a lot to women that these stuffed-shirt Citizens don't know about.
Boy! Ever see a woman's knee?" He sniggered. "Ever kiss one, with " He winked
"with the light on? Ever sit in a big arm-chair, say, with a woman in your
lap?
all soft and heavy, and kind of warm, and slumped up against your chest, you
know, and " He stopped and swallowed; he was almost making himself retch; it
was hard to say these things. But he forced himself to go on: "Well, she and I
used to do those things. Plenty. All the time. That's what I call a real
woman," [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]