And here he came, panicking starting to throw his outdoor clothes all over everywhere as usual. She headed promptly for the door.
"Don't let me drive you out, sister mine!" he exclaimed.
"You saw me take my pants off before. didn't you?".
"Going to fix Mom a drink." Lora said, sweeping by.
"Me too!" Peter cried. "I'm in a rush!"
"That's your fault," Lora snapped. and strode away.
The nearest liquor cabinet was in her father's room. The room was empty. She mixed a gin atomic for her mother and a weak Bloody Mary for herself, and went ` next door where Mrs. Turpin sat naked at her mirror while her French-Canadian maid set out accessories to go with her radion gown.
"Thanks, honey." she said in a strangled tone due to the need to let her lip-shade dry without wrinkling. "Put a straw in it for me, Estelle!"
"Mind if I drink mine here?" Lora said. "If I go back in my room Peter will grab it. And by the way!"
"Yes?"
"You couldn't arrange to have his drinks watered tonight, could you? He's bad enough sober. When he's drunk-Christi"
"Oh, he won't try and rape you, if that's what you mean," her mother said calmly.
"Mom! That's beyond joking" Lora gasped.
"Unfortunately it is. But the fact stands: You're a girl. And, come to think of it, you seem to want everyone to be absolutely certain. Are you seriously going to wear that bunch of rags, if you can call it wearing?"
"Why not?" With a gulp of her drink.
"Well, your father-but I guess that's why you put it on. More important, I asked Rev. Powell to be here sharp on time, and I don't want him to see you dressed like a whore."
"Don't make me laugh He made a pass at me last time he was here, the slimy slug"
"Well, he doesn't pretend to be above temptation that's one reason people like him. But don't let me hear you call him a slug again, understand? Or I'll forget you're eighteen and whop you blue. I won't have you badmouthing a minister. And one more thing Don't spend the evening like you usually do, moping around some plastic headed boy. Mix Talk to people-"
"I'll spend the whole radiated night with anyone I choose," Lora said, and slammed the door.
After that, she didn't really want to join the line-up at the entrance to the party hall. That was a room about sixty feet by eighty, shared between their apartment and the next; there was one on each floor of the tower, and doors off it were unlocked according to which family were the hosts.
But she was afraid of missing Danty if she didn't.
So she waited until her father was busy greeting an early guest, then darted into a spot beside Holtzer, thinking that even if Dad did want to slang her for wearing this dress he'd hardly do so in a stranger's hearing. She was right, and escaped with a mere scowl.
Holtzer, on the other hand, looked her over thoughtfully and at leisure, and said at last, "You look lovely, Lora."
"Well, thank you," she murmured, because he'd said it
in a tone that made her believe it. She relaxed-but only for a heartbeat or two, because here suddenly came Peter in a hideous party-suit of yellow lace and stinking to the sky. He rushed to his mother, lying about how he hadn't been able to get ready sooner because his reeky sister was underfoot, but Mrs. Turpin was used to that and froze him fast.
"It's your preening and primping that takes the time!" she snapped. "Get yourself a drink and shut up!"
Instantly furious, Peter was about to scream back at her, but that was the moment when Rev. Powell arrived: a fine-looking man with a commanding presence that had made him the highest-paid TV evangelist in history. And of course, Peter pounced on him.
Well, that's one way of avoiding the two people 1 least want on my back . . . . Lora sighed, and found Holtzer looking at her again. This time he winked, and she grinned back. Good to know there was one other person here who wasn't dazzled by this parade of notables, these generals, admirals, senators, TV stars, and other slugs. Plus, naturally, the whole of the EG board.
But she had to be polite, for the time being.
The crush increased tremendously within minutes. Even in Lakonia, people had got out of the habit of arriving at parties late and staying late. Going home after midnight wasn't as risky here as in New York, Washington, or L.A.-where most parties nowadays were held in the afternoon-but the pattern was contagious.
Abruptly the racket of conversation dwindled to a buzz, and Sheklov, surprised, glanced towards the door. Two men with blue jowls and stern expressions were coming in. They ignored the host and hostess, but walked silently around the assembly, sharp eyes piercing and probing.
"Well" someone he didn't know said beside Sheklov. "So Prexy is coming!"
"How do you-?" Sheklov began, and then put two and two together. "Oh. Secret Service?" A chill touched his nape.
"Yes," the stranger said importantly. "Those are Crashaw and Levitt. They're alleged to have by heart the entire CIA and FBI files on subversives. See how tense the Turpin girl is? Worried in case they tell Prexy not to come in"
Lora caught that and glanced over her shoulder with a scowl. "Fool" she thought. There was someone she was far more concerned about than Prexy-and here he was!
She had had vague visions of him arriving with a dozen reb friends, leaping with a whoop and a holler into the middle of this stuffy crowd and blowing every mind for miles. But, instead, he was quietly taking in the scene from the threshold, neatly if not expensively dressed in wine-red, not seeming at all out of place except that his complexion was the darkest in view.
He saved my life she thought again, savoring the solidity of the concept, and ran to kiss him. Several people noticed. They were meant to.
Sheklov was staying close to Turpin. That suited his ru1e as a stranger who knew almost no one, but also it was safer, because although his briefing had been thorough, he was not yet primed with current gossip.
He was impressed. Turpin's assimilation was unbelievably complete. People ,were present who made the headlines simply by catching a head-cold. And even those Secret Service agents had looked Turpin in the face, never suspecting that he had been born in the other Georgia-that he had grown up answering to the name of Yashvili-that it had taken four years' planning and three deaths to turn him into Lewis Raymond Turpin, known inevitably as "Dick" .- .
Sheklov suddenly recalled something that Bratcheslavsky had repeated many times during his briefing: "Don't let his assimilation put you off. Bear in mind it saved the world°
True enough. Every circuit in "the world's most perfect defensive system" had been known to Turpin for years. He didn't sabotage the installations, or even delay them that wasn't his job. All he did was pass the news on.
Yes, by doing that he'd saved the world. But Sheklov thought of an alien ship sparkling near Pluto, and wondered with a shiver: For how long?
An' outburst of clapping, and there he was, clasping his hands above his head like a boxer. A photographer accompanying him snapped a shot for tomorrow's papers. He was a large man, broad-faced, broad-shouldered, broad-grinning. As Turpin approached, beaming, he
dropped his hands and changed his grin for his look of sincere pleasure, and the photographer snapped again.
Sheklov hung back, watching intently. A dozen people had actually entered the hall, but all bar Prexy had expertly effaced themselves. That wasn't hard; guests were pressing forward, determined to shake the famous hand or at least to be told hello. Sheklov had heard about this phenomenon, but until now had barely believed it. Yes, they did worship this figurehead, this waxwork, this mindless creation of a skilled team of Navy publicists!
Don't they know what's been done to them? Or is it that they don't care?
Now Turpin was signaling him, and he had to move forward, other guests reluctantly permitting him passage.
"Proxy I'd like you to meet a friend of mine from Canada, Don Holtzer here!"
Prexy was instantly Prexy-to-the-nth. "Dick, any friend of yours is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of the U.S.A., Mr. Holtzer! Or rather: Don!"
He offered his hand, beaming. Sheklov took it. The photographer snapped, snapped again, and glanced up. "Say, Mr. Turpin! That young lady's your daughter? Like to have her in a shot or two as well, a spot of glam!"
The scene seemed to freeze. At length Turpin said, "Lora?"
She came forward unwillingly, holding her boy-friend tight by the hand. "Only if he's in the shot too," she said.
"And why not?" A boom from Prexy. "Here, young lady A kind of parable for us all, isn't it? rve never been able to hold against them the resentment some of our darker fellow-citizens feel-justifiably, if you look at the historical record. I hope and pray for the day when we shall resolve our disagreements peacefully. And for you and your compatriots, Don, the same thing holds. One's aware there have been differences, one's aware that relations between our countries are not as happy as they have been right now, but bonds of honest trade still forge links between our lands, and where business binds, friendship follows, sooner or later-"
Meantime he was putting his arm around Lora and hopefully trying to insert his fingers through the slots of her dress, but she obviously was not one of the many who felt it a privilege to be touched by Prexy. The fact that she wriggled away, however, did not disconcert him in the
slightest. Snap. He altered. his pose with practiced skill. Snap again. Sheklov stood numb, wearing a feeble grin. He was terribly aware of the eyes of Cashew and Levitt fixed on him, saying without words: "We'll know you next time we see you."
Snap once more, and finished. As though a spell had been lifted, people started moving about and talking as loudly as before, while Turpin found Prexy a drink and ushered him towards the densest part of the crowd, his favorite spot. Watching him go, Sheklov heard again that slick alliterative catch-phrase-"where business binds, friendship follows"-and felt briefly haunted by the ghosts of a million Asian peasants.
He realized abruptly that he was being stared at. By the young man Lora had insisted on pulling into the photograph with her, the lean black. the only black here. Blacks didn't make it to Lakonia, he'd been told.
The instant he met that dark gaze, it flicked away. But it left a dismayingly deep dent, for no apparent reason, in his hitherto impermeable composure.
(r)X
After that music began, and Sheklov had to circulate. Almost at once he had an alarming encounter with a TV producer named Ambow, who was eager for praise of some historical-drama series he had made. Sheklov, not having seen the show, had no opinion at first, but by the time Ambow found a more promising victim he had a very firm opinion indeed, The series was decadent bourgeois non-representational escapism of the worst conceivable kind. A man like Ambow couldn't possibly create anything better.
Indeed, this whole function had a curious quasi-historical air. The tunes being played, for example, dated back fifteen, even twenty-five years, and in the identical style of their originals. The clothes, too, struck him as subtly behind the times-what you might have seen at a Kremlin reception a decade ago. Growing more and more depressed, he drifted from one group to another, and heard lectures on the spics ("A billion bucks we spent on aid, and the Cubans put 'em in their pocket!"), on the gooks ("All those American boys who died trying to save them from the Reds!"), and the black Africans ("Can't trust anyone over there except the Boers, and I don't think we do enough for them!") . . .
1 didn't believe it, he thought. But it's true!
He wondered whether someone like Ambow, working with material from the past, recognized the analogies you could draw, one-for-one, with other places and other times. And concluded that if anyone did, he must prefer to ignore them. It made him desperately sad.
Eventually, passing the half-open door that led into the living-room of the Turnips' apartment, he heard a familiar sound.
"Well, well!" he murmured under his teeth. "Prokofievl"
He debated for a moment whether it was in character for Holtzer to like "The Love of Three Oranges," and decided that that was irrelevant. Shrugging, he pushed open the door. Beyond, the lights were down to a dim glow, but
he had been in here earlier today and thought he knew the layout well enough not to turn them up. He headed for a chair facing the player. It was not until he almost fell over an outstretched leg that he realized the room's long lounge, end-on to the door, was occupied by Lora and her dark-skinned friend. She was crawling all over him, but although his hands were inside her dress, fondling her back, he didn't seem to be acting very passionately.
"Sorry" he murmured, and made to withdraw.
And backed straight into a tall, good-looking man with a shock of sleek gray hair, who in the same moment snapped the lights to full.
"Oh, Loral" he exclaimed. "Do you know what's become of your brother"
"Shit, piss, and damnation," Lora said in a weary tone, and rolled off Danty, flinging her legs angrily to the floor. "No, I don't I'm not my brother's keeper, thank God"
The handsome man reddened, and Sheklov placed him; he'd been pointed out as a minister of religion. Powers? No, Powell, that was it: Maurice Powell.
"Hey, Don" Lora added, seeing that Shekldv was on the point of leaving the room. "Don't run off I"
Sheklov halted on the threshold. There was a pause. Eventually Powell gave an insincere grin and went out.