It Could Be Anything Page 5

he heard the revolving door thump-thump. Suddenly softlight bathed the lobby behind him. Somewhere a piano tinkled _More ThanYou Know_. With a distant clatter of closing doors the elevator came tolife.

  Brett hugged a shadowed corner, saw a fat man in a limp seersucker suitcross to the reception desk. He had a red face, a bald scalp blotchedwith large brown freckles. The clerk inclined his head blandly.

  "Ah, yes, sir, a nice double with bath ..." Brett heard the unctuousvoice of the clerk as he offered the pen. The fat man took it, scrawledsomething in the register. "... at fourteen dollars," the clerkmurmured. He smiled, dinged the bell. A boy in tight green tunic andtrousers and a pillbox cap with a chin strap pushed through a doorbeside the desk, took the key, led the way to the elevator. The fat manentered. Through the openwork of the shaft Brett watched as the elevatorcar rose, greasy cables trembling and swaying. He started back acrossthe lobby--and stopped dead.

  A wet brown shape had appeared in the entrance. It flowed across the rugto the bellhop. Face blank, the golem turned back to its door. Above,Brett heard the elevator stop. Doors clashed. The clerk stood poisedbehind the desk. The Gel hovered, then flowed away. The piano was silentnow. The lights burned, a soft glow, then winked out. Brett thoughtabout the fat man. He had seen him before ...

  He went up the stairs. In the second floor corridor Brett felt his wayalong in near-darkness, guided by the dim light coming through transoms.He tried a door. It opened. He stepped into a large bedroom with adouble bed, an easy chair, a chest of drawers. He crossed the room,looked out across an alley. Twenty feet away white curtains hung atwindows in a brick wall. There was nothing behind the windows.

  There were sounds in the corridor. Brett dropped to the floor behind thebed.

  "All right, you two," a drunken voice bellowed. "And may all yourtroubles be little ones." There was laughter, squeals, a dry clash ofbeads flung against the door. A key grated. The door swung wide. Lightsblazed in the hall, silhouetting the figures of a man in black jacketand trousers, a woman in a white bridal dress and veil, flowers in herhand.

  "Take care, Mel!"

  "... do anything I wouldn't do!"

  "... kiss the bride, now!"

  The couple backed into the room, pushed the door shut, stood against it.Brett crouched behind the bed, not breathing, waiting. The couple stoodat the door, in the dark, heads down ...

  * * *

  Brett stood, rounded the foot of the bed, approached the two unmovingfigures. The girl looked young, sleek, perfect-featured, with soft darkhair. Her eyes were half-open; Brett caught a glint of light reflectedfrom the eyeball. The man was bronzed, broad-shouldered, his hair wavyand blond. His lips were parted, showing even white teeth. The twostood, not breathing, sightless eyes fixed on nothing.

  Brett took the bouquet from the woman's hand. The flowers seemedreal--except that they had no perfume. He dropped them on the floor,pulled at the male golem to clear the door. The figure pivoted, toppled,hit with a heavy thump. Brett raised the woman in his arms and proppedher against the bed. Back at the door he listened. All was quiet now. Hestarted to open the door, then hesitated. He went back to the bed, undidthe tiny pearl buttons down the front of the bridal gown, pulled itopen. The breasts were rounded, smooth, an unbroken creamy white ...

  In the hall, he started toward the stair. A tall Gel rippled into viewahead, its shape flowing and wavering, now billowing out, then risingup. The shifting form undulated toward Brett. He made a move to run,then remembered Dhuva, stood motionless. The Gel wobbled past him,slumped suddenly, flowed under a door. Brett let out a breath. Nevermind the fat man. There were too many Gels here. He started back alongthe corridor.

  Soft music came from double doors which stood open on a landing. Brettwent to them, risked a look inside. Graceful couples moved sedately on apolished floor, diners sat at tables, black-clad waiters moving amongthem. At the far side of the room, near a dusty rubber plant, sat thefat man, studying a menu. As Brett watched he shook out a napkin, ran itaround inside his collar, then mopped his face.

  Never disturb a scene, Dhuva had said. But perhaps he could blend withit. Brett brushed at his suit, straightened his tie, stepped into theroom. A waiter approached, eyed him dubiously. Brett got out his wallet,took out a five-dollar bill.

  "A quiet table in the corner," he said. He glanced back. There were noGels in sight. He followed the waiter to a table near the fat man.

  * * *

  Seated, he looked around. He wanted to talk to the fat man, but hecouldn't afford to attract attention. He would watch, and wait hischance.

  At the nearby tables men with well-pressed suits, clean collars, andcarefully shaved faces murmured to sleekly gowned women who fingeredwine glasses, smiled archly. He caught fragments of conversation:

  "My dear, have you heard ..."

  "... in the low eighties ..."

  "... quite impossible. One must ..."

  "... for this time of year."

  The waiter returned with a shallow bowl of milky soup. Brett looked atthe array of spoons, forks, knives, glanced sideways at the diners atthe next table. It was important to follow the correct ritual. He puthis napkin in his lap, careful to shake out all the folds. He looked atthe spoons again, picked a large one, glanced at the waiter. So far sogood ...

  "Wine, sir?"

  Brett indicated the neighboring couple. "The same as they're having."The waiter turned away, returned holding a wine bottle, label towardBrett. He looked at it, nodded. The waiter busied himself with the cork,removing it with many flourishes, setting a glass before Brett, pouringhalf an inch of wine. He waited expectantly.

  Brett picked up the glass, tasted it. It tasted like wine. He nodded.The waiter poured. Brett wondered what would have happened if he hadmade a face and spurned it. But it would be too risky to try. No oneever did it.

  Couples danced, resumed their seats; others rose and took the floor. Astring ensemble in a distant corner played restrained tunes that seemedto speak of the gentle faded melancholy of decorous tea dances onlong-forgotten afternoons. Brett glanced toward the fat man. He waseating soup noisily, his napkin tied under his chin.

  The waiter was back with a plate. "Lovely day, sir," he said.

  "Great," Brett agreed.

  The waiter placed a covered platter on the table, removed the cover,stood with carving knife and fork poised.

  "A bit of the crispy, sir?"

  Brett nodded. He eyed the waiter surreptitiously. He looked real. Somegolems seemed realer than others; or perhaps it merely depended on theparts they were playing. The man who had fallen at the parade had beenonly a sort of extra, a crowd member. The waiter, on the other hand, wasable to converse. Perhaps it would be possible to learn something fromhim ...

  "What's ... uh ... how do you spell the name of this town?" Brett asked.

  "I was never much of a one for spelling, sir," the waiter said.

  "Try it."

  "Gravy, sir?"

  "Sure. Try to spell the name."

  "Perhaps I'd better call the headwaiter, sir," the golem said stiffly.

  From the corner of an eye Brett caught a flicker of motion. He whirled,saw nothing. Had it been a Gel?

  "Never mind," he said. The waiter served potatoes, peas, refilled thewine glass, moved off silently. The question had been a little toounorthodox, Brett decided. Perhaps if he led up to the subject moreobliquely ...

  * * *

  When the waiter returned Brett said, "Nice day."

  "Very nice, sir."

  "Better than yesterday."

  "Yes indeed, sir."

  "I wonder what tomorrow'll be like."

  "Perhaps we'll have a bit of rain, sir."

  Brett nodded toward the dance floor. "Nice orchestra."

  "They're very popular, sir."

  "From here in town?"

  "I wouldn't know as to that, sir."

  "Lived here long yourself?"

  "Oh, yes, sir." The wa
iter's expression showed disapproval. "Would therebe anything else, sir?"

  "I'm a newcomer here," Brett said. "I wonder if you could tell me--"

  "Excuse me, sir." The waiter was gone. Brett poked at the mashedpotatoes. Quizzing golems was hopeless. He would have to find out forhimself. He turned to look at the fat man. As Brett watched he took alarge handkerchief from a pocket, blew his nose loudly. No one turned tolook. The orchestra played softly. The couples danced. Now was as good atime as any ...

  Brett rose, crossed to the other's table. The man looked up.

  "Mind if I sit down?" Brett said. "I'd like to talk to you."

  The fat man blinked, motioned to a chair. Brett sat down, leaned acrossthe table. "Maybe I'm wrong," he said quietly, "but I