Bugs by John Sladek Page B

actually.’
    ‘Like Evel Knievel?’
    ‘Sort of. I prefer plain Fred. But tell me something.’ Tell me anything. ‘Where are you from?’
    Her lovely eyes widened. ‘Vhy do you ask? Oh, I suppose it is my accent! Vell, darlink, I am from Scotland.’
    ‘Scotland? Really? Your accent sounds Eastern European. Russia, maybe.’
    She looked shocked. ‘Vat a thought! I am vee lass from Scotland. Do you know Scotland?’
    ‘Not very well.’
    She relaxed slightly. ‘I am from dere.’
    ‘I’m from Britain myself. England.’
    She looked sceptical. ‘Maybe. You tell fib, I think. To impress me.’
    ‘No, really, I –’
    She laughed. ‘Is no matter. I like you, Fred. I like your country. In America, anything can happen, yes? And alvays do. Here am I, a young typewritist from Scotland, alone in the big American city, having coffee with a nice American Fred.’
    She laughed again, and Fred joined in, not sure why. If she was Scottish, Gorbachev was a wee lad from the Gorbals. But why push it? She was beautiful – wasn’t that enough? Bearded men in expensive running-suits sat at other pine tables and stared hungrily at her, forgetting everything. They forgot to talk about their recent stockmarket killings, they forgot that they owned gleaming new Volvos parked outside with bicycle-racks on top, they forgot how many gears there were on their bicycles, they forgot the bottles of Perrier losing their fizz before them, they forgot the women they were sitting with, even forgot to rub the knots from their legs.
    ‘Vat kind of work do you do, Fred?’
    ‘I’m a software engineer,’ he found himself bragging. ‘For Cyberk Corporation. Have you heard of them?’
    ‘Not really.’ Her eyes looked elsewhere.
    ‘Heh, heh. Well, no matter. What brings you to Minneapolis?’
    She sipped her coffee and made a face. ‘Is no chinnamon.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Is suppos-ed to be chinnamon in this Byzantine blend coffee. Vere is our vaitress? Can you call her?’
    He craned around, looking for the waitress. She was very busy; the place had filled up with people in running gear. When he finally managed to flag down the waitress, she assured him that the Byzantine blend did not normally come with cinnamon.
    ‘My mistake, I am sorry,’ KK said cheerfully. ‘Vell, drink up, darlink.’
    His coffee tasted even stronger of bitter chicory. He complained about it as they left the place.
    ‘The worst of it is, it doesn’t set me up at all. I’m every bit as exhausted as I was before – more so. In fact I don’t feel very well.’
    ‘Come vith me, darlink. I leave very nearby. You maybe need rest.’
    Fred opened his mouth to yawn. Before he could finish the yawn, the world sagged into blackness.

 
    He awoke in a cool dim bedroom, minus his shoes and trousers. There was the whisper of air-conditioning and, when he stood up, the feel of deep-pile carpet underfoot. Outside the window was a balcony, flying far above Lake Calhoun. The cool melodious voice of KK came from the next room. He padded to the door and peeked in at her.
    She was sitting with her back to him, a white telephone receiver cradled on her shoulder. She spoke rapidly in some Slavic tongue. He noticed that she was holding his trousers and, as she talked, going through the pockets.
    When she got to his wallet and started looking through it, he managed to say hello.
    She jumped. ‘Oh, hello, darlink.’
    Lowering her voice, she told the phone,
‘Do svedahnia,’
then spoke loudly. ‘Yes, Mother. Sank you for senting me hakkis; it vas delicious. And kilt, yes. Ven is cold, I year kilt, yes. Yes, gootbye, Mother.’
    ‘My old Scotch mother,’ KK explained, as she helped him gather up the spilled contents of his wallet, mostly old library tickets.
    ‘I am not rubbing you, darlink.’
    ‘Rubbing?’ I only wish you were.
    ‘I am not teef. I look for your address, to tek you home.’ She picked up a library ticket. ‘Vat is?’
    ‘A library ticket. Don’t they