Gaby just grins with the purple-lipsticked maw, not taking the attention off the stockings. The answer to Humpback’s question comes from Lary’s bunk, in the form of Blind appearing over the edge. He’s noticeably purple in places. The places she pressed against. He leans down limply and lets fall the second white shoe. It lands with a thud.
She struts to the door, majestic and content, heels clicking, and is intercepted there by Red. He looks exceedingly pimpish, his newfound occupation written all over him. They ride off into the sunset, she towering over him by a full head, he throwing back furtive glances. The door slams shut, and then it’s very quiet, apart from my exuberance. I have to drive around for a while to calm down. Vulture is still standing there, with a look like he was just force-fed a whole lemon.
“My bed. My bed,” Lary mutters. “They defiled it.”
“What?” Sphinx says and sits where he stood. To think this over, I guess.
Blind slips down. I wheel over and study him thoroughly. Because I need to know.
“So?” I say. “How was she? To the touch, I mean. Not too bony?”
“I’ll be going now,” Vulture says mournfully. “It appears you have no further need of my services at this time.”
No one stops him, and he departs.
“Thanks for your help!” Sphinx shouts at his retreating back. “Sorry!”
“How was it?” I ask Blind again. “Do you feel a new man now?”
“Leave me alone,” he says. “Right now I don’t feel anything.”
“My bed!”
Lary still can’t quite handle this. Runs around. Then climbs up to his bunk, and from there comes a mournful wail.
“Thank you. That you didn’t choose mine,” Humpback says. “Really big thanks, Blind.”
“Not at all,” Blind says and sits down next to Sphinx. “Sorry about the door. I didn’t have time to go find another place.”
“No harm done,” Sphinx says, casting his gaze upward, where Lary continues the lamentations. “What exactly did you do to his bed? He sounds frantic.”
“Nothing much.” Blind suddenly perks up. “You know what, it really is fun. Would you like a go? I can call her back. We’ll throw everyone else out. Except Lary, he can stay . . .”
Lary tumbles down and stares at Blind, horrified.
“No, thanks,” Sphinx says. “Not with her, no. I’d have nightmares. Until the day I die.”
“Is she that ugly?” Blind asks dejectedly.
“She is a creature from the pit of hell!” Lary shrieks, arms upraised. Then he turns back to Blind. “Linens exchange, right now. Or I never sleep up there again.”
“As you wish,” the Leader agrees readily.
Lary studies him with suspicion. Blind’s linens deserve a separate song that I never seem to get around to composing. Lary is a pig, no argument, and often goes unwashed, but at least he doesn’t stumble around the House barefoot. Or cough up hairballs on the pillow.
“I’ll think about it,” Lary proclaims.
“Enough,” Sphinx says, getting up from the floor. “Your linens forgot what color they were supposed to be. Long ago.”
“And now you could sniff at them,” I pipe in. “Turn your sleepless nights into erotic revelations.”
Lary spits in my direction, clutches at his head, and sits down on the floor.
“Tomorrow there will be a new Law,” Blind says matter-of-factly. “So I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to announce it. Wall? Or Logs?”
Stunned silence. For quite a while. Finally Humpback clears his throat.
“Ri-ight,” he says. “Red, he’s not stupid. He knows which side his bread is buttered on.”
“Of course he’s not stupid,” I say. “Never was. He’s a Leader, whatever else he is.”
More silence.
I climb on the bed and sit there, digesting the news. Too much news for one day. Long Gaby, new Law . . . New Law means girls. Here, there, and everywhere—them visiting us, us visiting them. The way it had been before, the way it hasn’t been for a long time. It’s an unusual thought, and I can’t quite construct the image no matter how hard I try. I’m out of habit. Or, rather, it’s gone completely, but come tomorrow it’ll have to be revived, the habit as well as the communication skills, because tomorrow they are going to be here: the girls. That means skirts, perfume, braids, hair spray, ponytails, and long eyelashes with ends curled slightly, and smoky eyes, and tender names for the wheelchairs, and narrow fingernails, like Noble used to have, and they are born of our ribs but their voices are much, much softer . . . Do they like tea? And if they do, what with? And where do we get the “with,” and who’s going to invite them over, not me, that’s for sure, but someone would have to . . .
“Breathe!” Sphinx yells at me. “Breathe, silly! You’re turning blue!”
I catch myself in time and resume breathing. A marked improvement.
“Thanks,” I say. “I seem to have paid too much attention to certain thoughts, and they sort of filled me up and spilled out.”
“Sing them, then,” he says. “You’re constitutionally not cut out for silence.”
True, that. I think better when I talk. And singing works better still. Part of my alien internal design.
