The Man Who Never Missed by Steve Perry

Author:Steve Perry [Perry, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 2012-02-05T18:19:45+00:00

Chapter Twelve

THE COMFORTABLE RHYTHM of work, exercise and Juete remained the same, on the surface. The work was becoming easier, almost dull. Now and again, there would be something he had to look up, but mostly, he was able to do in two minutes what would have taken ten a few months earlier. The sumito exercises felt solid, he practiced them daily and his control increased slowly and steadily. And Juete was as good as ever. She was discreet; Khadaji never knew for certain when she had lovers. He was sure she did meet other men and maybe women, when they were not together. She spent most of her off-time with him, but not all of it. He wanted to ask, but he never did. He could stand it, if he didn’t have to know. When he thought about it, he was honest enough to know his imagination had to be painting a much worse picture than the truth. But he could stand it.

The days and weeks slipped by in a monochromatic routine which became his security. The highs were few, but then, so were the lows. Work. Exercise. Juete. There was no major factor against which he could complain, nothing was really wrong, there were no sharp points of discontent jabbing at him. He lived day to day, in a kind of fuzzy disquiet.

Eventually, it was a customer who brought things to a focal point for Khadaji, an old woman lost in the depths of expensive wine. She spoke to Khadaji because he was there; he thought she would have said as much to the wall, had he not been.

“—nine’y-seven, boy, that’s how old. I might have—wha?—another twenny-five years lef? Tha’ be all righ’, I had the body I did when I was for-forty! But like this? Why should I bother? I could’uh been so much more, y’know? I had chances, I could—could—have gone to Earth, been the mis’ress of a rich bi’ch. I could’uh been powerful, rich, somebody! Bu’ I pissed it away, I din wanna take the chance. I thought I’d have time, plen’y of time, I was young, I was forty! An’ now I’m old and it’s all gone pas’ an’ it’s too late.”

She looked up from the glass of clear wine and stared at Khadaji, who stood silently behind the bar. The pub was nearly empty and he had no chem to mix.

“But you don’ unnerstan’. You’re a kid, you think you’ve got all the time there is, don’cha? Blow off a year here, piss away a year there, it don’ matter, you got plen’y to spare.”

She lifted the wine glass, drained it, and set it carefully back onto the bright surface of the bar, as if it were still full and she was afraid of spilling it. “But you’re wrong. Wrong.”

Khadaji nodded, but it was more for himself than the old woman. There was no flash of sudden knowledge, no cosmic rush of feeling, but there was a moment of… focus. Why was he

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