John Varley - Blue Champagne

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Blue Champagne

John Varley

Blue Champagne

This book is dedicated to Ricia, who did everything but write it.

Contents

The Pusher

Blue Champagne

Tango Charlie and Foxtrot Romeo

Options

Lollipop and the Tar Baby

The Manhattan Phone Book (Abridged)

The Unprocessed Word

Press Enter

The Pusher

Things change. Ian Haise expected that. Yet there are certain constants, dictated by function and use.

Ian looked for those and he seldom went wrong.

The playground was not much like the ones he had known as a child. But playgrounds are built to

entertain children. They will always have something to swing on, something to slide down,

something to climb. This one had all those things, and more. Part of it was thickly wooded. There

was a swimming hole. The stationary apparatus was combined with dazzling light sculptures that

darted in and out of reality. There were animals too: pygmy rhinoceros and elegant gazelles no taller

than your knee. They seemed unnaturally gentle and unafraid.

But most of all, the playground had children.

Ian liked children.

He sat on a wooden park bench at the edge of the trees, in the shadows, and watched them. They

came in all colors and all sizes, in both sexes. There were black ones like animated licorice

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Blue Champagne

jellybeans and white ones like bunny rabbits, and brown ones with curly hair and more brown ones

with slanted eyes and straight black hair and some who had been white but were now toasted

browner than some of the brown ones.

Ian concentrated on the girls. He had tried with boys before, long ago, but it had not worked out.

He watched one black child for a time, trying to estimate her age. He thought it was around eight or

nine. Too young. Another one was more like thirteen, judging from her shirt. A possibility, but he'd

prefer something younger. Somebody less sophisticated, less suspicious.

Finally he found a girl he liked. She was brown, but with startling blond hair. Ten? Possibly eleven.

Young enough, at any rate.

He concentrated on her and did the strange thing he did when he had selected the right one. He didn't

know what it was, but it usually worked. Mostly it was just a matter of looking at her, keeping his

eyes fixed on her no matter where she went or what she did, not allowing himself to be distracted by

anything. And sure enough, in a few minutes she looked up, looked around, and her eyes locked with

his. She held his gaze for a moment, then went back to her play.

He relaxed. Possibly what he did was nothing at all. He had noticed, with adult women, that if one

really caught his eye so he found himself staring at her, she would usually look up from what she

was doing and catch him. It never seemed to fail. Talking to other men, he had found it to be a

common experience. It was almost as if they could feel his gaze. Women had told him it was

nonsense, or if not, it was just reaction to things seen peripherally by people trained to alertness for

sexual signals. Merely an unconscious observation penetrating to the awareness; nothing mysterious,

like ESP.

Perhaps. Still, Ian was very good at this sort of eye contact. Several times he had noticed the girls

rubbing the backs of their necks while he observed them, or hunching their shoulders. Maybe they'd

developed some kind of ESP and just didn't recognize it as such.

Now he merely watched her. He was smiling, so that every time she looked up to see him—which

she did with increasing frequency—she saw a friendly, slightly graying man with a broken nose and

powerful shoulders. His hands were strong too. He kept them clasped in his lap.

Presently she began to wander in his direction.

No one watching her would have thought she was coming toward him. She probably didn't know it

herself. On her way, she found reasons to stop and tumble, jump on the soft rubber mats, or chase a

flock of noisy geese. But she was coming toward him, and she would end up on the park bench

beside him.

He glanced around quickly. As before, there were few adults in this playground. It had surprised him

when he arrived. Apparently the new conditioning techniques had reduced the numbers of the

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Blue Champagne

violent and twisted to the point that parents felt it safe to allow their children to run without

supervision. The adults present were involved with each other. No one had given him a second

glance when he arrived.

That was fine with Ian. It made what he planned to do much easier. He had his excuses ready, of

course, but it could be embarrassing to be confronted with the questions representatives of the law

ask single, middle-aged men who hang around playgrounds.

For a moment he considered, with real concern, how the parents of these children could feel so

confident, even with mental conditioning. After all, no one was conditioned until he had first done

something. New maniacs were presumably being produced every day. Typically, they looked just

like everyone else until they proved their difference by some demented act.

Somebody ought to give those parents a stern lecture, he thought.

"Who are you?"

Ian frowned. Not eleven, surely, not seen up this close. Maybe not even ten. She might be as young

as eight.

Would eight be all right? He tasted the idea with his usual caution, looked around again for curious

eyes. He saw none.

"My name is Ian. What's yours?"

"No. Not your name. Who are you?"

"You mean what do I do?"

"Yes."

"I'm a pusher."

She thought that over, then smiled. She had her permanent teeth, crowded into a small jaw.

"You give away pills?"

He laughed. "Very good," he said. "You must do a lot of reading."

She said nothing, but her manner indicated she was pleased.

"No," he said. "That's an old kind of pusher. I'm the other kind. But you knew that, didn't you?"

When he smiled, she broke into giggles. She was doing the pointless things with her hands that little

girls do. He thought she had a pretty good idea of how cute she was, but no inkling of her forbidden

eroticism. She was a ripe seed with sexuality ready to burst to the surface. Her body was a bony

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Blue Champagne

sketch, a framework on which to build a woman.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"That's a secret. What happened to your nose?"

"I broke it a long time ago. I'll bet you're twelve."

She giggled, then nodded. Eleven, then. And just barely.

"Do you want some candy?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pink-and-white-striped

paper bag.

She shook her head solemnly. "My mother says not to take candy from strangers."

"But we're not strangers. I'm Ian, the pusher."

She thought that over. While she hesitated, he reached into the bag and picked out a chocolate thing

so thick and gooey it was almost obscene. He bit into it, forcing himself to chew. He hated sweets.

"Okay," she said, and reached toward the bag. He pulled it away. She looked at him in innocent

surprise.

"I just thought of something," he said. "I don't know your name. So I guess we are strangers."

She caught on to the game when she saw the twinkle in his eye. He'd practiced that. It was a good

twinkle.

"My name is Radiant. Radiant Shiningstar Smith."

"A very fancy name," he said, thinking how names had changed. "For a very pretty girl." He paused,

and cocked his head. "No. I don't think so. You're Radiant... Starr. With two r's.... Captain Radiant

Starr, of the Star Patrol."

She was dubious for a moment. He wondered if he'd judged her wrong. Perhaps she was really Miz

Radiant Fainting heart Belle, or Mrs. Radiant Motherhood. But her fingernails were a bit dirty for

that.

She pointed a finger at him and made a Donald Duck sound as her thumb worked back and forth. He

put his hand to his heart and fell over sideways, and she dissolved in laughter. She was careful,

however, to keep her weapon firmly trained on him.

"And you'd better give me that candy or I'll shoot you again."

The playground was darker now, and not so crowded. She sat beside him on the bench, swinging her

legs. Her bare feet did not quite touch the dirt.

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Blue Champagne

She was going to be quite beautiful. He could see it clearly in her face. As for the body... who could

tell?

Not that he really gave a damn.

She was dressed in a little of this and a little of that, worn here and there without much regard for his

concepts of modesty. Many of the children wore nothing. It had been something of a shock when he

arrived. Now he was almost used to it, but he still thought it incautious on the part of her parents.

Did they really think the world was that safe, to let an eleven-year-old girl go practically naked in a

public place?

He sat there listening to her prattle about her friends—the ones she hated and the one or two she

simply adored—with only part of his attention.

He inserted um's and uh-huh's in the right places.

She was cute, there was no denying it. She seemed as sweet as a child that age ever gets, which can

be very sweet and as poisonous as a rattlesnake, almost at the same moment. She had the capacity to

be warm, but it was on the surface. Underneath, she cared mostly about herself. Her loyalty would

be a transitory thing, bestowed easily, just as easily forgotten.

And why not? She was young. It was perfectly healthy for her to be that way.

But did he dare try to touch her?

It was crazy. It was as insane as they all told him it was. It worked so seldom. Why would it work

with her? He felt a weight of defeat.

"Are you okay?"

"Huh? Me? Oh, sure, I'm all right. Isn't your mother going to be worried about you?"

"I don't have to be in for hours, and hours yet." For a moment she looked so grown-up he almost

believed the lie.

"Well, I'm getting tired of sitting here. And the candy's all gone." He looked at her face. Most of the

chocolate had ended up in a big circle around her mouth, except where she had wiped it daintily on

her shoulder or forearm. "What's back there?"

She turned.

"That? That's the swimming hole."

"Why don't we go over there? I'll tell you a story."

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BlueChampagneJohnVarleyBlueChampagneThisbookisdedicatedtoRicia,whodideverythingbutwriteit.ContentsThePusherBlueChampagneTangoCharlieandFoxtrotRomeoOptionsLollipopandtheTarBabyTheManhattanPhoneBook(Abridged)TheUnprocessedWordPressEnterThePusherThingschange.IanHaiseexpectedthat.Yettherearecertainconst...

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John Varley - Blue Champagne

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