“How can you tell?” Sol grunted, biting into one of the dry crackers. “Anything made from motor oil and whale blubber is turned to begin with.”

  “Now you begin to sound like a naturist,” Andy said, washing his cracker down with cold water. “There’s hardly any flavor at all to the fats made from petrochemicals and you know there aren’t any whales left so they can’t use blubber— it’s just good chlorella oil.”

  “Whales, plankton, herring oil, it’s all the same. Tastes fishy. I’ll take mine dry so I don’t grow no fins.” There was a sudden staccato rapping on the door and he groaned. “Not yet eight o’clock and already they are after you.”

  “It could be anything,” Andy said, starting for the door.

  “It could be but it’s not, that’s the callboy’s knock and you know it as well as I do and I bet you dollars to doughnuts that’s just who it is. See?” He nodded with gloomy satisfaction when Andy unlocked the door and they saw the skinny, barelegged messenger standing in the dark hall.

  “What do you want, Woody?” Andy asked.

  “I don’ wan’ no-fin,” Woody lisped over his bare gums. Though he was in his early twenties, he didn’t have a tooth in his head. “Lieutenant says bring, I bring.” He handed Andy the message board with his name written on the outside.

  Andy turned toward the light and opened it, reading the lieutenant’s spiky scrawl on the slate, then took the chalk and scribbled his initials after it and returned it to the messenger.

  He closed the door behind him and went back to finish his breakfast, frowning in thought.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” Sol said, “I didn’t send the message. Am I wrong in guessing it’s not the most pleasant of news?”

  “It’s the Eldsters, they’re jamming the Square already and precinct needs reinforcements.”

  “But why you? This sounds like a job for the harness bulls.”

  “Harness bulls! Where do you get that medieval slang? Of course they need patrolmen for the crowd, but there have to be detectives there to spot known agitators, pickpockets, purse-grabbers, and the rest. It’ll be murder in that park today. I have to check in by nine, so I have enough time to bring up some water first.”

  Andy dressed slowly in slacks and a loose sport shirt, then put a pan of water on the windowsill to warm in the sun. He took the two five-gallon plastic jerry cans, and when he went out Sol looked up from the TV set, glancing over the top of his old-fashioned glasses.

  “When you bring back the water I’ll fix you a drink—or do you think it is too early?”

  “Not the way I feel today, it’s not.”

  The hall was ink black once the door had closed behind him, and he felt his way carefully along the wall to the stairs, cursing and almost falling when he stumbled over a heap of refuse someone had thrown there. Two flights down a window had been knocked through the wall and enough light came in to show him the way down the last two flights to the street. After the damp hallway the heat of Twenty-fifth Street hit him in a musty wave, a stifling miasma compounded of decay, dirt, and unwashed humanity. He had to make his way through the women who already filled the steps of the building, walking carefully so that he didn’t step on the children who were playing below. The sidewalk was still in shadow but so jammed with people that he walked in the street, well away

  from the curb to avoid the rubbish and litter banked high there. Days of heat had softened the tar so that it gave underfoot, then clutched at the soles of his shoes. There was the usual line leading to the columnar red water point on the corner of Seventh Avenue, but it broke up with angry shouts and some waved fists just as he reached it. Still muttering, the crowd dispersed, and Andy saw that the duty patrolman was locking the steel door.

  “What’s going on?” Andy asked. “I thought this point was open until noon?”

  The policeman turned, his hand automatically staying close to his gun until he recognized the detective from his own precinct. He tilted back his uniform cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Just had the orders from the sergeant, all points closed for twenty-four hours. The reservoir level is low because of the drought, they gotta save water.”

  “That’s a hell of a note,” Andy said, looking at the key still in the lock. “I’m going on duty now and this means I’m not going to be drinking for a couple of days… .”

  After a careful look around, the policeman unlocked the door and took one of the jerry cans from Andy. “One of these ought to hold you.” He held it under the faucet while it filled, then lowered his voice. “Don’t let it out, but word is that there was another dynamiting job on the aqueduct upstate.”

  “Those fanners again?”

  “It must be. I was on guard duty up there before I came to this precinct and it’s rough, they just as soon blow you up with the aqueduct at the same time. Claim the city’s stealing their water.”

  “They’ve got enough,” Andy said, taking the full container. “More than they need. And there are thirty-five million people here in the city who get damn thirsty.”

  “Who’s arguing?” the cop asked, slamming the door shut again and locking it tight.

  Andy pushed his way back through the crowd around the steps and went through to the backyard first. All of the toilets were in use and he had to wait, and when he finally got into one of the cubicles he took the jerry cans with him; one of the kids playing in the pile of rubbish against the fence would be sure to steal them if he left them unguarded.

  When he had climbed the dark flights once more and opened the door to the room he heard the clear sound of ice cubes rattling against glass.

  “That’s Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony that you’re playing,” he said, dropping the containers and falling into a chair.

  “It’s my favorite tune,” Sol said, taking two chilled glasses from the refrigerator, and with the solemnity of religious ritual he filled them and dropped a tiny pearl onion into each of them. Passed one to Andy, who sipped carefully at the chilled liquid.

  “It’s when I taste one of these, Sol, that I almost believe you’re not crazy after all. Why do they call them Gibsons?”

  “A secret lost behind the mists of time. Why is a Stinger a Stinger or a Pink Lady a Pink Lady?”

  “I don’t know—why? I never tasted any of them.”

  “I don’t know either, but that’s the name. Like those green things they serve in the knockjoints, Panamas. Doesn’t mean anything, just a name.”

  “Thanks,” Andy said, draining his glass. “The day looks better already.”

  He went into his room and took his holstered gun from the drawer and clipped it inside the waistband of his pants. His shield was on his key ring where he always kept it and he slipped his notepad in on top of it, then hesitated a moment. It was going to be a long and rough day and anything might happen. He dug his nippers out from under his shirts, then the soft plastic tube filled with shot. It might be needed in the crowd, safer than a gun with all those old people milling about. Not only that, but with the new austerity regulations

  you had to have a damn good reason for using up any ammunition. He washed as well as he could with the pint of water that had been warming in the sun on the windowsill, then scrubbed his face with the small shard of gray and gritty soap until his whiskers softened a bit. His razor blade was beginning to show obvious nicks along both edges and, as he honed it against the inside of his drinking glass, he thought that it was time to think about getting a new one. Maybe in the fall.

  Sol was watering his window box when Andy came out, carefully irrigating the rows of herbs and tiny onions. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he said without looking up from his work. Sol had a million of them, all old. What in the world was a wooden nickel?

  The sun was higher now and the heat was mounting in the sealed tar and concrete valley of the street. The band of shade was smaller and the steps were so packed with humanity that he couldn’t leave the doorway. He carefully pushed by a tiny, runny-nosed girl dressed only in ragged gray underwear and descended a step. The gaunt women moved aside reluctantly, ignoring him, but the men stared at him with a cold look of hatred stamped across their features that gave them a strangely alike appearance; as though they were all members of the same angry family.

  Andy threaded his way through the last of them and when he reached the sidewalk he had to step over the outstretched leg of an old man who sprawled there. He looked dead, not asleep, and he might be for all that anyone cared. His foot was bare and filthy and a string tied about his ankle led to a naked baby that was sitting vacantly on the sidewalk chewing on a bent plastic dish. The baby was as dirty as the man and the string was tied about its chest under the pipestem arms because its stomach was swollen and heavy. Was the old man dead? Not that it mattered; the only work he had to do in the world was to act as an anchor for the baby. He could do that job just as well alive or dead.

  Out of the room now, well away and unable to talk to Sol until he returned, he realized that once again he had not managed to mention Shirl. It would have been a simple enough thing to do, but he kept forgetting it, avoiding it. Sol was always talking about how horny he always was and how often he used to get laid when he was in the army. He would understand.

  They were roommates, that was all. There was nothing else between them. Friends, sure. But bringing a girl in to live wouldn’t change that.

  So why hadn’t he told him?

  Fall

  “Everybody says this is the coldest October ever, I never seen a colder one. And the rain too, never hard enough to fill the reservoir or anything, but just enough to make you wet so you feel colder.”

  “Ain’t that right?”

  Shirl nodded, hardly listening to the words, but aware by the rising intonation of the woman’s voice that a question had been asked. The line moved forward and she shuffled a few steps behind the woman who had been speaking—a shapeless bundle of heavy clothing covered with a torn plastic raincoat. A cord was tied about her middle so that she resembled a lumpy sack. Not that I look much better, Shirl thought, tugging the fold of blanket farther over her head to keep out the persistent drizzle. It wouldn’t be much longer now, there were only a few dozen people ahead. But it had taken a lot more time than she thought it would; it was almost dark. A light came on over the tank car, glinting off its black sides and lighting up the slowly falling curtain of rain. The line moved again and the woman ahead of Shirl waddled forward, pulling the child after her. A bundle as wrapped and shapeless as its

  mother, its face hidden by a knotted scarf, that produced an almost constant whimpering.

  “Stop that,” the woman said. She turned to Shirl, her puffy face a red lumpiness around the dark opening of her almost toothless mouth. “He’s crying because he’s been to see the doc, thinks he’s sick but it’s only the kwash.” She held up the child’s swollen, ballooning hand. “You can tell when they swell up and get the black spots on the knees. Had to sit two weeks in the Bellevue clinic to see a doc who told me what I knew already. But that’s the only way you get him to sign the slip. Got a peanut-butter ration that way. My old man loves the stuff. You live on my block, don’t you? I think I seen you there?”

  “Twenty-sixth Street,” Shirl said, taking the cap off the jerry can and putting it into her coat pocket. She felt chilled through and was sure she was catching a cold.

  “That’s right, I knew it was you. Stick around and wait for me, we’ll walk back together. It’s getting late and plenty of punks would like to grab the water, they can always sell it. Mrs. Ramirez in my building, she’s a Spic but she’s all right, you know, her family been in the building since the World War Two, she got a black eye so swole up she can’t see through it and two teeth knocked out. Some punk got her with a club and took her water away.”

  “Yes, I’ll wait for you, that’s a good idea,” Shirl said, suddenly feeling very alone.

  “Cards,” the patrolman said and she handed him the three Welfare cards, hers, Andy’s, and Sol’s. He held them to the light, then handed them back to her. “Six quarts,” he called out to the valve man.

  “That’s not right,” Shirl said.

  “Reduced ration today, lady, keep moving, there’s a lot of people waiting.”

  She held out the jerry can and the valve man slipped the end

  of a large funnel into it and ran in the water. “Next,” he called out.

  The jerry can gurgled when she walked and was tragically light. She went and stood near the policeman until the woman came up, pulling the child with one hand and in the other carrying a five-gallon kerosene can that seemed almost full. She must have a big family.

  “Let’s go,” the woman said and the child trailed, mewling faintly, at the end of her arm.

  As they left the Twelfth Avenue railroad siding it grew darker, the rain soaking up all the failing light. The buildings here were mostly old warehouses and factories with blank solid walls concealing the tenants hidden away inside; the sidewalks were wet and empty. The nearest streetlight was a block away.

  “My husband will give me hell coming home this late,” the woman said as they turned the corner. Two figures blocked the sidewalk in front of them.

  “Let’s have the water,” the nearest one said, and the distant light reflected from the knife he held before him.

  “No, don’t! Please don’t!” the woman begged and swung her can of water out behind her, away from them. Shirl huddled against the wall and saw, when they walked forward, that they were just young boys, teenagers. But they still had a knife.

  “The water!” the first one said, jabbing his knife at the woman.

  “Take it,” she screeched, swinging the can like a weight on the end of her arm. Before the boy could dodge, it caught him full in the side of the head, knocking him howling to the ground, the knife flying from his fingers. “You want some too!” she shouted, advancing on the second boy. He-was unarmed.

  “No, I don’t want no trouble,” he begged, pulling at the first one’s arm, then retreating when she approached. When she bent to pick up the fallen knife, he managed to drag the other

  boy to his feet and half-carry him around the corner. It had only taken a few seconds and all the time Shirl had stood with her back to the wall, trembling with fear.

  “They got some surprise,” the woman crowed, holding the worn carving knife up to admire. “I can use this better than they can. Just punks, kids.” She was excited and happy. During the entire time she had never released her grip on the child’s hand; it was sobbing louder.

  There was no more trouble and the woman went with Shirl as far as her door. “Thank you very much,” Shirl said. “I don’t know what I would have done …”

  “That’s no trouble,” the woman beamed. “You saw what I did to him—and who got the knife now!” She stamped away, hauling the heavy can in one hand, the child in the other. Shirl went in.

  “Where have you been?” Andy asked when she pushed open the door. “I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.” It was warm in the room, with a faint odor of fishy smoke. He and Sol were sitting at the table with drink in their hands.

  “It was the water, the line must have been a block long. They only gave me six quarts, the ration has been cut again.” She saw his black look and decided not to tell him about the trouble on the way back. He would be twice as angry then and she didn’t want this meal to be spoiled.

  “That’s really wonderful,” Andy said sarcastically. “The ration was already too small—so now they lower it even more. Better get out of those wet things, Shirl. Then Sol will pour you a Gibson. His homemade vermouth has ripened—and I bought some vodka.”

  “Drink up,” Sol said, handing her the chilled glass. “I made some soup with that ener-G junk, it’s the only way it’s edible, and it should be just about ready. We’ll have that for the first course, before—” He finished the sentence by jerking his head in the direction of the refrigerator.

  “What’s up?” Andy asked. “A secret?”

  “No secret,” Shirl said, opening the refrigerator, “just a surprise. I got these today in the market, one for each of us.” She took out a plate with three small soylent burgers on it. “They’re the new ones, they had them on TV, with the smoky-barbecue flavor.”

  “They must have cost a fortune,” Andy said. “We won’t eat for the rest of the month.”

  “They’re not as expensive as all that. Anyway, it was my own money, not the budget money I used.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference, money is money. We could probably live for a week on what these things cost.”

  “Soup’s on,” Sol said, sliding the plates onto the table. Shirl had a lump in her throat so she couldn’t say anything; she sat and looked at her plate and tried not to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” Andy said. “But you know how prices are going up—we have to look ahead. City income tax is higher, eighty percent now, because of the raised Welfare payment, so it’s going to be rough going this winter. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it… .”

  “If you do, so why don’t you shut up right there and eat your soup?” Sol said.

  “Keep out of this, Sol,” Andy said.

  “I’ll keep out of it when you keep the fight out of my room. Now come on, a nice meal like this, it shouldn’t be spoiled.”

  Andy started to answer him, then changed his mind. He reached over and took Shirt’s hand. “It is going to be a good dinner,” he said. “Let’s all enjoy it.”

  “Not that good,” Sol said, puckering his mouth over a spoonful of soup. “Wait until you try this stuff. But the burgers will take the taste out of our mouths.”

  There was silence after that while they spooned up the soup, until Sol started on one of his army stories about New Orleans and it was so incredibly impossible that they had to laugh, and