dirigible mooring pylon. IF SHE IS NOT FOUND BY TOMORROW NOON, THIS COMMUNITY WILL ANSWER FOR IT. The first portrait flashed up again for a moment, and then the screen went dark.
Grebbel looked questioningly at her, and she shrugged, unready to put her doubts and suspicions into words.
“Well,” said Paulina, “first those leaflets, now this. You’d think they could keep tighter control over the lunatic fringe. But then I bet only forty-five percent of the population’s in the pay of security.”
“Erika Frank,” someone said,”—isn’t that Bob Strickland’s girlfriend?”
“Strickland thought so, anyway.”
“What do you think it meant—‘will answer for it’?” Grebbel asked.
“Probably a bluff,” Paulina said, “if it isn’t just a practical joke.”
Before the muttering from the audience drowned everything else, Elinda thought she heard voices raised behind the stage, where the projectors must be.
Then the house lights faded completely and the screen lit again. Elinda missed most of the few noticeboard items that appeared, wondering about the threatening tone of the first item, and whether it fitted the man she had seen with Larsen. The main feature began, and she made an effort to concentrate.
There was a soundtrack with music and a commentary, but it had no meaning for her. The pictures filled her mind. Wide plains divided into olive and brown cultivated squares. A city, sprawling under low, yellowish skies. There were tight knots of freeway interchanges, thick with traffic. Weather-stained freighters moored at a dock. The water, violet-dark and greasy, licked at their hulls. Gulls fought over debris churned up by the propellers of the tugs.
I know this place
, she thought.
I don’t recognise any of it, but I know it. Is that why I’m shaking?
Trucks thundered over concrete arches, where grimy rows of houses huddled on narrow streets. Words on the soundtrack she could not follow, the music beating at her.
He’d understand what I feel. He wouldn’t laugh at me.
And Grebbel, watching the images unfolding before him, felt his mind being squeezed into a smaller and smaller space, as though the sight of his old world was drawing his memories toward it, but they could get no further than whatever had happened in the Knot.
A map appeared on the screen. South America, his mind said, as if this was another psych test. Other pictures followed, and his mind laboured to keep up. Mountains, it said . . . Andes? Snow. Cold. With part of his mind that hid from the verbal testing game, he felt her presence next to him. Highway. Airport runway.
Blue-helmeted troops poured from transport aircraft, were shown driving through streets lined with blackened ruins, then setting up road blocks, searching buildings, directing traffic around a crater at an intersection.
Peacekeeping, his mind said. Martial law. Revolution.
Chaos.
Name? Jon Grebbel.
Nationality?
Residence?
She brushed against him in the dark, her skin chill and damp.
Name? Jon Grebbel.
Occupation?
Occupation?
Dark. All dark.
One hand to clutch in the dark.
Afterwards, in the knot of people fastening coats and filing out of the Hall, they found time to talk.
“Did it strike you the same way?”
“Having trouble understanding what was happening? Yes, like—”
“—like a garbled stream of memories.”
“Like trying to listen to a talk, I was going to say, when everyone’s whispering around you.”
“Only the whispers were inside your head.”
“Maybe there’s a block against understanding what we were then, maybe we’ll never be able to get it back.”
The crowd was dispersing. Paulina and Louise had slipped away.
“It was uncomfortable in there. I was—scared, I think.”
“We both were.”
“Are you sorry you came, then?”
“A bit. No.”
“Neither am I.”
They walked slowly down the empty street.
“I may have found a new job,” he said, “substituting for your friend.” He described his
Grebbel looked questioningly at her, and she shrugged, unready to put her doubts and suspicions into words.
“Well,” said Paulina, “first those leaflets, now this. You’d think they could keep tighter control over the lunatic fringe. But then I bet only forty-five percent of the population’s in the pay of security.”
“Erika Frank,” someone said,”—isn’t that Bob Strickland’s girlfriend?”
“Strickland thought so, anyway.”
“What do you think it meant—‘will answer for it’?” Grebbel asked.
“Probably a bluff,” Paulina said, “if it isn’t just a practical joke.”
Before the muttering from the audience drowned everything else, Elinda thought she heard voices raised behind the stage, where the projectors must be.
Then the house lights faded completely and the screen lit again. Elinda missed most of the few noticeboard items that appeared, wondering about the threatening tone of the first item, and whether it fitted the man she had seen with Larsen. The main feature began, and she made an effort to concentrate.
There was a soundtrack with music and a commentary, but it had no meaning for her. The pictures filled her mind. Wide plains divided into olive and brown cultivated squares. A city, sprawling under low, yellowish skies. There were tight knots of freeway interchanges, thick with traffic. Weather-stained freighters moored at a dock. The water, violet-dark and greasy, licked at their hulls. Gulls fought over debris churned up by the propellers of the tugs.
I know this place
, she thought.
I don’t recognise any of it, but I know it. Is that why I’m shaking?
Trucks thundered over concrete arches, where grimy rows of houses huddled on narrow streets. Words on the soundtrack she could not follow, the music beating at her.
He’d understand what I feel. He wouldn’t laugh at me.
And Grebbel, watching the images unfolding before him, felt his mind being squeezed into a smaller and smaller space, as though the sight of his old world was drawing his memories toward it, but they could get no further than whatever had happened in the Knot.
A map appeared on the screen. South America, his mind said, as if this was another psych test. Other pictures followed, and his mind laboured to keep up. Mountains, it said . . . Andes? Snow. Cold. With part of his mind that hid from the verbal testing game, he felt her presence next to him. Highway. Airport runway.
Blue-helmeted troops poured from transport aircraft, were shown driving through streets lined with blackened ruins, then setting up road blocks, searching buildings, directing traffic around a crater at an intersection.
Peacekeeping, his mind said. Martial law. Revolution.
Chaos.
Name? Jon Grebbel.
Nationality?
Residence?
She brushed against him in the dark, her skin chill and damp.
Name? Jon Grebbel.
Occupation?
Occupation?
Dark. All dark.
One hand to clutch in the dark.
Afterwards, in the knot of people fastening coats and filing out of the Hall, they found time to talk.
“Did it strike you the same way?”
“Having trouble understanding what was happening? Yes, like—”
“—like a garbled stream of memories.”
“Like trying to listen to a talk, I was going to say, when everyone’s whispering around you.”
“Only the whispers were inside your head.”
“Maybe there’s a block against understanding what we were then, maybe we’ll never be able to get it back.”
The crowd was dispersing. Paulina and Louise had slipped away.
“It was uncomfortable in there. I was—scared, I think.”
“We both were.”
“Are you sorry you came, then?”
“A bit. No.”
“Neither am I.”
They walked slowly down the empty street.
“I may have found a new job,” he said, “substituting for your friend.” He described his
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