James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

VOLPONE. [ springing up ] Excellent Mosca!

Come hither, let me kiss thee.

MOSCA. Keep you still, sir.

Here is Corbaccio.

“That’s mine,” said Callie, nearly in his ear. Paul jumped back, and Callie reached past him and snatched the book off the table with both hands, slamming it shut and pressing it to her chest. She was wearing a sweater now over her t-shirt, somebody’s huge old cardigan with a little woven belt dangling untied at her hips.

“You just lost your place,” Paul said.

“That’s okay.” Callie clutched the book with one hand and waved her other hand as if to ward him off. She would not meet his eye.

Paul gestured at the table. “I’m sorry. I thought somebody had left it.”

“I just went to get a sweater.” Callie reached past him again for the bottle of Coke. “They keep the AC so fuckin’ high in here.” She started to turn away.

“It was open to Ben Jonson,” Paul said. “Act one of Volpone.”

Callie hesitated, not quite looking at Paul. “What did you say?”

“Act one of Volpone . Ben Jonson.”

“That’s not what I. .” She waved the plastic bottle; flat Coke sloshed within. “I mean, how did you say it, just now? The name.”

“Ben Jonson.”

She gave a little gasp of exasperation and turned away.

“Vol- po -nee,” Paul said. “It’s Italian. It means—”

“ ‘Fox.’ ” She was blushing bright red. “I know what it means. I can read.”

“I’m sorry.” He shifted his own book under his arm. “I was trying to be cute.”

“Didn’t work.” Her eyes flashed.

Paul shrugged. “Story of my life.”

“How’d you know that?” Her eyes burned a little less hot, but there was still a very attractive blush over her cheeks, making her freckles stand out. “How to say ‘Vol- po -nee’ ”—she enunciated slowly, as if testing each syllable before she put her full weight on it—“instead of ‘Vol- pone ’?” Here she exaggerated her own accent; Paul wished he could place it.

Paul laughed nervously. How could he tell her without sounding. . pompous? Arrogant? Bitter? “You wouldn’t know it from my present circumstances,” he said, “but I have a Ph.D. in literature.”

She narrowed her gaze. “What do you mean, your ‘present circumstances’?”

He gestured through the ceiling at the weight of the Texas state agency above them. “I never thought Ben Jonson would come up in the dining room of the Texas Department of General Services.”

Callie’s eyes brightened again, but more with bemusement than anger. “Came up today, didn’t it?”

“I guess it did.”

“What are you reading?” Callie had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to flee, but Paul noticed that she had shifted her weight onto one heel. He pulled his book out from under his arm and held the cover out for her to see.

She leveled her gaze at him again. “You need a Ph.D. in English literature to read that?”

Paul stuck the book back under his arm. “No. That’s why I like it.”

Callie nodded. Her cheeks had faded to freckles against pale skin. She started to turn away and hesitated again.

“Vol- po -nee,” she said again.

“You got it.” He smiled — charmingly, he thought. “My head’s full of useless crap like that.”

Her eyes blazed at him again, but she checked it. He could tell she wanted to say something sharp, but instead she asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Paul,” he said, then he added, “Trilby.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling again. “I work up in—”

“I know where you work.” She was walking away now, the book still clutched to her chest with one hand, the Coke dangling at her hip. Paul watched her go, then he found his seat in the corner and took a moment to settle in — one chair to sit in, another to prop his feet on. He opened his book to the first pages of The Island of Dr. Moreau . He sat for half an hour with the volume open on his lap and didn’t read a word.

WHEN PAUL LEFT HIS CUBE FOR THE FOUR O’CLOCK meeting, he passed Rick in the main aisle going the other way.

“Head on down and grab a seat,” Rick said as he sailed by. “I’m getting our guest a cup of coffee.”

What guest? Paul wondered. To his surprise, he saw Olivia Haddock hovering just outside the door of Rick’s office, while Nolene typed something and scowled at her computer screen. Through the office door he saw the Colonel and J.J. and Bob Wier seated around the little table in the corner, leaning forward and listening to someone out of sight.

“He’s got some nerve showing up here,” Nolene muttered, as she hammered at her keyboard, refusing to look at Olivia. “Some people just don’t know when they’re not wanted.”

“Well, he did work here for thirty years, Nolene.” Olivia clutched her elbows and lifted herself on tiptoe, craning to see through the door. “When I first got here, he was a legend.”

“What I’d like to know is, who authorized his visitor’s badge?” Nolene lifted her angry gaze and it landed on Paul, who stopped in his tracks. “What part of ‘You’re fired’ dun’t he understand?”

Before Paul could think of anything to say, a gust of male laughter erupted through the doorway. Olivia flinched back, as if afraid of being seen.

“Don’t you have some work to do, hon?” Nolene placed a heavy emphasis on the last word, crushing any endearment out of it. She leveled her gaze at Olivia who, without a word, pushed off from the side of the door and marched away, her arms swinging, her cheerleader’s backside twitching.

“Hey, Professor, step on in here,” said the Colonel from inside the office. Nolene returned to her computer screen, and Paul moved into the doorway. The faces of the RFP team swung towards him, smiling. A stranger was sitting behind Rick’s desk, an older man in a jacket and tie. He had a high, pale forehead and bright eyes, and his sparse white hair was combed straight back in perfect striations. He seemed a little lost in the jacket; the lapels ballooned out from his shirt, and the cuffs came down to his knuckles. The man’s shoulders barely rose above the backrest of Rick’s chair, but his pale fingers were unusually long, clutching the armrests.

“Professor, meet Stanley Tulendij,” said the Colonel, “the man who made the TxDoGS fleet what it is today.”

The old man swiveled slowly towards Paul, an unexpectedly chilling sight, since Paul doubted that the man’s feet reached the floor. How did he do that? Stanley Tulendij had a prominent jaw and a wide, lipless mouth, and he pointed his chin and his sparkling eyes at Paul and said in a hollow voice, “Is this the young fella?”

“Paul is our tech writer on the outsourcing project,” said Bob Wier, his voice trembling. “Paul, Stanley was TxDoGS’s fleet manager for twenty-five years.”

“The original TexDog,” said the Colonel.

“This man’s a fucking legend,” said J.J., looking uncharacteristically reverent.

“Now son,” whispered Stanley Tulendij, “that kinda language—”

“I’m sorry!” gasped J.J. To Paul’s astonishment, J.J. actually blushed, and his eyes burned as if he might start to cry. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“No harm done.” The man behind the desk made a benedictory gesture, and he swiveled his bright gaze at Paul again. “Come shake my hand, young man.” His hand, skeletal and pale, levitated out of his roomy cuff as if on the end of a broomstick. The other men nodded at Paul, urging him on, and he reached across the desk. Who is this guy? he thought. Why is he sitting in Rick’s chair?