Levels: The Host Read Online Free PDF Page A

you’d go for it. I’ll make you a host, Caiper. And you know what, Mr. Watly Caiper? I hope you make it. A mother, huh? You haven’t a chance in hell, but I hope you get your little dream. I hope you do. I could almost feel sorry for you, considering what’s in store. But then, what do I know? Here’s a booklet for you. Follow the green arrows to registration.’’
    Oldyer started laughing once more when Watly turned to leave the office. Watly stopped at the doorway when the big man spoke one last time to him. “Oh, and Watly .... Watly, about that pencil,” Oldyer said between short, panting breaths. “That pencil—it’s a fake. Made out of placene and paint. Sells for five New York dollars down on Fourteenth. You think I’d keep something expensive in this office? In this raping shithole?” A fit of laughing once again overcame him. “You kill me, Caiper. You kill me.”
    Watly walked out of Oldyer’s office feeling dazed. He registered and picked up his advance. The woman in registration smiled mechanically and told him, “Congratulations and please report tomorrow at nine o’clocka.m.” Watly smiled back and left the building feeling like he was part of some enormous practical joke he knew nothing about. Life itself was a practical joke. But he’ d won.
    How the subs did I pull that off? he wondered. Or did I pull that off?
    Either way he was glad to have the job. Either way he’d somehow done it. He was a host.
    As Watly continued down First Avenue, he realized there was only one thing about the whole day that really disturbed him. The pencil turning out fake didn’t really bother him. Perhaps it was just some kind of standard ingenuity test or something. “Is the applicant smart enough to break wood?”—that sort of stuff. No, the thing that bothered him—really bothered him—was Oldyer’s attitude at the end. Even the words he used were strange. He called Watly “little man.” “You’ve got guts, little man .... ” If anything, Watly Caiper was on the tall side. Tall and solid—that was Watly. “Little man.” Watly supposed anyone was little next to the bulk of that interviewer. But that’s not how he’d said it. He’d said it like Watly’s part in life was little. His role . It was said like Watly was a sunbean headed for the breakfast table.
    There was a tone in Oldyer’s voice—and even in his bone-rattling laughter—all through those last moments, that seemed to imply Watly had done exactly what was expected—that he was just an overgrown key on a jumbo-sized keyboard who’d been pressed as planned. A trace of something in Oldyer’s manner said, Watly Caiper, you just fell for it. When Watly had glanced back one last time and caught Oldyer’s eyes, he’d witnessed a frightening sight. Truly frightening. Worse than the condescension, the loathing, the superiority, there was pity in those buried, officious little pupils. It seemed to Watly that Oldyer thought he was staring at a dead man. In fact, Oldyer looked sure of it.
    Watly shuddered the thoughts off and tried to relax as he continued to walk. Things had gone well. He was in. He was a host and that’s all that mattered. Work started tomorrow. Money would start coming soon. More money than he’d ever had before. After a short while hosting he’d be able to save up enough to fulfill his dream. His calling.
    The word calling was common when referring to motherhood. Watly didn’t like the expression. To him it implied something mystical or spiritual or religious. You want religion, move to Jesusland, he thought.
    There was nothing supernatural about his ambition. Parenting was not exactly a new idea. Granted, it was next to impossible for a person of Watly’s station to achieve motherhood, but that didn’t mean he was “blessed” to want it. Or cursed. Watly was more realistic than that. His desire since youth to be a mother was no different than someone else’s desire to be an office worker or technician. In