Five to Twelve Read Online Free PDF Page B

to him. “I talked to the Quasimodo who neutralized you at the
Vive le Sport
,” she said evenly.
    “No Name? I’ll talk to him myself in a day or two,” said Dion, touching the still large bump on his head. “We’ll see whether his
a priori
argument is as good as his
a posteriori
line. The bastard wields a mean instrument of sweet reason.”
    “You’ll let him ride,” retorted Juno,
    “Suppose I don’t want to?”
    “I’ll persuade you. There can be no joy in squashing a vegetable.”
    “This vegetable has spikes.”
    “Avoid the spikes. You were an idiopath to go there in the first place.”
    “I love you,” said Dion.
    “Playback?”
    “I love you. This grade one vegetable hits me over the memory bank, and you expect me to turn all metaphorical.”
    “I interviewed him officially as a Chief Peace Officer. He claims you were conspiring with three itinerant sports to do fearful injuries to all doms. He further claims you inflicted grievous bodily harm on one dom and threatened another. Assuming a forty per cent truth quotient, your evening’s work shortlists you for a grade two.”
    Dion roired with laughter. “If that’s the score when I’m an innocent bystander, Stopes help me when I really go to travail.”
    Juno sighed, “Well, then, stripling, what is
your
story-board?”
    Dion told her all that had happened. But, to his surprise, she hardly appeared to be listening. The air was still, and his voice carried clearly through the open french window. But she gazed towards the horizon without a flicker of expression on her semi-profile. When he had finished, she remained silent for a while. Then she took a scrap of paper from the top fold of her sari and read from it,
    “Windswept wards of brown and bronze
    whisper in avenue and lane
    of subterranean midnight suns
    and broken journeys of the brain.
    “Whisper of archaic lunar seas
    and pools of interstellar space
    that whirl behind the frozen mask,
    the stamped medallion of the face.”
    Dion gazed at her appalled. Then he dashed into the bathroom, unlatched the grille over the warm air duct and felt behind it. The antique writing pad was still there. So was the pencil. In a towering rage, he went out on to the balcony.
    “You bloody great bitch! What do you do-search the box every night?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Juno humbly. “I’m sorry. I hoped –”
    “Don’t hope,” he snapped savagely. “You’ve got enough lions to rent my body, but I’m damned if you’ll ever even see enough to pay the rent for my psyche… That was no part of the bargain.”
    He was gratified to see the watery brightness in her eyes. Impulsively, he snatched the slip of paper, tore it into tiny pieces and scattered them over the side of the balustrade. Presently, they mingled with the convoys of falling leaves.
    “They were such strange and lovely words,” she said softly.
    “Archaic doggerel in a worn-out style.”
    “Lovely, regardless.”
    “Crap. Verbal excreta—the sick imaginings of a vagrant sport.”
    She turned to him. “You see, Dion, that’s why I don’t want you to walk into a grade two… Those kind of words will die. You know that. You must know it.”
    He hit her. She didn’t move. The mark showed on her cheek.
    He hit her again. Still she didn’t move.
    For several appalling seconds they stood staring at each other.
    Then suddenly he put his arms round her and kissed her on the lips. It was only about the third time he had ever kissed a woman because he really wanted to in his entire life.
    Her blue sari pressed against him, her breasts pressed against him, her belly pressed against him. He was amazed that there was so much life in her body. It pulsed, it vibrated. It shivered and leaped.
    He tasted salt on her lips; and the salt taste was sweet.

Eight

    D ION sniffed the cool clean air of morning. It drifted in through the still open french window, combating the air streams from the room’s heat ducts and the subtle after-scent of