bottle, and nodded, and went.
13
And two days later, job completed, Lazenby himself went – home. He watched most contentedly as portions of British Columbia receded at 600 miles an hour.
What the Indian had decided to do he had no idea. A very complicated fellow, tricky. Suspected everybody of tricks. Up to plenty himself, of course. He’d decide nothing in a hurry.
In Prince George it was raining and the girl came in drenched, with a dripping umbrella and a bag of groceries.
‘Oh God, are you still watching that?’ she said.
Porter’s eyes hadn’t left the screen.
‘Quiet. The man is making a joke.’
‘He was making the joke when I left.’
‘That was another joke.’
‘Who is that little bastard? Why are you watching him?’
‘He’s a jolly little bastard. I like him.’
The little man on the screen was very jolly. He wore high reindeer boots and was smacking them as he laughed. His male companions were also smacking theirs. The women’s boots couldn’t be seen, but they were all elaborately dressed and just as jolly, dark eyes sparkling under their centre partings. They were taking part in a talk show.
‘Is that Eskimo they’re talking or what?’ the girl said.
‘Eskimo is Inuit . The people are also called Inuit. This isn’t Inuit,’ he said. The leggy blonde was an ex-student of his and should have known better. At the present time she should have known much better for she was editing a book, his last, which was about the Inuit. ‘Go and take that bath,’ he said.
‘You said you were going to take it with me.’
‘All right.’ Porter reluctantly switched the tape off. There were about twenty snippets on it, bits of newscasts, talks, chat shows. Snatched by satellite evidently. No information had come with the tape. Just the tape. He’d watched it a few times and would watch it some more.
He reached for his wallet and took out the much-folded messages again, comparing them side by side.
I am he that liveth/ I am yet
Go up, thou baldhead/ How is
alive/ in the north country/
it that ye do not under-
in dark waters/ in the waste
stand?/ I want that man/ that
howling wilderness/ Where-
speaketh the tongues of the
fore do you not answer me?/
families of the north/ him that
Behold new things do I
pisseth against the wall/ As to
declare/ The eyes of all shall
my abode/ it was written
be opened/ Send me therefore
plainly in the beginning/ I dwell
the man/ understanding
in/ dark waters/ Shew him all
science/ of every living thing/
my words/ that the people
Let me hear thy voice con-
shall no more/sit in darkness/
cerning this matter/ the first
nor like the blind/ stumble at
day at midnight/ Voice of
noonday/ Make speed/
America.
Baldhead.
What the hell! Had they really not seen it, the geniuses of the CIA? Or had they manufactured the thing themselves? He still couldn’t tell. There were phrases here meant only for him, to be understood solely by him. Could they possibly have known what had been discussed?
He wasn’t clear what to do. Drop the whole thing and go back to Montreal, east? Or find out more at the training camp the young spook had mentioned, south?
He followed the girl into the bathroom, brooding. Sleep on it, and then decide.
East, south, where?
14
On 28 August Porter arrived at Narita airport, picked up his bags, negotiated Immigration and Customs, and descended to the train. A car was waiting for him outside, as he knew. He had no intention of taking it. The airport express could get him where he wanted, which was Tokyo central station.
He made it by five o’clock, to find the rush hour in progress. This was the second rushawa of the day, the homeward-streaming one, and the familiar riot was in progress. He spent some minutes getting his bearings, and located the Lucky Strike. It looked no different from the other Business Efficiencies round the station but it stood on a corner and had two entrances. This was its attraction, and he remembered it. They
13
And two days later, job completed, Lazenby himself went – home. He watched most contentedly as portions of British Columbia receded at 600 miles an hour.
What the Indian had decided to do he had no idea. A very complicated fellow, tricky. Suspected everybody of tricks. Up to plenty himself, of course. He’d decide nothing in a hurry.
In Prince George it was raining and the girl came in drenched, with a dripping umbrella and a bag of groceries.
‘Oh God, are you still watching that?’ she said.
Porter’s eyes hadn’t left the screen.
‘Quiet. The man is making a joke.’
‘He was making the joke when I left.’
‘That was another joke.’
‘Who is that little bastard? Why are you watching him?’
‘He’s a jolly little bastard. I like him.’
The little man on the screen was very jolly. He wore high reindeer boots and was smacking them as he laughed. His male companions were also smacking theirs. The women’s boots couldn’t be seen, but they were all elaborately dressed and just as jolly, dark eyes sparkling under their centre partings. They were taking part in a talk show.
‘Is that Eskimo they’re talking or what?’ the girl said.
‘Eskimo is Inuit . The people are also called Inuit. This isn’t Inuit,’ he said. The leggy blonde was an ex-student of his and should have known better. At the present time she should have known much better for she was editing a book, his last, which was about the Inuit. ‘Go and take that bath,’ he said.
‘You said you were going to take it with me.’
‘All right.’ Porter reluctantly switched the tape off. There were about twenty snippets on it, bits of newscasts, talks, chat shows. Snatched by satellite evidently. No information had come with the tape. Just the tape. He’d watched it a few times and would watch it some more.
He reached for his wallet and took out the much-folded messages again, comparing them side by side.
I am he that liveth/ I am yet
Go up, thou baldhead/ How is
alive/ in the north country/
it that ye do not under-
in dark waters/ in the waste
stand?/ I want that man/ that
howling wilderness/ Where-
speaketh the tongues of the
fore do you not answer me?/
families of the north/ him that
Behold new things do I
pisseth against the wall/ As to
declare/ The eyes of all shall
my abode/ it was written
be opened/ Send me therefore
plainly in the beginning/ I dwell
the man/ understanding
in/ dark waters/ Shew him all
science/ of every living thing/
my words/ that the people
Let me hear thy voice con-
shall no more/sit in darkness/
cerning this matter/ the first
nor like the blind/ stumble at
day at midnight/ Voice of
noonday/ Make speed/
America.
Baldhead.
What the hell! Had they really not seen it, the geniuses of the CIA? Or had they manufactured the thing themselves? He still couldn’t tell. There were phrases here meant only for him, to be understood solely by him. Could they possibly have known what had been discussed?
He wasn’t clear what to do. Drop the whole thing and go back to Montreal, east? Or find out more at the training camp the young spook had mentioned, south?
He followed the girl into the bathroom, brooding. Sleep on it, and then decide.
East, south, where?
14
On 28 August Porter arrived at Narita airport, picked up his bags, negotiated Immigration and Customs, and descended to the train. A car was waiting for him outside, as he knew. He had no intention of taking it. The airport express could get him where he wanted, which was Tokyo central station.
He made it by five o’clock, to find the rush hour in progress. This was the second rushawa of the day, the homeward-streaming one, and the familiar riot was in progress. He spent some minutes getting his bearings, and located the Lucky Strike. It looked no different from the other Business Efficiencies round the station but it stood on a corner and had two entrances. This was its attraction, and he remembered it. They
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