Epilogue
at noon the next day, Rivas was sitting on the roof of his apartment, gripping the neck of his new pelican and skating the bow across the strings to produce various chords.
It was sounding better. At first he'd produced only squawks that had raised protesting howls from the dogs in the street below, but now he was getting his maimed hand to hold the bow properly . . . though he still didn't have the heart to try any strumming.
Gripping the instrument with his chin to free his right hand, he reached down, snagged his jug of beer, raised it– and then paused, baffled.
«What shall I take?» asked Barbara drily.
«Uh . . . the pelican.»
She stood up from the shaded wicker chair, reached out and took the instrument by the neck.
«Thanks,» he said. Free now to tip his head back, he took a long sip of the beer, which had stayed fairly cool in the shadow of his chair. He put the jug down and took the pelican back.
He took a deep breath and then sawed out the opening of Peter and the Wolf. Doesn't sound half bad, he thought.
«That's what you whistled, isn't it?» Barbara asked. «That night.»
«Sure is,» said Rivas. He could feel the sun-heated weight of the leaden pendant resting on his chest, and he remembered yesterday's dawn when, once Urania was safely tied up in the wagon's bunk, he'd made Barbara go out and pry the lead balancing weights off the wheel rims of a dozen of the ubiquitous old car shells; when she'd returned with a handful he had helped her heat them and watched critically as she had hammered them into a sheet to wrap the crystal in.
«Uri was quieter after we wrapped the crystal up,» said Barbara now. «Did the lead stop his . . . influence?»
Rivas shrugged. «Maybe. I mainly wanted to block out any radiation that might strengthen him.» He squinted at the sun. «Even warmth is something. I'll have to dunk him in cold water later.»
Barbara shuddered. «I wish you could ditch him.»
«You don't wish it any more than I do.» He supposed that whatever was left of the hemogoblin was in there too.
Barbara shifted in her chair. «You said the quality of food inside the city is going to be dropping pretty quickly,» she reminded him. «What time is it?»
Rivas grinned and lowered the instrument. «Not till we're actually besieged,» he told her. «In fact they're stripping the fields now and crowding cattle into the whole South Gate area, so for a couple of days, at least until the perishables perish, we'll be eating better than usual. But you're right, it is lunchtime.» He stood up—almost lithely!—and shut the pelican up in its case, slipped the bow under the strap he'd had made for it, and picked up the case by the handle.
«What, are you bringing that along?»
He started to put it down, then straightened again. He could feel his face reddening. «Well,» he said awkwardly, «you never know. They might ask me to play.»
After a moment she grinned, and if her eyes were a little brighter than usual, at least no tears brimmed over. «Oh, I suppose,» she said derisively. «And you'll have had so many beers by then that you won't be able to get a single note right.»
«And then I'll fall off the stage,» he agreed, «confirming everything they say about me.»
«Maybe we should sell tickets.»
They went down the stairs—Rivas vowing to himself that within a week he'd take the steps two at a time, and that tomorrow he'd stop this hobbling, both feet on one step before going on to the next routine—and then started walking toward Spink's.
She glanced at him. «You going to keep the beard?»
Rivas felt his furred chin. «As long as the siege lasts, I guess. Hot water and sharp blades won't be wasted on whiskers for a while.»
«No hardship for old Joe Montecruz,» observed Barbara.
Rivas laughed. «That's right. For a while the baldy-sports will be the only really aristocratic-looking citizens. I'm sure that'll be a consolation to Uri.»
«How long do you think the siege will last?»
«I don't know. The San Berdoo guys have to be banking on a quick victory, 'cause they sure couldn't have set up any useful supply lines in that roundabout route they took. Frankly, I think they're crazy.»
After several blocks they rounded the corner onto Woolshirt, and Spink's was visible ahead. Rivas peered at the place through the wavering mirages. «They've got a window broken,» he said. «No, two windows! Christ,» he said, trying to walk faster. «They can't be outside the walls already, can they? With a catapult?»
«I don't know,» said Barbara tensely, obviously restraining herself from running on ahead of him. «Can they?»
«No, no,» Rivas said, more calmly, «we'd have heard the bells. When the San Berdoo army is sighted, every bell in the city is going to be rung like crazy. No, there must just have been a fight.»
When they got to the restaurant they saw that a long board had been nailed across the doorway. A man Rivas had never seen before leaned against the wall and shook his head at them. «Sorry, folks,» he said. «Closed for repairs.»
«I w—» Rivas began. «I used to work here.»
«Sorry. Big mess inside.»
«Oh hell,» said Rivas, stepping forward and putting his hands on the board. Someone inside was sweeping with slow strokes. «Mojo! Hey, Mojo, it's Greg. Tell this guy to let us in.»
The sweeping stopped, and in a few moments Mojo appeared in the doorway. «Hi, Greg. Sure, Tony, they can come in. What do you think of this, eh, Greg?»
Rivas and Barbara ducked under the board and peered around the dim room. Chairs were overturned and broken, glass shards crunched underfoot, and on the floor by the stage there was a tangle of strings and wood strips that Rivas eventually recognized as having once been a pelican.
«What the hell happened ?» he asked.
«Some ladies objected to the music,» said Mojo.
Rivas and Barbara exchanged a frightened look. «What do you mean?» Rivas asked quickly.
«Well, they were—but wait, you used to live in Venice, Greg, maybe you've seen 'em. A guy said they've had 'em in Venice for years. They just arrived here this morning, and by bad luck musta just made it inside before the gates were closed to general traffic. They're all crazy and dirty and wild-eyed, marching like they got God's own orders to carry out, and they purely kick the living crap out of whoever they please. That new pelicanist lost some teeth.»
«Pocalocas,» said Rivas.
«Yeah!» exclaimed Mojo. «That's what this guy said they were called. He said they hate music.»
«They sure do. How did they look? The trip from Venice seem to have worn them down at all?» Suddenly Rivas looked much frailer.
«Oh sure, they were all dusty, hair like greasy old yarn, but God, they got energy! One of them was real thin-faced and sick-looking, but she busted Jeff's pelican with her bare hands, smiling all the while like a big mean cat.»
Rivas touched his leaden pendant. «Which way did they go from here?»
«North. Matter of fact, Greg, they were headed your way. How'd you come here?»
«Straight down Flower and then west on Woolshirt.»
«Oh, well, you must have passed 'em, two blocks west of 'em. They went up Grand. Man, I hope never to see nothing like that again. But say, you don't think they're here now, do you, like them big ants that just appeared half a dozen summers ago and now can't be got rid of?»
Rivas looked out through the broken window at the street. A dog was asleep under an awning across the way, and a couple of children clattered past on low wooden tricycles, raising a cloud of dust that hung nearly motionless in the air.
«No,» Rivas grated wearily, almost in a whisper. «No . . . I imagine they'll be . . . moving on.» He looked around the room, as if to fix it in his memory. «How late can first-class citizens leave the city, Mojo?»