Brutally Haggard, Part 4

Burl and Duke’s Attempt at Thwartage

I wish I was a hairier man.” Burl examined the backs of his hands as he opened a bottle of beer.
“Lord, I wish I was less hairy.” Duke pulled up the front of his t-shirt exposing the bear-like abdomen that had repelled women for years.
Burl nodded curtly, caught off-guard at the sight. He changed the channel on the TV with what he still referred to as the “clicker.” The TV had been mysteriously left on some aberrant channel that featured shows like “Homes of the Poets” and “Jazz Interlude with Sal Mort.”
“Speaking of which,” mused Duke as he picked up his beer. “I’m going to start growing that beard.”
“You are?” Burl looked at his friend as the latter fingered the already thick growth on his face. He tossed the clicker onto the low table, having established that “Robot Rapists” would be their entertainment for the next twenty minutes.
Duke’s talk of a beard was frustrating for Burl. He had been thinking of growing one also, now that the semester was coming to an end. Despite his complaint about not being hairy, he could at least grow a beard. However, if they both grew one, wouldn’t it look odd?
Still, Burl thought, if he started growing his now it wouldn’t be as bad as if he waited until Duke’s was far along. People would think he was copying Duke.
“I was thinking of growing one, too.” Burl announced with his eyes on the TV screen, where two robots made by teams of college students from other worlds, inaccessible to the people of Shedge, grappled in an arena, each attempting to rape the other with its mechanical penis.
“You?” Duke questioned.
“I can grow one.” Burl stated.
Duke considered.
“I bet your beard won’t be as good as mine.” He said eagerly.
Only a minute later Klaster entered the apartment.
“Hey, Klaster, you want in on our contest? We’re growing beards.” Duke shouted after the third roommate, who was pouring himself one of his infrequent glasses of wine.

Tracy Governor’s Tunnel

For technical reasons, explained to Tracy Governor by a Hurrer engineer in her employ, it would be more effective for the tunnel she wished dug to originate inside an old, established building.
“Whatever you say.” Governor had agreed, eager for digging to begin. She wanted nothing to do with the actual work, and certainly not with the risks of getting caught. She paid out a enormous sum of money to the Hurrer and continued with her usual routine, receiving regular reports as to how matters were proceeding.
Considering it best not to inform Governor of every little detail, the Hurrer engineer, Pheldon Jocklaw, did not tell her that the building he had chosen was the headquarters of Bolsis Broadcasting. Other than keeping Governor ignorant out of security concerns, not telling her served to keep her from objecting to the plan. The broadcasting building was, for the purpose, ideally suited. It was old, had a large unexplored basement, and centrally located, which last reason would enable Jocklaw’s employer to make her transit easily when the time came. Indeed, all she would have to do was come to work as usual.
Jocklaw hired two Hurrer ex-troopers, down on their luck since their dismissal from the service, and somewhat disillusioned with the reign of the “Great One,” Paraftylloben.
“I mean, what is he anyway: a big, wooden box.” Complained Matt, one of the two hirelings, as he shoveled out more dirt.
“He could be half the size he is if he’s replace his parts with metal ones.” Added Vance, waiting his turn at the hole.
“Wonder why he doesn’t do that?” Grunted Matt.
“I’ll tell you why. They say he’s sentimental; thinks he’ll be less ‘alive’ if he loses touch with the organic wood.”
“Loses touch? But he is wood.” Matt dumped his shovel into the wheelbarrow.
“How are you two coming along?” Jocklaw appeared behind the two.
“Lord, you scared me!” Matt rested on his shovel.
“Hey, you’ve gotten a lot done!” Declared Jocklaw approvingly. “What are you doing with the dirt you take out?”

Mrs. Cross and John Discuss Events

“They say Groaf is dating Mavez Abuelia.” Mrs. Cross said to John. The two friends sat on her sofa and drank hot tea.
“‘Dating!’ Mm, now there’s a euphemism for you!” John, disoriented by some medication he was taking, was a trifle more conservative than usual, a smidgen more emphatic.
“Well, seeing each other, then.” Mrs. Cross reiterated.
“I bet.” Said John, taking a lemon cookie off the platter. “I bet they’re seeing a lot of each other.”
“Do you disapprove of Mr. Groaf being romantically involved with Mavez Abuelia, John?”
“John crunched his cookie.
“No.” He said. “I don’t care what they do. I don’t know either of those people. It’s just that I hate… well two things: I hate these euphemisms. ‘Dating’ for having sexual encounters. And the second thing: I hate the media interest in celebrity sexual encounters. Now, he’s the Director General, and that’s a little different. We need to know about his carryings on, but… oh, I just don’t care!” John exhaled deeply. Why was he getting so worked up? He realized he needed to calm down.
“When do you think it was,” Mrs. Cross shifted the talk somewhat. “That a date came to mean something that necessarily entailed a sexual encounter?”
“When chaperons went out of style.” John said. “I don’t know.” He said after he had thought for a moment. He then shifted the talk altogether. “You know what I realized: you haven’t been to my apartment but once. And that was all too brief. Why don’t we go over to my place.”
“Right now?” Mrs. Cross had a cookie in her mouth.
“Yeah. Sure, why not?”
“Do we bring the tea?”
“Nah. Tell you what:” John blanked out, forgot what he was going to suggest.
“What?
“Nothing.” He sighed. “If you don’t want to…”
“No, I’d love to walk to your apartment. Let me just knock on Schutser’s door, and tell him we’re going out.”

Schutser Makes a Friend

“I’m going out too.” Schutser met Mrs. Cross at the door to his room. John had a quick spasm, fearing that Daisy (Mrs. Cross) would invite the strange young man to come along, but Schutser made it clear that he was going to go to the store to buy pens and paper and other supplies and then come straight back. The three of them left the apartment together, but Mrs. Cross and John turned left, while Schutser turned right.
Above ground, in the light of the sun, Schutser involuntarily felt the thrill of independence and movement. He felt like a ghost observing the world about him, as if he had no connection to it. At the end of the sidewalk, where he should cross the street if he was headed for the store, he instead turned left, suddenly intent upon visiting the library.
Inside the library he roamed around, interested in everything, but not really interested in checking anything out. He wandered into the periodicals section where a woman about his age was sitting reading some highbrow magazine like Brain Analysis Review or Domestic Policy Week. Schutser could not be sure after the fact. The magazine’s specific title wasn’t important; it was the fact that the woman wasn’t stupid. What compelled him to say “Hi” is easy enough to puzzle out. She wasn’t ugly and she wasn’t stupid. But what enabled him to break through his normal reserve and say “Hi” is well night incomprehensible to those who have never smoked marijuana, which experience was akin to the way he felt walking through the library, seeing the young woman, and saying “Hi.”
“Hi.” Said Schutser, as I believe we have already documented.
And “Hi” she said back, smiling along with the return of greeting. Encouraged, Schutser actually began a conversation with this stranger during which he did not once mention that he was writing a book. Schutser felt so proud of himself for his work as a writer that to mention it, he felt, would be bragging. It did not occur to him that some people (like this woman, whose name was Rita) would not think so, or that some people would not find what he bragged of to be all that important (unlike Rita). Schutser obtained the young woman’s address before moving off to complete his day’s errand.

Excerpt #1 From “Mealy Mouthed”

Egg salad sandwiches were served at the reception, piled high on a platter with a tankard of hot coffee close by. Rectanglo, mingling freely with the participants, took up two of the sandwiches and allowed some brown-noser to pour him a cup of coffee.
“Thank you.” Rectanglo said, taking the cup.
“You’re welcome, Excellency.” The brown-noser replied, smiling with a painfully wide mouth. It is to be supposed that this man hoped to make further comments to Rectanglo, almost certainly flattering him as he did, but Rectanglo immediately moved away, introducing himself into a tight group that included a couple of bright women.
“Your Excellency,” one of the men in the group noted Rectanglo.
“Carry on,” Said the leader of beasts and men and mechanized trees. He sipped his coffee and bit his sandwich.
“Well,” chuckled the man, “We were talking about organisms.”
“Mmm!” Rectanglo vocalized forcefully. He was merely acknowledging his understanding of the topic, not groaning in pleasure over what he was chewing.
“And I was saying,” interjected one of the bright women, “How I feel that the whole world is one great organism.”
“A living one.” Rectanglo stated.
“Yes.” Said the woman.
“But is it sentient: that’s what I’m debating.” Said the first man, whose name, it would soon be revealed, was Harold.
“You’re not debating it, Harold; you’re disputing it.” Replied the woman, whose name, although never give in the official chronicles of this reception, was Candy.
“If it was sentient, then it could direct, at least partially, its actions.” Harold smiled. He didn’t care one way or another.
“Not necessarily.” Said Rectanglo. “It could be like a head in a box, alienated and in great pain, conscious, really, only of that alienation and that pain.” No one said anything in response and Rectanglo, gazing vacantly downward, wandered away to another group.

Hangurin Confronts Goosen

“Not like a grocer putting out stock;” directed Phillipe Goosen. “Put them down quickly, but deliberately, and at random, as your hand finds them.” He was talking to Eileen Quarry, an actress on the stage before him. As he finished speaking, Goosen looked down at an open notebook held out to him by a curly-haired man in glasses beside him. He gave some inaudible instructions to this man and turned back to the stage. What met his eyes was the sight of Bunt Hangurin emerging through a gap in the curtains at the rear of the stage. Before he could say anything of an admonitory nature, Hangurin had stormed forward and stepped like a giant walking machine off the front of the stage. He marched directly before Goosen, looming over him like a boom.
“Did you poison me, you charlatan?” Hangurin growled.
“Charlatan!” The curly-haired man repeated in outrage.
“Stay out of this.” Hangurin said evenly, spacing out his words. He took a sideways step towards the man and pushed him away with all the irresistibility of a hydraulic press.
The actress on stage, stopped in the middle of the act of setting out small bronze statuettes, each one meant to represent one of the major characters in the play, on a mantelpiece, stared at the confrontation out in the auditorium.
“What’s going on?” Whispered someone backstage.
“I don’t know.” Said the actress.
“I don’t know anything about your being poisoned. I don’t even know you.” Goosen protested.
“Oh yes you do. You’re in direct competition with me for the municipal contract to build the new school of drama theater.” Hangurin laid it out as an accusation.
“Well, of course, I know who you are. But I don’t know you. There’s a distinction.”
“There’s a distinction, alright.”
“You must no interrupt me in the middle of my work.” Said Goosen, who, as he considered his life and work all one thing, meant he should never be interrupted.

Hangurin Confronts Dubotic

“What’s that?” Enduma Schooner asked as the old fashioned doorbell sounded.
“It’s the doorbell.” Dud Dubotic said puzzled as he rose from his chair.
“It didn’t sound like any doorbell I ever heard.” Enduma cocked her head, hoping to hear it again.
“I’m not expecting anybody.” Dubotic said with a touch of concern in his voice as he approached the window that looked into the front yard. He knew quite well from past experience that he almost never could see a caller from this window, but he tried again any way.
“It sounded more like the bell on an ice cream truck. I bet you remember the days of the ice cream truck.” She said the Dubotic, who now stood at the door.
“Mmm.” Dubotic smiled briefly. His hand was on the door as the caller summoned him again by way of the manually operated bell.
“There it is again!” Enduma cried.
Dubotic opened the door on Bunt Hangurin.
“Hangurin.” Dubotic said.
“Dud.” The big man answered. “I hear you’ve got Enduma Schooner in there. I heard her voice through the door.”
“What’s that to you?” Dubotic asked aggressively.
“Now I know who poisoned me.” Hangurin said.
“What do you want, Hangurin?”
“Just to let you know I’m going to get you, for poisoning me and FOR STEALING MY TRADE!” He called out this last bit so Enduma would be certain to hear.
“Is that Bunt Hangurin?” Enduma asked.
Dubotic sighed.
“Yes. He said.
“I bet he’s drunk.” Said Enduma. “He usually is.”
“Your friend here tried to kill me!” Hangurin shouted.
“Get out of here, Hangurin, before I call the police.” Dubotic threatened.
“You’ve been warned, Dud.” Hangurin jabbed the air with his forefinger.

An Interview with Lady Revich

“They say you can look into the void of unknown time and space.” Bedlans Primo initiated the meeting with this time honored statement. He and his wife Nances sat across from the Margravine Revich in the ground level reception room where the lady met such people. Primo had pulled several strings he was not in the habit of touching to get this meeting arranged. Only the large amount of abuse he had suffered from his wife had persuaded him to do so; for himself, he did not care to consult the Hurrer seer. He was not concerned with the answers to the questions that burned in Nances’ mind.
Normally Lady Revich would answer vaguely to this introductory salvo, but today she agreed immediately. She wanted these grubby commoners gone as soon as possible.
“Do we pay you now?” Nances asked, much to both Primo and Lady Revich’s chagrin. Primo displayed his embarrassment openly, however, whereas the Margravine merely closed her eyes and began the ceremony of hieromancy.
Primo silently admonished his wife with blazing eyes and a quivering clenched fist. She fidgeted, wanting the payment issue made clear up front, but ultimately acceded to her husband’s will.
Lady Revich arranged the bronze lumps on the table beside her. Red and black lines were inlaid on its surface forming a strange asymmetrical pattern,
“What is your question?” She asked, her eyes still closed. She was rushing the whole thing. The price agreed upon was more than her usual fee; that was the only reason she was going through with it.
“There is a man named Turk Mundig…” Primo began. Nances interrupted him so desperate was she to know.
“We want to know what makes him so special.” She said, casting the question in such a way as to not give away too much. If the Margravine was for real, all extraneous details would not be necessary.
Opening her eyes, Lady Revich looked at the table and immediately rattled off the entire story of Mundig and his involvement with the forward operations of the invasion. Stunned, Primo handed over the money.
“We need a receipt.” Said Nances.

A Third Tunnel by Geoffrey Porter

Buitt, a human in coveralls brandishing an electric torch, was on his hands and knees, his bottom protruding from a crawlspace at the back of Geoffrey Porter’s spacious and clothes-filled closet.
“Yeah, it can be done.” Buitt called out.
“What’s that, man?” Porter asked.
Buitt backed out of the hole and got to his feet, saying,
“I said it can be done.”
“Good.” Said Porter. “Now, how soon can you get started?”
Buitt flipped through the pages of a small notebook.
“I can have a man here, tomorrow. Tomorrow morning bright and…”
“Oh, no.” Porter interrupted. “I thought you personally were going to do the work.”
“I don’t do this kind of thing anymore.” Said Buitt. “I’m too old to be schlepping tons of dirt out and digging all day.”
“But you see I wasn’t this project kept as secret as possible. The more people that know, the worse for me.”
“Mr. Porter, rest easy. The man I’ll send over has worked for me for five years. If I tell him not to say anything about it, he won’t. I promise.”
Geoffrey Porter reluctantly agreed to the arrangement. He signed a work order Buitt filled out and began to wait impatiently for the next day.
Buitt returned to his vehicle and drove back to his place of business. When he got there he found his grown daughter Vickie waiting for him in the yellow chair outside his office.
“Vickie. What are you doing here?” He asked.
“Dad, I’ve got to talk to you.” The young woman stood up.
“Come one in.” Buitt opened the door for her. He turned to this receptionist before following Vickie into the office. “Tonya, call Nils Sterel and tell him to come in. I’ve got a job for him starting tomorrow morning.”
Vickie was staring at the abstract expressionist painting on the wall behind her father’s desk. It was by an unknown painter. It was signed “Todd” in the lower right-hand corner, but no one seemed to know who that had been.

Kiplough Meets Hangurin

Kiplough met Hangurin at the library. He had been surreptitiously watching Schutser talk to Rita. He had seen Schutser once or twice in the hallway: two furtive creatures in the jungle, avoiding each other. Ultimately bored by the scene, Kiplough had moved an aisle over and reached for the same book Hangurin was reaching for.
“Go ahead.” Offered Hangurin.
Kiplough hesitated. He pulled out the book.
“Thanks.” He said.
“Sure. You interested in Neutra?” Hangurin nodded at the book.
“He’s my favorite architect.” Kiplough answered.
“Really? Most people who like Neutra would say their favorite architect was Lloyd Wright or Chester Pollux or… Bunt Hangurin.”
“Ha! You can’t trap me. You’re Bunt Hangurin!” Kiplough pointed at the other man.
Hangurin smiled.
“Yeah.” He acknowledged.
“Did you want the book?” Kiplough offered it back.
“No, I was just bored and thought I’d stop in and thumb through some of my old favorites.”
“Aren’t you designing the Ladies’ Mystic Camp temple?” Kiplough asked, only to find he had touched a sore point.
“No. The project has been taken away from me.” Hangurin’s face darkened.
“I’m sorry. I saw a profile on you in Nose of Nose’s End. I had always admired the Pump Annex, but I never knew who designed it until I read that article.”
“I didn’t like the illustration.” Said Hangurin. “They used an old photo of me.”
Kiplough said nothing. There was nothing really that he could say.
They parted after exchanging of few more words, Kiplough offering his name and an edited summation of his place in the scheme of things. He carried the book away with him, but once out of sight of Hangurin, shoved it at random onto another shelf.