Players at the Game of People by John Brunner Read Free Book Online Page B

brought her a mug of coffee and a platter

of scrambled eggs dotted with the sharp green of fresh-cut chives. She took

the former and looked at the latter with regret.

"I never eat breakfast," she said defiantly.

"Tomorrow you can do what you like. For the rest of your life you can do

what you like, same as me. Today you do as you're told. It will be the

last time."

Uncertainly she set aside the empty glass and let him put a fork into

her hand. But she made no attempt to start eating.

"I don't understand. What do you mean, I can do what I like?"

"What did you think you were going to do when you ran away from school?

End up as a drunken floozie sucking off impotent Arabs?"

"You're disgusting!"

"Not half as disgusting as you were when you vomited all over yourself

last night."

She said flatly, "Now I know I am still getting flashes. I remember that.

But either that isn't true or this isn't. I remember the horrible dark

street. I remember the way my feet squelched in muck when I got out of

the taxi. I remember the stink. It can't have been when I was coming here.

Unless you took me somewhere while I was asleep."

"You're here, where I brought you. Eat those eggs before they get cold."

Mechanically she began to ply her fork. The first mouthful reminded her of

the existence of appetite, and she cleared the plate. Her face, though,

remained set in an unhappy frown, and between bites she cast cautious

glances at the sunny view from the window, as though challenging the

scene to go away.

She said finally, "It must cost millions. So why here?"

"Because I want it, and it doesn't." He took away the empty plate.

"Get up, go pee and shit and take a shower, and get dressed."

"What do I put on?" she snapped back. "You ruined the only clothes I had

with me!"

"Look in that wardrobe," he said, gesturing. "Plenty there to fit you.

But hurry up."

Very reluctantly, gathering the bed sheet for covering, she complied.

But instead of heading for the toilet, she could not resist the temptation

to walk to the window and stare out, raising one hand to shield her eyes

against the brilliant sunshine.

"You don't like it?"

"It's beautiful! I just don't understand . . ." Her voice trailed away.

"You wouldn't like to live somewhere like this?"

"What a hope!" She gave a harsh laugh and turned her back to the window.

"Is that what you thought you were heading for when you ran away?

I'm still waiting for an answer from the last time I asked."

"Oh, God . . . I didn't know what I wanted. I still don't know what I want.

What the hell difference does it make? Nobody ever gets what he wants.

She wants. Whatever the hell." Dispirited, she cast the sheet aside and

stepped into the glass compartment.

"Stop staring at me, you bloody voyeur," she added as she turned to sit

down on the toilet "Much more of this and I'll be sorry I didn't stick

with the Arabs."

"Much more of this and you'll have to. I'm still waiting for my answer!"

She disregarded him. There was a mirror so sited that by twisting around

she could catch sight of her reflection. Raising her fingers to run them

comb-fashion through her tousled hair, she said more to herself than to

him, "Oh, God, I do look a mess. How the hell am I going to explain when

I get home?"

"If it's true your mother was a call girl, you won't have any trouble

explaining."

She jerked her head around to glare at him, flushing.

"Where she lives isn't my home! I mean the place I'm living now.

Where all my things are."

"There are always more things."

"It may be all right for you, but some of us have to bloody earn them!"

"Some of us don't. You could be one of them. No need for you to go crawling

back to some foul-mouthed pimp and beg forgiveness for having run out on

the rich client he stuck you with last night."

Godwin carefully refrained from hinting or even implying what was

fundamentally obvious: that the taint of masochism already infected the

core of her being. It was