by John Barth
“Deep is right,” Max said. His voice was hushed with appall. Recalling the distressed young co-eds of legend, I assumed she had been kept prisoner since that fateful day—her husband being after all the warden of Main Detention—and fervently offered my services to the end of freeing her, by force if necessary. But Anastasia was merely amused by my suggestion: she was no prisoner at all, she declared; on the contrary, she came and went from their lodgings at the Power Plant quite as she pleased-witness her position in the NTC Psych Clinic—and was persuaded Stoker would not restrain her should she ever choose to leave him permanently. However, he had after all married her, “in a way” (she did not explain in what way), at her insistence, and she didn’t mean to shirk her conjugal obligations. Moreover, he needed her ever so much more than her Uncle Ira had.
“Then all that talk of mistreating you was just to scare you for some reason?” I asked. “I’m glad to hear that! Aren’t you, Max?”
“Who’s heard it?”
“Now don’t jump to conclusions,” Anastasia pleaded. “Just because Maurice’s needs are different doesn’t mean they’re not as important to him as the regular ones are to most men.”
“What he needs is to be wicked as the Dean o’ Flunks!” Max said passionately. “He needs to wreck and hurt, so you let him wreck and hurt you, ja?”
“You don’t have to look at it that way, Dr. Spielman,” the girl insisted—but added immediately that of course he could if he wanted to, if it was important to him …
What I myself wanted was to hear exactly what sort of abuses Anastasia suffered, willingly or otherwise. But I had no opportunity to ask, for at her last remark Max virtually burst with compassion.
“Look here once, child!” He touched her sandal with his hand and pointed to his eyes. “I’m not your poppa, and I never was! Don’t I wish I had been, and Virginia Hector your momma? Flunk Ira Hector he ever laid his nasty hand on you! Flunk all those boys took advantage of you! But flunk Maurice Stoker most of all, that beast from South Exit, he’d never have laid eyes on you if I was your poppa!”
“I’m not blaming you,” Anastasia reminded him.
“You don’t blame nobody nothing!” Max shouted. “I know I’m not your poppa because I can’t be nobody’s poppa: I had an accident with the WESCAC twenty-some years ago.” He had purposely not mentioned this fact to Virginia Hector or her father, he explained more calmly, because in thus exculpating himself he’d have convicted her, and robbed her moreover of the chance to volunteer the truth of his innocence.
“And it’s not to escape any blame I’m telling you now,” he declared. “You got to know I never was your poppa so you’ll hate me for the right things. Eblis Eierkopf—he was your poppa, girl, and flunk him he never owned up to it! But flunk me too; flunk me twice I didn’t swallow my pride and marry Virginia, she’d have stayed off the bottle and you’d have never been spanked and the rest! Don’t you dare forgive me that!”
Anastasia’s face was full of tenderness. “It’s hard not to! The way you must have suffered all these years!” She sounded almost envious; then a frowning wonder darkened her eyes. “Mother did used to work with Dr. Eierkopf, but I never dreamed …”
“It’s not good news,” Max sympathized.
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean it that way. But he’s not very … nice, you know? No wonder, being a cripple and all—I’m sure I’d be twice as disagreeable if I had to depend on Croaker for everything! When I think of all the times he and Croaker have come by the Clinic, and me not dreaming he was my father! I could’ve been so much nicer to him than I was!”
Max clapped his head. For myself, I was too busy steadying Croaker, the mention of whose name had made him ominously restive, to marvel further at Anastasia’s charity. He stirred in her direction and had to be tapped smartly twice or thrice with my stick, which discipline I was not at all sure wouldn’t turn him upon me. Indeed, he caught the stick in his hand and bit into the shaft of it—a testimonial to the power of his jaws, for the wood was hard—and despite Anastasia’s assuring me that he often chewed on boughs and twigs for amusement, and could even nibble quite clever decorations into canes and chair-rungs with no other chisels than his teeth, I was by no means certain I’d be able to restrain him, especially without my weapon, if he took it into mind to assault her once again. As it happened, we all were diverted just then by snarlings in the nearby forest, which grew to a roar and burst upon the beach with half a dozen bright lights, flashing red or blinding white. For all my resolve I was taken with alarm, very nearly with panic; G. W. Gruff himself might have trembled at so instant and terrific a besetting—unheard-of, unprepared-for, monstrously wobbling uswards now with its sprawl of eyes, mad hoots, and growling throats. Max too was startled, and clambered to his feet; Croaker let go my stick and crouched under me with a grunt—whether of defiance or fright I could not judge. Only Anastasia seemed not especially anxious; she frowned at the snarling lights more in disapproval than in fear, and remained in her place by the fire.
“He always has to do things dramatically,” she complained.
“Those are motorcycles,” Max muttered to me. “Ten or twelve separate ones. The noise is their motors and horns.”
I was at once unspeakably relieved, for though I’d seldom actually seen motorcycles, I understood them well enough. As they drew nearer, the firelight revealed a party of humans in black leather jackets, variously ornamented with silver studs and bright glass jewels. Goggled and helmeted, each was mounted upon a gleaming black machine with sidecar attached. They drew up in a rough half-circle around us, engines guttering: piled up, rather, for there was no precision in the maneuver. The lead cyclist—a bearded, sooty fellow—braked abruptly with a spray of sand and no prior warning; the second missed striking him only by good luck and instant reflexes, which those behind seemed not to share, for they bumped one another, perhaps even intentionally, with curses, shouts, and laughs. One who had no sidecar attached fell over onto the sand, his wheels roaring and racing; another made as if to run over him—skidded close to his head, sounded a siren, and was sprung upon a moment later by a third, in sport or anger. “Knock it off!” their leader bawled, and the man beside him—long-nosed, thin-toothed, and dapper, the only one of their number both sootless and unwhiskered—repeated or enlarged upon the order in some snapping other language, hectoring the squabblers with some difficulty into line.
Anastasia sighed loudly. “It’s just Maurice.” She stood up and brushed sand from her shift.
I was nonetheless far from easy, what with the formidable ring before us, Croaker growling and turning beneath me as if at bay, and all I had heard of Maurice Stoker crowding to mind. The men on either end of the arc sprang off their machines now, put up their goggles, and advanced towards me, carrying what I guessed were pistols: the others shouted encouragement or raced their engines, ignoring the sootless one’s command to be silent. Croaker moved at the nearer of the two, who raised his weapon and ordered us to halt. I had only an instant to think what to do, and not sure I could stop Croaker or that to do so would spare us a shooting, I chose instead to lash out with my stick: it cracked against the pistol and sent it flying. Anastasia cried out; the man swore an oath and sprang back to his fellows, several of whom jeered at his dismay; there came just behind me a deafening bang, which crashed and rattled up the gorge, and as Croaker spun about I saw smoke still issuing from the leader’s pistol, aimed at the sky. I raised my stick again, though the fellow was well out of reach and might easily have brought us down had he chosen to. But unlike his companion, whose expression had been first threatening and then frightened, this man had a fierce grin on him and a sparkle in his eyes; he seemed delighted either by the sight of me perched on Croaker’s shoulders or by our little initial victory, and he neither retreated nor aimed his gun at us when Croaker came towards him.
“Whoa down!” I said, uncertain how to proceed, and was gratified at least to see Croaker obey. With pounding heart I re
garded our adversary, who had removed his helmet and goggles and was calmly blowing the smoke from his pistol-barrel: ruddy-cheeked, short-statured, and heavy-set he was, but not fat, with black curls on his head, hands, and finger-tops. Shags of the same bushed over his eyes and upper lip; he had a sharp beard, like a black spade, and one vertical ridge from the front of either temple up to his hairline—a not unhandsome face withal, and the more striking for the clear eyes that flashed from so swart a field.
“I’m George the Goat-Boy,” I said distinctly. Someone whistled, and was told by someone else to shut his mouth. My antagonist merely scrutinized me, arms akimbo. His grin was a plain challenge, to which I rose with some heat.
“I’m not afraid of you. I’m a Grand Tutor.”
The man replied with a raucous fart (“Hear hear!” his cohorts cheered), raised his pistol again, and with incredible smiling calm aimed it at my heart. I understood then that he himself was Maurice Stoker.
5.
Whether in fact he meant to shoot me dead or merely try my boast I was not to discover, for Anastasia hurried between us at this point. There were whistles and improper comments from the ring of cyclists.
“Don’t, Maurice, for pity’s sake! He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He really is the Goat-Boy!”
He lowered his weapon and grinned at her. “Had yourself an ape; now you want a billygoat.” His voice was only teasing; I was chagrined to see Anastasia lower her head and touch his leather jacket.
“You shouldn’t have let that happen,” she complained. “You could have stopped Croaker in time.”
He clouted her lightly aside the head with his helmet: it was a left-hand swat, and at too close range for injury. But the mean insinuation, the unreasonableness of the blow, Anastasia’s small cry and the way she clung to her abuser—these so enraged me that I dug my heels into Croaker’s ribs, raised my stick, and charged him, heedless of the pistol. But several of his men had dismounted by this time, armed with what looked like electric cattle-prods; they held us at bay while the long-faced officer put a hollow pipe to his lips, gave a puff, and sent a little dart into Croaker’s buttocks. With a bellow Croaker swiped at the wounded ham and brushed the dart away; he made to spring at the blow-pipe man, who retreated a step but then stood ground instead of running; half a second later Croaker dropped to his knees, and I barely managed to scramble off as he pitched face-forward onto the sand. Instantly I was myself hemmed round by cattle-prods. Anastasia ran from her husband to examine Croaker, whom four laughing men already were dragging, dead unconscious, towards one of the sidecars. They paused to let her look at him, and ogled her the while.
“Just a little nap,” Stoker called. “We wouldn’t kill a friend of the family.” Then to me he said, “You care to sleep awhile too, Billy-buck? Why not park your shillelagh and join the party?”
Stick in air I had been about to have at the cattle-prods, but hesitated at his odd approximation of my former name. In that instant I heard Max (who had stood helpless by the fire this while, wringing his hands) say, “Don’t fight, Georgie. That don’t Graduate anybody.”
I lowered my stick, though my heart beat hard still with attack. My guards gave way, their prods however held yet at the ready, and Anastasia slipped between them to my side.
“Give her a goose,” I heard one man mutter; he was answered by a jab in the backside from another, and at once the two went rolling in the sand, their comrades calling encouragement from the sidelines.
“Croaker’s all right,” Anastasia assured me. “He’ll wake up in an hour or so. Please don’t mind Maurice and the others; they always carry on like this. Let us drop you and Dr. Spielman off somewhere.”
I merely frowned, uncertain what to think and distracted both by the riotous men and by Stoker’s now approaching Max, with a look of joyous disbelief.
“I will be flunked!” he cried. “Is it Max Spielman under all that hair?” He opened his arms to embrace him, but Max shook his head and raised a warning hand.
“It is Max Spielman, the fingerless proctologer! Who’re we going to EAT this time, Maxie?”
“Dean o’ Flunks!” Max cried.
A new and delightful idea seemed to occur to Stoker; he turned to Anastasia, face alight. “Did you know it was your own daddy watching you with Croaker?” And to Max again, not waiting for reply: “Wait till Virginia Hector sees you in that Old-Syllabus get-up: she’ll swear off forever!”
Bounding from us he directed his men then to see to it Croaker’s arms and legs were secured against revival; dashing back, he bade us all climb into sidecars for the trip to the Powerhouse, where, he declared, we would carouse the night away while he and Max recalled the grand old days when they had EATen ten thousand Amaterasu undergraduates at the cost of one Moishian forefinger.
“Get on, get on there!” he shouted to the wrestlers in the sand, who cried back “Flunk you!” until the long-faced aide snatched up a cattle-prod and herded them over to assist with Croaker.
“A goat-boy!” Stoker clapped an arm high-heartedly about me, another about Anastasia, and paid no heed to the squabbling troops—some of whom now drew pocketflasks from their trousers, while others set to tinkering with their engines. “And a Grand Tutor too, did I hear you say?” That, he vowed (never once pausing in his burst of speech), he must hear more of, a billygoat being in his estimation the only creature on campus, his wife excepted, from whom he might learn a thing or two worth knowing. And if later at the party I should find Anastasia too forward or compliant a stall-mate, or too well-washèd, say, to rouse my ardor, he was certain he could scare up a nanny-goat somewhere on Founder’s Hill, perhaps at the Refuse Dump.
Max held his ears against this outpouring; Anastasia blushed and looked away. I found myself aghast and amused at once by the barrage of aspersions, so outrageous and pointed, and for all my indignation could not repress one twitch of a smile, which I saw the wretch instantly notice. Then on he went, hilarious and full of force, thumping my chest for emphasis, mussing Anastasia’s hair, gesticulating with pistol and helmet, striking postures in the glare of the motorcycle headlamps, and flashing always that flush-cheeked, even-toothed grin:
“Look what you’ve got round your waist!” He snatched at the amulet Max had given me. “Is this what I think it is, old buck old buster? Look here, Stacey—I swear it’s mountain oysters on his belt. It is! Billygoat bobblers! Are they his own, d’you think? You find out, I’ll ask you tomorrow … Hey, here’s what we’ll do (George, was it?): we’ll tap a keg of bock-beer and you toot your pipes—you’re the Grand Tutor! You toot your pipes while Maxie and I toot a few on the EAT-whistle, for old times’ sake. Stacey’ll do a dance with Croaker. You do have pipes, don’t you, George?”
Anastasia in her embarrassment had touched her brow to my arm (Stoker having sprung out from between us to illustrate the dance he had in mind), and thinking to assure her that her husband’s talk did not distress me, innocently I patted her behind, as was my wont when any lady of the herd needed calming. She looked up at me with quick wonder, also squeezed my arm uncertainly, and Stoker broke off his raillery to shout with laughter.
“Olé!” some others called.
“Stop!” Max commanded, stamping his feet.
“No no, Maxie, he just started! Watch he doesn’t eat your hair-pins, Stacey; they eat anything, you know. Not like your gorilla-friend …”
“I don’t listen!” Max cried, and covered his ears once more. To me he said desperately, “Pat her on the head, you got to pat her! It’s different with human girls!” Then to Stoker, more determinedly: “I’m not her father, Stoker, much as I wish I was. But neither she nor Georgie’s going with you. You got to kill me first.”
Anastasia made a flutter of protest; Stoker laughed delightedly and drew his pistol; the cattle-prods moved towards us. I began to perspire.
Max opened his arms. “Na, wait,” he pleaded, “I make you a bargain. You told me once you watched the Bonifacists burn some Moishia
ns in the Riot, ja?”
“Only a few,” Stoker answered modestly; the prospect of a bargain clearly amused him. “They were sure I was spying, but didn’t know for which side, so the day I took a tour of their extermination campuses they only did a few.”
Max’s thin face glared. “But you told me you enjoyed it, ja?”
“Enjoyed it! I never had so much fun—except the day you and I pushed the EAT-button. What a party! This one chap in particular, we couldn’t wait to try: biochemist named Schultz—maybe you’ve heard of him? He’d decided the only way to keep West-Campus culture from going up in smoke was to fireproof the Moishians. So he invented some kind of asbestos bagel, I believe it was, and ate nothing else for three months before he was picked up. When the Bonifacist scientists heard about it they put him straight in the oven—they don’t miss a trick! You know, it’s surprising how thirsty you got, around that place! Siegfrieder beer is the best in the University, and they had two kegs of it down by the ovens: one for enlisted men and one for officers and guests.”
Breathless I asked, “Did it work? The bagels?” and only realized I’d been baited when Stoker’s glee rang round the gorge.
“Founder forgive you!” Max said softly. And to Stoker: “Laugh all you want, I got reason to think this boy’s a Grand Tutor, even though there’s things he’s got to learn yet. And this poor suffering girl you call your wife—she’s a passèd Graduate, if ever there was one! So I make you this bargain, Stoker, you got one speck of right-mindedness in you: let her and George go on by themselves to Great Mall, and do what you want with me. Burn me up if you want, like poor Chaim Schultz—rest his mind!”
Stoker snapped his fingers. “Chaim, that was it! Chaim Schultz the biochemist. Very warm type, I remember. So many of you Moishian chaps were …”