The Best of Michael Swanwick by Michael Swanwick Read Free Book Online Page A

should I spout their lies for them? It’s just bread and circuses is all, just a goddamned release for the masses.”
    Maggie howled with delight. “Whee-ew, man! I’m gettin’ horny just looking at you. Yeah, baby, get it on, that’s right!” She was strutting up and down the stage, a creature of boundless energy, while the band filled the night with music, fast and urgent.
    “Love it!” She stuck her tongue out at the audience and received howls of approval. She lifted her Southern Comfort bottle, took a gigantic swig, her hips bouncing to music. More howls. She caressed the neck of the bottle with her tongue.
    “Yeah! Makes me horny as sin, ’deed it does. Ya know,” she paused a beat, then continued, “that’s something I can really understand man. ’Cause I’m just a horny little hippie chick myself. Yeah.” Wolf suddenly realized that she was competing against the audience itself for its attention, that she was going to try to outdo everybody present.
    Maggie stroked her hand down the front of her dress, lingering between her breasts, then between her legs. She shook her hair back from her eyes, the personification of animal lust. “Imean, shit. I mean, hippie chicks don’t even wear no underwear.” More ribald howls of applause. “Don’t believe me, do ya?”
    Wolf stared, was unable to look away as Maggie slowly spread her legs wide and squatted, giving the audience a good look up her skirt. Her frog face leered, and it was an ugly, lustful thing. She lowered a hand to the stage behind her for support, and beckoned. “Come to momma,” she crooned.
    It was like knocking the chocks out from a dam. There was an instant of absolute stillness, and then the crowd roared and surged forward. An ocean of humanity converged on the stage, smashing through the police lines, climbing up on the wooden platform. Wolf had a brief glimpse of Maggie trying to struggle to her feet, before she was overrun. There was a dazed, disbelieving expression on her face.
    “Mother of Sin,” Wolf whispered. He stared at the mindless, evil mob below. They were in furious motion, straining, forcing each other in great swirling eddies. He waited for the stage to collapse, but it did not. The audience kept climbing atop it, pushing one another off its edge, and it did not collapse. It would havebeen a mercy if it had.
    A hand waved above the crowd, clutching something that sparkled. Wolf could not make it out at first. Then another hand waved a glittering rag, and then another, and he realized that these were shreds of Maggie’s dress.
    Wolf wrapped his arms around a support to keep from falling into the horror below. The howling of the crowd was a single chaotic noise; he squeezed his eyes shut, vainly trying to fend it off. “Right on cue,” Hawk muttered. “Right on goddamned cue.” He cut off all the lights, and placed a hand on Wolf’s shoulder.
    “Come on. Our job is done here.”
    Wolf twisted to face Hawk. The act of opening his eyes brought on a wave of vertigo, and he slumped to the platform floor, still clutching the support desperately. He wanted to vomit, and couldn’t. “It’s—they—Hawk, did you see it? Did you see what they did? Why didn’t someone—?” He choked on his words.
    “Don’t ask me,” Hawk said bitterly. “I just play the part of Judas Iscariot in this little drama.” He tugged at Wolf’s shoulders. “Let’s go, pilgrim. We’ve got to go down now.” Wolf slowly weaned himself of the support, allowed himself to be coaxed down from the tower.
    There were men in black uniforms at the foot of the tower. One of them addressed Hawk. “Is this the African national?” Then, to Wolf: “Please come with us, sir. We have orders to see you safely to your hostel.”
    Tears flooded Wolf’s eyes, and he could not see the crowd, the Commons, the men before him. He allowed himself to be led away, as helpless and as trusting as a small child.
    ***
    In the morning, Wolf lay in bed staring