Untitled (39 page)

  Needless to say, Corso did not share this vision with Jenny. But subsequent manifestations proved less easy to conceal. Since Jenny was present. Staring in shock. As Corso attempted to open a door that wasn't there. In the sidewalk. In front of the local multiplex theater. On a busy Saturday night. And other peculiar delusions at other times as well. Until she reached her breaking point. And fled.

  Corso felt curiously unfearful of these eruptions. Of surrealism. And dire whimsy. Granted, they were momentarily shocking at times. When he was taken by surprise. His mind elsewhere. As with the bird-foot man. But once engaged with each new derangement, for however long it persisted, Corso felt a decided sense of liberation. From duties and expectation. From his own persona. From consensus reality.

  "Um, Corso Fairfield for Sharon Walpole. She's expecting me."

  "Hold on a minute please. I'm right in the middle of printing."

  Corso sits perforce. Resting his satchel across his damp lap. In case of renewed lust attack. As the woman dances her enameled fingertips noisily across her keyboard. Generating finally some activity in the printer beside her. Corso painfully reminded of his own vain attempts recently to coerce output magically from his own printer. The buffers of which hold not the unborn chapters of
The Black Hole Gun.
But only pain.

  Picking up the phone. Reaching Sharon Walpole. Humiliatingly, from the receptionist: "What did you say your name was." Name conveyed to receptionist again and thence to Walpole. Grudging admittance secured.

  Through a busy bullpen of interns and editorial assistants and graphic designers. Photos of loved ones on the desks. Free donuts by the coffee urn. Happy chatter. All workers earning a regular paycheck. With regular health-coverage deductions, unthinkingly groused over. Yet so willingly would they be assumed by Corso. In exchange for some stability.

  The view from Walpole's cluttered corner office. A rooftop water tank. A ghost sign for Nehi Soda. A sliver of one stalwart tower of the Brooklyn Bridge. Walpole behind her desk. Hugo Awards on a shelf behind her. Trim and blonde. Dressed in a mustard-colored pantsuit. Chunky gold necklace and earrings and bracelets. Fixing Corso with a beam of bright-eyed welcome. Behind which is the message.
Don't waste my time.

  "Corso it's always a pleasure." Air kisses. Floral-vanilla scent of perfume. "What brings you into the city."

  "Oh, mainly meeting with my editor at Butte Books."

  "That would be Roger Wankel."

  "Yes, Wankel." Inwardly, Corso winces. At the memory. Of the recent reaming-out endured over the phone. As Wankel screamed about missed deadlines. And penalties incurred at the printing plant. Which would accrue to Corso's accounts. If not literally, then karmically.

  "And of course I need to touch base with my agent."

  "Clive Multrum."

  "Still, yes. And it's very likely I'll have dinner with Malachi."

  No need for a last name. Since everyone in science fiction knew Malachi Stiltjack. Fixture on the bestseller lists. And at many conventions. And on a number of committees. Of the Science Fiction Writers of America. And PEN. Not to mention adjudging many awards. Or making media appearances. As SF's unofficial ambassador to the mundane world. To discuss cloning. Or the internet. Or virtual sex. And by God where did he find the time to write.

  Walpole positively frisking at the mention of Stiltjack. Disconcertingly girlish timbre to her voice now. "Oh please give Malachi my best. Ask him when he'll have something new for us. We haven't seen anything from him since he had the cover story two months ago."

  "Ah certainly Sharon. Two whole months. Imagine." Corso's last appearance in
Ruslan's
so long ago the millennium has since rolled over. "Happy to act as go-between, ha-ha. Which actually brings me to the reason for my visit. I was hoping you might take something from me."

  Walpole begins fidgeting with a bracelet on her left wrist. "Well, of course we're always happy to look at any story of yours Corso. After all, our readers are still talking about 'The Cambrian Exodus.' But I didn't think you were currently working at shorter lengths. Do you have the manuscript with you."

  "Ah, but that's the rub. I don't. Damnable oversight. Dashing from the house to catch my train. In fact, the story's only just begun. It's a winner, though. I'm certain of it." Corso's fugitive mind has blanked on the impressive title he earlier prepared to woo Walpole. Now he has to fashion one out of thin air. He looks desperately out the window. " 'The Towers – The Towers of Nehilyn.' "

  Walpole spins one bracelet on her left wrist. Evident excess of impatience. Corso finds it hard to focus. On her unsympathetic face. The golden motion around her wrist is seductive. The bracelet a blur of uncanny energy. He feels the beginning of a fugue. Onset of one of his sciencefictional hallucinations. But the prospect of visiting an unreal world is seductive. More enticing than this humiliating begging ritual.

  Walpole speaking schoolmarmishly. "Well, you know we hardly ever commission anything, or buy from an outline. You do have an outline to show me at least, don't you."

  "An outline. Not with me, alas. How foolish. Forgotten likewise at home. But if you could signal your faith with, um, a contract, or even a check perhaps, I'd email the whole project folder on Monday. Very extensive notes. World-building, in fact. Equal to Anderson or Clement."

  Sharon Walpole stands up now. And is plainly unscrewing her hand. Corso fully embracing the revelation. Of Walpole's cyborg nature. The bracelet revealed not as jewelry but as the rim of some prosthetic fixture. And now the threaded extension is disclosed. Shiny metal. Reminding one of such familiar terms as "plastalloy" and "durasteel." And the corresponding threaded hole into her forearm. And Corso is fixated by the dismantling. Overly intimate dismantling. His lower jaw drops further. For now the hand is detached. And the editor lays it upon the desk. Like a fleshy paperweight. And reaches into a drawer. To come up with a substitute hand. A giant lobster claw. Bright red. Which she starts to attach.

  And all the while talking. "Corso I'm afraid I can't help you. Your lateness with your novel for Butte is already a scandal. And such a track record does not inspire confidence. There's no way I can advance the good money of Klackto Press on such a tenuous project."

  The lobster claw is firmly seated now. And waving. From the incongruous end of a feminine arm. To illustrate editorial hardheartedness. And business savvy. Which Corso should acknowledge. Except how can he honor in others the commonsensical standards which he never upheld in his own life.

  Walpole's voice. Descending into a droning alien monotone. Now Corso's calm begins to dissipate. The fantasy no longer an alluring alternative to his problems. But rather menacing, in fact.

  "Send me the story. Send me the story. Then we'll see. Then we'll see." And the claw looming larger and larger. Audibly clattering. Directly in Corso's wide-eyed blood-drained face.

Lines of office workers at hot-dog and falafel and gyro carts. With nothing on their mundane minds. Save mortgage payments, love affairs, television shows, shopping sprees, and ferrying hordes of overindulged children from event to event. No obsessions with intergalactic ambassadors. Or fifth-dimensional invaders. Or the paradoxes of time travel. Only solid sensible quotidian activities concern them. The eternal verities. Home and family. Sex and status. Untainted with abnormal speculations derived from technological angst. Of sense of wonder. They know naught. They flip the wall switch for the overhead light. And never think. About the infrastructure behind the scene. And why should they really. That's what engineers are for.

  Corso's stomach rumbling. Yet he turns reluctantly from the line of vendors. Why purchase a cheap lunch. If Clive Multrum will stand him to a meal. And doesn't his agent owe him that much. For the monies earned by
Cosmocopia.
Which was a Featured Selection. Of the Science Fiction Book Club. And optioned by a Hollywood studio. Named Fizz Boys Productions. Which proved to be two ex-parking-lot attendants from L.A. Temporarily flush with profits from an exceedingly large Ecstasy deal. And with no more realistic chance of actually making a film. Than two orangutans fresh from the jungles of Kalimantan. And by the time their option expired. Interest in
Cosmocopia
was dead. And another flavor of the week was all the rage. Probably something by Stiltjack.

  Multrum's building on Park Avenue South. Classier by far than the Ruslan quarters. Concierge in a Ruritanian uniform. Your name sir. May we inspect your briefcase sir. Multrum and his peers here obviously a prime target. For enraged terrorists. Eager perhaps to avenge injustices against disenfranchised writers. Of whom Corso is certainly one. But he manages to disguise his true affiliations from the vigilant guardian. A fat sixtyish man with a dandruff-flecked comb-over. Who directs Corso to the elevators.

  Eleventh floor. Corridor with doors to numerous suites. Into Number 1103, anticipatorily unlocked upon notification by the admiral downstairs. Impeccable furnishings. Rugs from Araby and Persia. Paintings by artists as yet unknown outside New York. Yet inevitably destined for fame and fortune. Such is Multrum's unerring taste. Leather couch. Wet bar. Bookshelves holding hundreds of titles by Multrum's clients. Looking like some Hollywood set-designer coordinated them.
Cosmocopia
on the lowermost shelf, partly shadowed.

  Multrum's personal assistant emerging from in back. Well known by Corso. And likewise. An imperturbable Korean woman. Soberly dressed in black linen. Flat face and hair so jetdark it should be sprinkled with stars. Named most improbably Kichi Koo. And Corso has always longed to ask her. Did you assume this cognomen deliberately. In some kind of madcap Greenwich Village fit of bohemianism. Or were your parents so blithely cruel. But he never has or will. Since Koo has never once so much as cracked a smile in his presence.

  "Mr. Fairfield, hello. Mr. Multrum is on the phone presently. But he will see you soon."

  "Thank you, ah, Ms. Koo. I believe I will help myself to a drink then. To ease the wait."

  Koo's wall-like face assumes an even sterner mien. "As you wish."

  Corso pours himself some of Multrum's finest single malt. Often dreamed of, seldom tasted. By writers. Of Corso's stratum. Sipping it with pleasure. Letting his eyes rove over the shelves. Where they encounter a long row of books by Malachi Stiltjack. Stiltjack being Corso's entry point into Multrum's aegis. Not the only debt Corso owes the man. And the rightmost title not familiar.
Gods of
the Event Horizon.
Taking it down. Published last month. And probably already in a second printing. Reading spottily in the text. Yes, yes, transparent style, stirring action, big ideas. That's the winning formula. To be applied to
The Black Hole Gun.
As soon as one returns home. With a face-saving check in pocket. To stave off the bill collectors. And stock the fridge. With beer and jugged herring.

  "Corso you bastard are you drinking up my entire bar."

  Multrum slapping Corso jovially on the back. Causing expensive liquor to slosh. Onto Corso's shirt.

  "Ah but no, of course not, Clive. Just a small tot. To enliven the humors. And prime the digestive track. For lunch."

  Multrum has Corso by the elbow. A large fragrant cigar projects from Multrum's face. His agent steering him away from the bar. A silver-haired man of middling height. Clean-shaven and smelling not only of Cuban tobacco but also of expensive aftershave. Available only to literary agents above a certain income level. No doubt. His face engraved with lines that oddly map both a habit of smiling and one of sneering. Not plump but layered with a generous amount of self-satisfied tissue. As if to say,
I am
insulated by my success.

  "So you haven't eaten yet. Surprise, surprise. Well, me neither. Let's go to Papoon Skloot's. I have something important to discuss with you."

  "And is this, um, Skloot's a pricey establishment."

  Another slap rattles Corso's bones. Hail fellow well met. We're all adults here. Don't give your shameful poverty a thought. Old bean.

  "Don't sweat it my friend it's all on me."

  "So very kind of you Clive."

  "Can the shit and let's move."

  A taxi ferries them to Papoon Skloot's. During the ride Corso can ponder only Multrum's mysterious words. Something important to discuss. One senses the axe about to fall. Ass meeting sidewalk. Creditors gnawing on one's bones. Unjust fate for a simple soul. Who never asked for much. And since youth dreamed only of traveling the starlanes in prose. And who deserves some slack. Now that he is temporarily stymied. By a lack of belief in his own fictions. While at the same time beset. By those very sciencefictional conceits made real.

  Corso nearly gives way to self-pitying tears by the end of the ride. But manfully stifles them. Instead adopting an eager air of gaiety. Commensurate with the atmosphere inside the posh restaurant. Where various literati and glitterati clink flutes of champagne. Amidst expensive fabrics, elaborate chandeliers, and servile attendants. And consume tiny portions of elaborately mangled foodstuffs. From plates big as the shields of warriors. In a bad fantasy trilogy.