Descending Road - MAKING HAPPY CORKSCREWS by Dana W. Paxson

MAKING HAPPY CORKSCREWS

1563 4D

“It’s party time,” Marra said. She and Deen shucked the ragged wraps still wound around them under the dresses, and ran out into the growing turmoil and joy of the music. The flicker and bob and dance of the many chemtorches, some in blues and yellows and oranges as well as the usual green, all hurling writhing shadows against the dome and the articulated storefronts; the sheer weight and reek of the air’s fumes and sweats and aromas, ruling the festival drunkenness into the blood; the throb and pound and scutter and clash of the syntrells and tympans, drums and tangs, gripping spines and bodies in a polyrhythmic heartbeat driving dancers through streets, hot blood through the vascular City; all these things took hold of the two recreated white-skinned women, their scalps barely showing a dark fuzz, and spun them into their own ecstasy with this music they had long forgotten.

Marra closed her eyes, and her body melted into an endless coil of female bodies free of time and space and every limit; she laughed, and Deen laughed behind her. In the heat, a trickle of juices and sweat ran down her legs as she moved slowly past the throngs of men pounding, beating, banging the time away and along, singing and shouting hoarse encouragements and compliments to the women passing by.

She grinned at the rows of passing male faces, some showing surprise at her paleness and beauty. To be home again, and happy, something she’d never hoped for since leaving the City long ago. She looked ahead. The procession moved out of the domed intersection and down a long sloping understreet, lit here and there by small aromatic flames spiked to the walls by homeowners and shopkeepers.

The confined street focused the sound into an intense heaving roar. Marra blinked her eyes to drive the sensation below pain level; when she did, innerspace opened; a huge flaming being tried to embrace her, then pulled back in surprise. Marra tensed. What was that? It wasn’t Aoriver — she had used enough of the flowers and leaves to prevent that — but— Deen stiffened behind her. They forced themselves out of the line and into a store cubby entrance.

“Was that—" Marra spoke first.

“I though it was another one of them. But trying to hold us? I saw one there with you too. What were they doing?”

“They weren’t asking us to dance. Maybe without our inhabitants we looked like dinner.”

“So where are our own two, anyway? Haven’t they come back?”

“I don’t think so. I used a lot of that stuff. They’re probably still making happy corkscrews in outer space someplace and having themselves a little whatever-that-festival-is-called.”

“Qaqanhialh.” Deen looked into the shop.

“Yeah, that.”

“Want something, sisters?” A smiling pretty-faced woman, a little muscular, had come forward from the rear of the shop. Marra and Deen looked around. “We have good things to wear for the Run, and for later, especially with the men. Would you like to see?” Her voice rose firmly above the street sounds. She had propped different chemtorches around the shop to give light for visitors.

Deen and Marra nodded, and started riffling through stacks of coveralls, cover-nothings, and everything in between, in a wide range of fabrics and translucencies and cuts. Deen continued, “I think those things are still hanging around watching us inside. I don’t like it.”

“I feel it too.” Marra held up a form-matching coverall in a color she couldn’t, thanks to the torch hues, determine. “They must be hanging around in this place too, then. Maybe we should try to spot them. They could have sneaked over from Poly Town.” The two women put down the clothes and returned to the entrance.

“There.” Marra nudged Deen and pointed back the way they had come, toward the welling of light at the now-distant intersection. A thin man in a dark coverall stood near the wall, letting the dancers pass. He held a tympan, but beat it only occasionally, in a desultory pattern. “That’s one of them.” As if in response, the figure turned and began to approach them.

“There’s one here too,” Deen said, “coming this way.”

“Oh, dear,” said Marra. The two women, backs to each other, sidled through the entrance into the shop again, and bumped into the shopkeeper. “Do you have a back way out?”

“Someone’s after you? During the Run?” The woman’s voice showed her doubt. She looked closely at Deen, then Marra.

“Please, yes, two men are—“

“Oh, well, yes, you’re andros. That’ll explain it. You take a real chance coming through during the Run; you know how the men are, on the edge. Isn’t that what you came for, anyway, to get a couple of hot guys to give you a big long ride?” Her voice had a stratum of scorn underpinned with envy.

“But we’re not—" Marra began.

“Never mind,” Deen broke in, glaring at the woman. “Come on, we’ll deal with it.”

A scream, then another and another, cut through the pounding outside, and the bodies in the street heaved like a great wave. An intense beam of light rayed over frantically-twisting heads once, twice; an explosion, then a roar of voices, and the crowd surged to the left, back the way it had danced a few seconds earlier.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	MAKING HAPPY CORKSCREWS 1563 4D “It’s party time,” Marra said. She and Deen shucked the ragged wraps still wound around them under the dresses, and ran out into the growing turmoil and joy of the music. The flicker and bob and dance of the many chemtorches, some in blues and yellows and oranges as well as the usual green, all hurling writhing shadows against the dome and the articulated storefronts; the sheer weight and reek of the air’s fumes and sweats and aromas, ruling the festival drunkenness into the blood; the throb and pound and scutter and clash of the syntrells and tympans, drums and tangs, gripping spines and bodies in a polyrhythmic heartbeat driving dancers through streets, hot blood through the vascular City; all these things took hold of the two recreated white-skinned women, their scalps barely showing a dark fuzz, and spun them into their own ecstasy with this music they had long forgotten. Marra closed her eyes, and her body melted into an endless coil of female bodies free of time and space and every limit; she laughed, and Deen laughed behind her. In the heat, a trickle of juices and sweat ran down her legs as she moved slowly past the throngs of men pounding, beating, banging the time away and along, singing and shouting hoarse encouragements and compliments to the women passing by. She grinned at the rows of passing male faces, some showing surprise at her paleness and beauty. To be home again, and happy, something she’d never hoped for since leaving the City long ago. She looked ahead. The procession moved out of the domed intersection and down a long sloping understreet, lit here and there by small aromatic flames spiked to the walls by homeowners and shopkeepers. The confined street focused the sound into an intense heaving roar. Marra blinked her eyes to drive the sensation below pain level; when she did, innerspace opened; a huge flaming being tried to embrace her, then pulled back in surprise. Marra tensed. What was that? It wasn’t Aoriver — she had used enough of the flowers and leaves to prevent that — but— Deen stiffened behind her. They forced themselves out of the line and into a store cubby entrance. “Was that—" Marra spoke first. “I though it was another one of them. But trying to hold us? I saw one there with you too. What were they doing?” “They weren’t asking us to dance. Maybe without our inhabitants we looked like dinner.” “So where are our own two, anyway? Haven’t they come back?” “I don’t think so. I used a lot of that stuff. They’re probably still making happy corkscrews in outer space someplace and having themselves a little whatever-that-festival-is-called.” “Qaqanhialh.” Deen looked into the shop. “Yeah, that.” “Want something, sisters?” A smiling pretty-faced woman, a little muscular, had come forward from the rear of the shop. Marra and Deen looked around. “We have good things to wear for the Run, and for later, especially with the men. Would you like to see?” Her voice rose firmly above the street sounds. She had propped different chemtorches around the shop to give light for visitors. Deen and Marra nodded, and started riffling through stacks of coveralls, cover-nothings, and everything in between, in a wide range of fabrics and translucencies and cuts. Deen continued, “I think those things are still hanging around watching us inside. I don’t like it.” “I feel it too.” Marra held up a form-matching coverall in a color she couldn’t, thanks to the torch hues, determine. “They must be hanging around in this place too, then. Maybe we should try to spot them. They could have sneaked over from Poly Town.” The two women put down the clothes and returned to the entrance. “There.” Marra nudged Deen and pointed back the way they had come, toward the welling of light at the now-distant intersection. A thin man in a dark coverall stood near the wall, letting the dancers pass. He held a tympan, but beat it only occasionally, in a desultory pattern. “That’s one of them.” As if in response, the figure turned and began to approach them. “There’s one here too,” Deen said, “coming this way.” “Oh, dear,” said Marra. The two women, backs to each other, sidled through the entrance into the shop again, and bumped into the shopkeeper. “Do you have a back way out?” “Someone’s after you? During the Run?” The woman’s voice showed her doubt. She looked closely at Deen, then Marra. “Please, yes, two men are—“ “Oh, well, yes, you’re andros. That’ll explain it. You take a real chance coming through during the Run; you know how the men are, on the edge. Isn’t that what you came for, anyway, to get a couple of hot guys to give you a big long ride?” Her voice had a stratum of scorn underpinned with envy. “But we’re not—" Marra began. “Never mind,” Deen broke in, glaring at the woman. “Come on, we’ll deal with it.” A scream, then another and another, cut through the pounding outside, and the bodies in the street heaved like a great wave. An intense beam of light rayed over frantically-twisting heads once, twice; an explosion, then a roar of voices, and the crowd surged to the left, back the way it had danced a few seconds earlier.