layette weave of star beams, making the dim rays bright.
“Oh, I would have made you coffee and brioches for your delight, and tea for you at tea-time, with cocoa at night. When I am far away, remember me a little.”
Her voice broke, and she could speak no more.
His own voice was breaking, but he forced it to carry on. Turning to her, he said, “Remember! I’ll always remember this April as laughing through tear-drenched eyes, because you came to me with accents sweet in the dark night of our souls. But this night is such stuff as dreams are made on, and knowing you will round that night, for me, with a death of pleasant sleep.
“You’ll trip always through my heart in your light, fantastic manner, stay always buxom, blithe, and debonair, for you are the queen among women, Helix, who lay by my side. As my thoughts’ companion, you will never grow old.”
Wildly they clung, composing a shorthand of mumbled phrases which would give their lives, via connotations, an old age of companionship which the state had now, forever, denied.
For the two policemen and the policewoman who walked into the room, their language might have sounded like the cooing of demented doves.
Chapter Seven
The Embarcadero Station was almost deserted when the policemen brought in Haldane. It was too early in the afternoon for the run of Saturday drunks, but the place reeked of their past presence. A flunky was swabbing the floor with a mop dipped in a disinfectant which overpowered the stench with a fouler odor. The only other civilian present was a lanky man in a trenchcoat, his feet propped up on the bench he sat on to avoid the swishing mop. He was intent on a pocket novel.
“Got one for you, Sergeant,” one of the arresting officers said to the booking officer who sat behind a desk.
“Name and gene des,” the booking sergeant asked, looking at Haldane with the cold, impersonal gaze the professional usually reserves for the proletarian.
Haldane, wearing his own mask, answered.
“What’s the charge, Frawley?” the sergeant asked the policeman.
“Miscegenation and impregnation, suspicion of. We took the frail to the medical O.D. uptown. Her report should be back from the office by midnight.”
“Put him in storage,” the sergeant said, “and make out the report.”
“Just a minute. Sergeant.” The lanky civilian unfolded from the bench and walked over to join them. “May I have a word with the prisoner?”
“Sure, Henrick,” the sergeant said, “he’s public property.”
Henrick, the civilian, took a note pad and the stub of a pencil out of his pocket. His movement revealed a tunic. Barely legible under beer or gravy stains, Haldane could read the designation of Communicator, class 4.
He was thin, florid-faced, red-haired, and freckled. His Adam’s apple protruded obnoxiously. A hint of spittle clustered in the corners of his thin lips, and the odor of whisky coming from his mouth made the odor of the disinfectant mild in comparison. If he had been a dog, the shape of his droopy blue eyes would have put him in the cocker spaniel breed. But he was not a dog; he was a newspaper reporter.
“My name’s Henrick. I work for the Observer .”
His announcement held a fatuous note, as if he were pleased with himself for being connected with the newspaper.
Haldane said, “So?”
“I heard your name and gene des. There was another M-5, Haldane, who died about the second or third of January this year. If I remember, he was III. That would make you his son, right?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad he’s dead. He might have helped you. Would you mind giving me the name and the gene des of the female?”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t want to work overtime. I want to get home. I can get it off the booking desk but it’ll be midnight before it’s down from uptown. If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to wait around. We don’t get many professionals through here. Very few on impregnation charges, so this is a big
“Oh, I would have made you coffee and brioches for your delight, and tea for you at tea-time, with cocoa at night. When I am far away, remember me a little.”
Her voice broke, and she could speak no more.
His own voice was breaking, but he forced it to carry on. Turning to her, he said, “Remember! I’ll always remember this April as laughing through tear-drenched eyes, because you came to me with accents sweet in the dark night of our souls. But this night is such stuff as dreams are made on, and knowing you will round that night, for me, with a death of pleasant sleep.
“You’ll trip always through my heart in your light, fantastic manner, stay always buxom, blithe, and debonair, for you are the queen among women, Helix, who lay by my side. As my thoughts’ companion, you will never grow old.”
Wildly they clung, composing a shorthand of mumbled phrases which would give their lives, via connotations, an old age of companionship which the state had now, forever, denied.
For the two policemen and the policewoman who walked into the room, their language might have sounded like the cooing of demented doves.
Chapter Seven
The Embarcadero Station was almost deserted when the policemen brought in Haldane. It was too early in the afternoon for the run of Saturday drunks, but the place reeked of their past presence. A flunky was swabbing the floor with a mop dipped in a disinfectant which overpowered the stench with a fouler odor. The only other civilian present was a lanky man in a trenchcoat, his feet propped up on the bench he sat on to avoid the swishing mop. He was intent on a pocket novel.
“Got one for you, Sergeant,” one of the arresting officers said to the booking officer who sat behind a desk.
“Name and gene des,” the booking sergeant asked, looking at Haldane with the cold, impersonal gaze the professional usually reserves for the proletarian.
Haldane, wearing his own mask, answered.
“What’s the charge, Frawley?” the sergeant asked the policeman.
“Miscegenation and impregnation, suspicion of. We took the frail to the medical O.D. uptown. Her report should be back from the office by midnight.”
“Put him in storage,” the sergeant said, “and make out the report.”
“Just a minute. Sergeant.” The lanky civilian unfolded from the bench and walked over to join them. “May I have a word with the prisoner?”
“Sure, Henrick,” the sergeant said, “he’s public property.”
Henrick, the civilian, took a note pad and the stub of a pencil out of his pocket. His movement revealed a tunic. Barely legible under beer or gravy stains, Haldane could read the designation of Communicator, class 4.
He was thin, florid-faced, red-haired, and freckled. His Adam’s apple protruded obnoxiously. A hint of spittle clustered in the corners of his thin lips, and the odor of whisky coming from his mouth made the odor of the disinfectant mild in comparison. If he had been a dog, the shape of his droopy blue eyes would have put him in the cocker spaniel breed. But he was not a dog; he was a newspaper reporter.
“My name’s Henrick. I work for the Observer .”
His announcement held a fatuous note, as if he were pleased with himself for being connected with the newspaper.
Haldane said, “So?”
“I heard your name and gene des. There was another M-5, Haldane, who died about the second or third of January this year. If I remember, he was III. That would make you his son, right?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad he’s dead. He might have helped you. Would you mind giving me the name and the gene des of the female?”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t want to work overtime. I want to get home. I can get it off the booking desk but it’ll be midnight before it’s down from uptown. If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to wait around. We don’t get many professionals through here. Very few on impregnation charges, so this is a big
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