Dark Benediction

“Go to Atlanta and work for Anthropos. I’ll take up where Delmont left off.”

“Terry!”

“Peony will need a husband. They may find all of Delmont’s males. I’ll make her one. Then we’ll see if a pair of chimp-Ks can do better than their makers.”

Wearily, he stretched out on the sofa.

“What about that priest? Suppose he tells about Peony. Suppose he guesses about Franklin and tells the police?”

“The police,” he said, “would then smell a motive. They’d figure it out and I’d be finished. We’ll wait and see. Let’s don’t talk; I’m tired. We’ll just wait for Miler to come in.”

She began rubbing his temples gently, and he smiled.

“So we wait,” she said. “Shall I read to you, Terry?”

“That would be pleasant,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

She slipped away, but returned quickly. He heard the rustle of dry pages and smelled musty leather. Then her voice came, speaking old words softly. And he thought of the small child-thing lying peacefully in her cage while angry men stalked about her. A small life with a mind; she came into the world as quietly as a thief, a burglar in the crowded house of Man.

“I will send my fear before thee, and I will destroy the peoples before whom thou shalt come, sending hornets to drive out the Hevite and the Canaanite and the Hethite before thou enterest the land. Little by little I will drive them out before thee, till thou be increased, and dost possess the land. Then shalt thou be to me a new people, and I to thee a God…”

And on the quiet afternoon in May, while he waited for the police to finish puzzling in the kennels, it seemed to Terrell Norris that an end to scheming and pushing and arrogance was not too far ahead. It should be a pretty good world then.

He hoped Man could fit into it somehow.

The Darfsteller

“Judas, Judas” was playing at the Universal on Fifth Street, and the cast was entirely human. Ryan Thornier had been saving up for, it for several weeks, and now he could afford the price of a matinee ticket. It had been a race for time between his piggy bank and the wallets of several “public-spirited” angels who kept the show alive, and the piggy bank had won. He could see the show before the wallets went flat and the show folded, as any such show was bound to do after a few limping weeks. A glow of anticipation suffused him. After watching the wretched mockery of dramaturgical art every day at the New Empire Theater where he worked as janitor, the chance to see real theater again would be like a breath of clean air.

He came to work an hour early on Wednesday morning and sped through his usual chores on overdrive. He finished his work before one o’clock, had a shower back-stage, changed to street clothes, and went nervously up-stairs to ask Imperio D’Uccia for the rest of the day off.

D’Uccia sat enthroned at a rickety desk before a wall plastered with photographs of lightly clad female stars of the old days. He heard the janitor’s petition with a faint, almost oriental smile of apparent sympathy, then drew himself up to his full height of sixty-five inches, leaned on the desk with chubby hands to study Thornier with beady eyes.

“Off? So you wanna da day off? Mmmph—” He shook his head as if mystified by such an incomprehensible request.

The gangling janitor shifted his feet uneasily. “Yes, sir. I’ve finished up, and Jigger’ll come over to stand by in case you need anything special.” He paused. D’Uccia was studying his nails, frowning gravely. “I haven’t asked for a day off in two years, Mr. D’Uccia,” he added, “and I was sure you wouldn’t mind after all the overtime I’ve—”

“Jigger,” D’Uccia grunted. “Whoosa t’is Jigger?”

“Works at the Paramount. It’s closed for repairs, and he doesn’t mind—”

The theater manager grunted abruptly and waved his hands. “I don’ pay no Jigger, I pay you. Whassa this all about? You swip the floor, you putsa things away, you all finish now, ah? You wanna day off. Thatsa whass wrong with the world, too mucha time loaf. Letsa machines work. More time to mek trouble.” The theater manager came out from behind his desk and waddled to the door. He thrust his fat neck outside and looked up and down the corridor, then waddled back to confront Thornier with a short fat finger aimed at the employee’s long and majestic nose.

“Whensa lass time you waxa the upstairs floor, hah?” Thornier’s jaw sagged forlornly. “Why, I—”

“Don’ta tell me no lie. Looka that hall. Sheeza feelth. Look! I want you to look.” He caught Thornier’s arm, tugged him to the doorway, pointed excitedly at the worn and ancient oak flooring. “Sheeza feelth ground in! See? When you wax, hah?”