The Tomorrow-Tamer Read Online Free PDF Page B

used to be Doreen.”
    â€œOh?” Once more the lilt in the voice of the huntress.
    Doree spoke of herself rarely. She did not possess Mr. Archipelago’s skill or his need, and when she talked about her own life she usually blurted unwillingly the straight facts because she could not think of anything else to say. Her few fabrications were obvious; she wrenched them out aggressively, knowing no one would believe her. Now she was caught off guard.
    â€œI had my own shop once,” she said in her gentle rasping voice. “It had a sign up–DOREEN/BEAUTY INCORPORATED. Classy. Done in those gilt letters. You buy them separately and stick them up. The state of my doughwasn’t so classy, though. So when the goddam ‘N’ fell off, I figured it was cheaper to change my name to fit the sign.”
    Gratified, Mrs. Webley-Pryce tittered.
    â€œAnd just where was your shop?”
    Now it was Mr. Archipelago’s turn to glare. It was permissible to question him minutely, but not Doree. Customers were supposed to understand this rule. He saw Doree’s eyes turn vague, and he longed to touch her hand, to comfort and reassure her. But it was better not to do such a thing. He did not want her to misunderstand his devotion, or to be in any way alarmed by a realization of its existence. Instead, he slithered a still-hot clamp down on Mrs. Webley-Pryce’s neck, causing a faint smell of singed skin and a gasp of pain.
    â€œIt was in Montreal, if you must know,” Doree said harshly.
    Last time someone asked, the answer was Chicago, and once, daringly, Mexico City. Mr. Archipelago himself did not know. She had simply walked into his shop one day, and where she came from, or why, did not matter to him. When they were alone, he and Doree never questioned each other, Their evening conversation was of the day’s small happenings.
    â€œMontreal–” Mrs. Webley-Pryce said thoughtfully. “Perhaps David and I will go to some place like that. There’s nothing much left for administrative men in England.”
    â€œYou’re leaving?” Mr. Archipelago asked, startled. “You’re leaving Africa?”
    â€œYes, of course–that’s what I meant when I said David dreaded–didn’t you know?”
    â€œBut–why?” he asked in dismay, for recently she had been patronizing the shop regularly. “Why?”
    â€œDear me,” she said, with an effort at brightness, “you are behind the times, aren’t you? Didn’t you know this colony willbe self-governing soon? They don’t want us here any more.”
    â€œI knew it was coming,” Mr. Archipelago said, “but I had not realized it was so soon. Strange. I read the newspapers. I talk with Mr. Tachie, my landlord, who is a very political man. But–ah well, I tend my garden, and try to get wild orchids to grow here beside the sea, where the soil is really much too sandy for them, and I do the ladies’ hair and drink beer and talk to Doree. I think nothing will ever change in this place–so insignificant, surely God will forget about it and let it be. But not so. How many will be going?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know–most of the Europeans in government service–perhaps all. I expect some of those in trade will remain.”
    Her tone implied that Mr. Archipelago would be left with a collection of lepers, probably hairless.
    â€œThere are not enough of them,” he murmured, “to keep me in business.”
    He groped on a shelf for another beer and opened it with perspiring hands. He thought of the sign outside his establishment. Not a gilt-lettered sign, to be sure, but nicely done in black and aquamarine, with elegant spidery letters:
    Â 
    ARCHIPELAGO
    English-Style Barber
    European Ladies’ Hairdresser
    Â 
    â€œA sea with many islands,” he said, addressing only himself. “Sometimes it happens that a person discovers he has