The Gray House полностью

Dinner is disgusting mashed potatoes, all lumpy. A person such as I, who gorged himself on nuts and raisins all day, can only look at it with contempt. The girls are right there when I wheel back. Two of them at once. They sit on the Crossroads sofa, picking at the exposed foam rubber and flinging the pieces out the window. There’s a gaggle of Hounds assembled around them. Nothing really interesting. Besides, they’re blocking the way so I can’t move closer and hear what they’re discussing, or otherwise take part in the proceedings. I only can note that they are Succubus and Bedouinne, and that the evisceration of the sofa is being performed rather gracefully. That’s the extent of my research for tonight. Long doesn’t make another appearance either, even though I spend the rest of the evening waiting, desperately hoping that she does.

THE SOOT OF THE STREETS

SHARDS

The Wheeler’s Entertainment Manual

Racing club. Heartily recommended for any wheeler seeking excitement. Wheelchair races over hard terrain. Scheduled competition dates. Seasonally awarded cup, “The Silver Whee.”

Cooking club. Weekends, Biology room. If you can cook something, anything, you’re welcome to join. If you can’t but would like to learn, you’re especially welcome. Note: ingredients usually not provided.

Poetry society. If you can string together a couple of lines, you’re in. If you can’t manage even that, do not despair. Your ability to listen will be enough. Preferably with appreciation. Note: if you can’t do appreciation, find yourself another place. Poets are touchy!

Enthusiastic bodybuilders. Advantage—the only prerequisite to join is athletic trunks. Disadvantage—you guessed it: they’re enthusiastic!

Card players. This one is members-only, with very strict entry requirements. If you’re not in yet, forget it.

Also:

—Astrologers, Cof., every Wednesday;

—Swap, Tuesdays, first floor;

—Billiards, game room, anytime;

—Guitarists, laundry, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday;

—Novelists, Cof., every Saturday and Sunday;

—Contacters, every month on Friday the 13th, Crossroads at night.

WHILE JUMPERS AND STRIDERS DO NOT REALLY EXIST!

Have a nice time.

—JACKAL’S ADVICE COLUMN, Blume, vol. 22

“Stop it,” Smoker says. “No one can know those things.”

“We know everything,” Tabaqui enthuses. “Anything and everything that is the House!”

Sphinx smiles at Jackal and nods. Jackal smiles at Sphinx and nods. They’re both grinning, making Smoker want to throw up. He again feels that everyone here has conspired to torture him.

“Don’t ask, then,” Sphinx offers. “Keep quiet and be happy.”

“Would you like it better if I were a mute?”

Sphinx jumps up.

“Let’s go. We’ll have a stroll. Smell the soot of the streets. You look a bit pale.”

Smoker reluctantly climbs off the bed.

“What do you mean, soot of the streets? Is that another joke?”

“Why is it that you never listen when people tell you things?” Sphinx asks on the way. “Even when they’re answering your questions?”

Smoker is trying to keep up.

“Listen? To who? Tabaqui?”

The hallway allows them to squeeze through the gauntlet of compassionate chuckles. The walls shout at them: KILL YOUR INNER CUCKOO! ENTER THE NEXT LOOP!

“Tabaqui would be a good start. He answers questions better than any of us. Tries to, at least.”

Smoker slows down.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Smoker reddens if his eyes accidentally fall on girls. Sphinx strides widely and purposefully toward some unseen goal, and Smoker recalls the mysterious soot of the streets, about which he never got an explanation.

“Are we really going outside?”

“What do you think?”