The Secret City by Carol Emshwiller

Author:Carol Emshwiller
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-892391-44-5
Publisher: Tachyon Publications
Published: 2007-06-15T16:00:00+00:00

ALLUSH

IN THE MORNING THE BRIGHT LIGHT IS STILL ON BUT not so noticeable. All the dazzle is from outside, and each wall is a window. I slurp myself out of bed and look out. I’m thinking, Wow, wow, wow, and wishing there was somebody to share it with.

I notice there’s a mirror I hadn’t seen last night. Or did it just appear? A morning thing? I laugh when I see my hair. Short and in all sorts of swirls and designs, parts of it straight and parts of it curly. Because of being in the sun, there used to be lots of bleached red to it but they’ve colored it a uniform shiny black. My face looks different without my mop of hair. Kind of naked. I’ve no idea if I’m good-looking or not. I mean for one of my kind. Beautiful Neanderthal? Not back on that world.

One of the men from last night pops out of the elevator without knocking. I think it’s one of the same ones from last night though dressed differently. I have a hard time taking him seriously with that hairdo though I know mine is pretty much the same.

He says, “Greetings, greetings,” in the home language.

I ask for a drink of water. Now—a little late—he gives me a lesson in the buttons. He says he’s sorry, he thought I’d know. He also shows me there’s a bed adjustment. (Soft and softer.) There actually is a closet with blankets. And clothes … kimono-like clothes … in three different sizes. There’s a pop-out shower over that depression so I didn’t make a terrible mistake when I peed there.

Next to the closet door, there’s a bathroom door. It’s a tiny room with a hole in the floor. I didn’t know those were doors and even if I’d known, I wouldn’t have known you had to push inwards first to pop them open outwards.

Then he says the Special wants to talk to me and then gives me a lesson in how to use the elevator.

Once down, I try to look in ground floor windows of what look to me like stores. The man says, “Don’t do that.”

“But aren’t these stores?”

“Yes, but not that kind.”

“What kind then?”

I think he says, “For other people.” Or maybe,

“Other kinds than you.” Anyway not for my kind—whatever that is.

“What is my kind?”

“That’s to be determined later.”

That scares me. Is there some sort of caste system I don’t know about? With some people not as good as others? So low they can’t even look in store windows? They had that same kind of things back there though they tried to pretend they didn’t. Worse in some places than in others. Then I think about how, except for Mollish who came as a helper, all the tourists came from wealthy families. Who else could afford to go? I must have come from a wealthy family. How could I not? Can’t they tell that?

They’ve given me stiff shoes that make me two inches taller. They hurt. I’m used to moccasins.

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