Later we sat by a log fire I had lit for the occasion in my old stone fireplace, and looked at each other. Marigold still hadn’t spoken properly, but I thought the emptiness was receding from her eyes. Now I was glad I hadn’t been able to get a doctor, now that she was dry and warm and comfortable like a sexy kitten. I was still trying to recover from the intensely erotic experience of giving her a bath; and I knew that if a doctor came and found her wrapped up like this, I would feel as guilty as hell, She was like a beautiful doll that I wanted to play with all by myself.
I had placed the drink in her hand but she showed no sign of gripping the glass, so I put it on the table beside her. She watched me gravely as I arranged the thick bath towel around her shoulders, but when it slipped down and fell away from her perfect, plump breasts she made no attempt to adjust it. So I thought, What the hell, and left it there. So we sat in opposite chairs, and I tried to tell myself she recognized me.
“You’re on the Peninsula now, Marigold,” I said.
“Roberts Bay,” she said quietly. “Joe lives there; you can’t miss it.”
“I’m Joe. Look at me, Marigold. Don’t you remember me?”
“Joe will be surprised to see me.”
It was the shock, I thought; and the only cure for shock is warmth and rest. I decided to take her up to my room; she could have my bed and I could sleep on the couch. The towel fell to the floor as I stood her up and helped her to the stairs. I half-carried her to the room, sat her on the bed, pulled back the covers, and rolled her in. She lay there, looking up and past me; I think she was asleep with her eyes open. I pulled the bedclothes over her, kissed her lips, and went downstairs, closing the door quietly behind me.
It wasn’t until I’d undressed, made up the couch, and had a nightcap that it occurred to me that I was not performing before an audience. There was no need whatever for me to handle this situation in the way a character on 3-V would handle it. Too often we assume that every game has its rules, and I realized how nearly I’d been caught out by trite, meaningless convention.
So I climbed the stairs, entered my room, kissed the sleeping face again, and got into bed beside that warm, wonderful body. I held her close and I went to sleep that way, and why the hell not? It didn’t do anybody any harm.
In fact it probably did Marigold a lot of good, because she needed someone to hold her that night, after what she’d been through. Suddenly it was morning; I awoke and found this beautiful girl beside me. I must have been sleeping very deeply after the exhaustion of the previous night; Marigold had awakened already and was regarding me with faint bewilderment. So I kissed her and she smiled, but she didn’t speak.
I guessed she’d taken a cheap cruise on the Ancia Telji out of Vanhalla; it was all she could afford, and she was determined to see the wonderful Peninsula I’d described to her, and probably to see me too.
By the time I was out of bed and dressed, the responsibilities and the guilt were closing in on me, and I wondered what the hell I’d got myself into with my loose talk down south. I wondered what Joanne would think if she found out about Marigold.
Marigold for her part seemed to accept the situation, if dazedly. After a while I pinned a large white towel around her; we went downstairs and I cooked breakfast. With the coffee and bacon and eggs I returned firmly to my senses. Marigold sat decoratively opposite me and it was great to have her there, but she didn’t belong, and I would have to inform the police that she was safe before they started cabling her parents at Halmas and triggering off all manner of panic—always provided that the police had a passenger list.
Warren Rennie’s tired face stared at me from the screen. “It’s you, Joe, is it? Look. I had a hell of a night with this ship business, and if it can wait—”
I explained that I had one of the survivors in my house, and his manner changed. “I’ll be right over,” he said.
I was surprised and a little alarmed when he arrived with two uniformed men, as though expecting resistance. “Where is she?” he snapped.
“Just finishing her breakfast. She won’t be a moment.”
“Joe, I’m taking her right now. Let me in, will you?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Warren? Can’t the girl finish eating? You can’t be that goddamned busy.”
He thrust me aside and entered, took one look at Marigold sitting partially dressed at the table—by this time the towel had slipped to her waist—then turned to me furiously. “Just what sort of bastard are you, Sagar? By Christ, Lambert was right about you. That girl’s been in shock; she’s still not right, by the look of her eyes. What kind of monkey business went on here last night?”
Marigold was standing now, watching us in mild wonder while the uniformed men stared at her breasts. I stepped in quickly and threw my jacket around her shoulders. “Leave her alone,” I said as Rennie approached.
He ignored me and took her face in his hands, staring into her eyes. “She doesn’t know what the hell is going on,” he said at last, disgustedly. “By God, you’ve got something to answer for, Sagar!”
“Just what are you talking about?” I asked coldly. I was becoming tired of his attitude.
“Do you deny you slept with her last night?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly true.”
“Christ, man, don’t you know what you’re saying?”
“Rennie, you didn’t listen to what I said on the phone. I know this girl. I’ve slept with her before, if that’s so important to you. Now just what the hell are you trying to say?”
He turned away and walked to the window. For a moment he stood there, looking out at the yard where the slithes trotted about their pens and everything looked normal. “What is she doing here, Sagar?” he asked at last. “Are you trying to tell me you were expecting her?”
“I understand she was on the cruise ship that sank. She couldn’t help that, could she?”
He turned back to Marigold. “See she gets some clothes on her and take her to the car,” he said briefly. “Now see here, Joe. The Ancia Telji was not a cruise ship. We’ve suspected her before, but this time we’ve got the proof we need—the only trouble is, we don’t know who to proceed against. The Ancia Telji was engaged in running illegal immigrants.”
“What!”
“It’s true. After your complaint a while back, we did a little checking. We got hold of a passenger list—with some difficulty, I might add—and tried to find some witnesses for you. Our agent down south checked up—and get this, Joe. He couldn’t find one single passenger on that list. They’d never returned. And then one or two relatives talked. It seemed that it was tacitly understood by the agents that a trip on the Ancia Telji was a one-way cruise. Now do you see why they didn’t stop to pick you up?”
“It figures.”
“They were on their way to make a drop. Now, tell me this again, Joe—were you expecting this girl?”
“No.”
There was nothing else I could say, unless I’d offered to sponsor the girl, or whatever the hell it is you do with immigrants. But I couldn’t do that, not with Joanne due for release in a few months.
Rennie told me they were holding all the survivors at the pen for the time being, and he assured me that charges would not be brought, that they would be sent home by suitable transport as soon as possible. I felt no better.
As they took Marigold away, she showed her first and only sign of animation since I’d brought her home. I kissed her; her lips were soft but unresponsive, but then I saw a glistening tear creep down her cheek.
“I’ll come and see you in Halmas soon, sweetheart,” I said in futile misery, but she didn’t reply.
She was gone, and I turned away to find Dave Froehlich staring pensively after the receding hovercar. I waited for some snide comment concerning freemen who abused helpless girls.
“She was … uh, very pretty, Mr. Sagar,” he said quietly.
9
For a while I tortured myself with guilt feelings
over the way I’d persuaded an innocent girl to fall for me—but I had enough sense to realize that the faults were not all mine. It was quite apparent that Marigold was not innocent by any stretch of the imagination, and I was quite sure she knew all about the immigration laws. Then I recalled the poverty I’d seen down south: the barren fields and skeletal cattle, the centuries-old adobe huts, and I felt pity again. I had gone there with my stories of wonderful lands to the north where everyone has enough to eat, where the population growth has been brought under control, where education is for everyone; and I had been so preoccupied with my own ills that I’d never thought of the effect my words might have on a poor and impressionable girl. And she was innocent in the true sense of the word; whether or not she’d slept around had nothing to do with it. I wondered why these moral hangups still persist in our northern culture.
My conscience was eased somewhat when I met Gallaugher in the club a few days later and he confirmed that no charges had been brought by the police; in fact the immigrants had technically committed no crime, having landed on our shores as a result of shipwreck. The fact of their intentions could not be proved; neither did the authorities wish to. The owners of the Ancia Telji had been notified, but it was not expected that they would wish to retrieve the remains of their vessel. The crew and passengers had all been sent home by antigrav clipper at the Government’s expense.
By now it was only a few days before the first race of the sling-gliding season and we were all totally infected with racing fever, so I wrote a long letter to Marigold before the urge left me, and promised to visit her later in the summer. As soon as the letter was mailed I wished I hadn’t made that promise.
Then gliding took over my leisure time totally, and I forgot Marigold and the Ancia Telji. I spent most afternoons and every evening on the slipway, helping with the feverish last-minute preparations. Sling-gliding has this in common with any other sport where complex equipment is used: no matter how careful the preparations, no matter how long ago such preparations started, there is always a panic at the finish. The Skipper’s Marina had placed a truck at the disposal of the club and the vehicle was in constant use, commuting between Louise and the marina with suddenly remembered necessities.
Carioca Jones did not appear, although there were rumors from time to time of the form the picketing was going to take. Some said the Foes of Bondage had hired a boat; they intended to interfere with racing by zigzagging across the course on the pretext that the sea was free to all.
Then, a couple of days before the first race, they were seen with their banners and placards boarding a clipper for Lake William in the far north. It seemed that some idiots were going to walk the glacial coast as far as Wall Bay, a distance of several hundred miles. There were three bonded men and a doctor in the party of ten; it was reported that the doctor was taking a full set of surgical instruments along—together with a supply of the instant tissue and bone regenerator Rediseel—in case of severe frostbite. Not only that, but there were back-up parties hovertrucking supplies to a remote rendezvous where the terrain was too broken and the weather too severe to allow shuttles to get in. The personnel for this hazardous task had been hired from the state pen.
On the Thursday evening before the start of the season I stayed late at the marina; I have a hazy recollection of a party developing in the cramped space of somebody’s cabin; anyway, I suddenly awoke with a powerful headache and a desire to be sick, to find that I was lying on the floor in unfamiliar surroundings. I crawled to my feet, got as far as the hatch, and poked my head out into the chill night air.
After a few deep breaths I felt better. I glanced around the cabin and saw a sleeping girl, partly clothed, on one of the berths. Her mouth was hanging open and she was a mess, clothes soiled, hair matted. Crumpled around her throat was a slithe-skin neckerchief, its dull brown hue testifying the extent to which she was drained of emotion. I hoped it wasn’t I who had drained her, and thought briefly of Charles and his rape case, and how easy it is to transgress the law these days.
I shut the cabin door quietly behind me and stood in the cockpit of the beached hydrofoil, allowing the night breezes to cool my head. I felt sweaty and stale. Stepping over the cockpit coaming, I found the ladder and climbed down to the slipway.
The next thing I did was to trip over the whip of the unknown boat and fall flat and noisily on my face. Whips are of incredible lightness and rigidity, particularly this season’s improved models. The end of this particular whip must have been balanced on a box; anyway, it followed me to the ground with a ringing clatter which set up a sympathetic resonance throughout its entire eighty-yard length, causing it to protest with a wail which must have come close to awakening the very fossils under the sedimentary mud of which the Peninsula is composed.
As I lay there trying not to vomit, there was a scurrying, rustling noise nearby and the hair at the nape of my neck prickled. The brute who had made that noise could have been anything; the appalling Wilberforce was quite innocuous compared with some of the bizarre pets I had seen that spring.
I lay still and waited. The sounds continued; an uneven series which might have been footsteps, an occasional clatter of a can of paint or similar slipway debris being knocked over, and a gasping noise which I tried to tell myself was human. Encouragingly, the sounds were retreating; soon they faded away. I heard the distant whine of a hovercar starting up; then that too receded and all was quiet again.
Obviously there had been a trespasser among the boats. In the morning someone would find their paintwork scored or their rudder pintles loosened. That sort of thing annoys me; I just can’t see the sense in it. I wished I’d had the courage to tackle the intruder.
Twenty minutes later I was driving through my farm gates. I got out of the car and listened. Everything seemed to be in order; relieved, I made for the house.
The following morning Dave and I made a tour of inspection. The little reptiles were in good shape; as we threw the fodder over the chicken wire they scurried forward, pink with pleasure, and began to feed voraciously. Dave gave one of his rare grins.
“I’ve had a call from Sentry Down, by the way,” he said. “They’re expecting our consignment to arrive on Sunday. Do you want me to take the ferry and collect them?”
“I’ll let you know.” I always enjoy trips to the mainland myself; they make a change—although Sunday was an awkward day.
Dave noticed me testing the chicken wire with my foot, and his manner assumed its accustomed seriousness. “I heard a garden barracuda went for Doc Lang yesterday,” he said. “He was walking the nature trail at the back of the lagoon and the bastard came for him, straight out of the bush, all snapping teeth—you know what they’re like. It’s getting serious.”
I remembered the pack of land sharks I’d seen stalking Marigold; at this moment a car drove up, saving me further anxiety on the subject.
“Hi, Joe darling” It was Carioca Jones. “I’ve just been visiting dear Joanne. I thought I’d drop by.”
“I thought you were up in the snow somewhere,” I said.
“Joe, it was the most idiotic hoax! Someone sent me what purported to be a transcript of a Newspocket report up at Lake William and it sounded the most heartrending thing. Dozens of poor S. P. men being used as nothing better than pack animals. And there were some bonded men with the actual party, going across the glaciers—you know what frostbite is, and they had a surgeon as well. My dear, it was all positively sinister.”
“Oh, yes?” I said carefully.
“And when we got there with all our banners and placards, there was nothing happening! We marched down the street singing, and everyone looked at us as though we were mad. And it was so cold, you’ve no idea! So we booked into the nearest hotel—an awful place, full of rough men—and I went to the local Newspocket agency, and do you know, they’d never heard of the Great Arctic Trek, as it was supposed to be called.”
“You must have been very disappointed.”
She
shot me a glance of birdlike suspicion but apparently my expression satisfied her. “Quite, and it was dreadfully embarrassing, and we hadn’t really allowed for the coldness of it. Some of the girls were frostbitten quite badly. They were quite upset and four of them resigned from the Foes. Evadne Prendergast came in for some criticism, I can tell you.”
I nearly asked her. I nearly asked just how badly those four had been hurt and whether, if surgery had been necessary, they had contacted the nearest Ambulatory Organ Pool.
Instead I asked, “Are men allowed to join the Foes?”
“Of course,” she said. “Why ever not?”
“I just wondered. They all seem to be women, that’s all.”
“Oh, but that’s the way it works out, my dear. You see, it’s men who go in for these dangerous sports, it’s men who get smashed up and need grafts and transplants, so naturally men will support the status quo.”
“Pardon me, Carioca, but that’s garbage. The majority of applications to the Pool are the results of road or air accidents. Only a fraction of the male population can afford to sling-glide, or tramp through the Arctic.”
“You men all stick together, that’s the trouble. Look at you, Joe. You admit that you’re against legalized slavery, yet you have your own bonded man, and you’re friendly with lice like Marshall who risk someone else’s neck for fun. You wouldn’t join the Foes of Bondage if I begged you to—so I won’t bother.”
Just for the record, at this point I gave Carioca Jones something from the depths of my soul, if I have one. “Dave Froehlich is a good man who I feel I rescued from that stinking prison—and I get no thanks from Dave. I’m friendly with Marshall because I enjoy his personality and to hell with his views—even if his views are unsound, which I doubt. I won’t join the Foes because I’d be the only man there and people would look at me as a crank, added to which I don’t agree with the Foes’ methods. Regardless of whether or not the members are women, my point is that they are exactly the type of person you always get in an organization of that type. It’s a type I don’t like. Under the guise of doing good, the members get a vicarious personal satisfaction from the annoyance they cause others. Their methods are wrong, in that they think it right to counter evil with evil.”
The Girl With a Symphony in Her Fingers Page 9