Free Enterprise Zones freed corporations from all constraints, they reverted to a primal struggle, which continues to this day.”
Stone attempts to digest all this. He has seen no overt struggles on his journey. Yet he has vaguely sensed undercurrents of tension everywhere. But surely she is overstating the case. Why, she makes the civilized world sound no more than a large-scale version of the anarchy of the Bungle.
As if reading his mind, Citrine says, “Did you ever wonder why the Bungle remains blighted and exploited in the midst of the city, Mr. Stone, its people in misery?”
Suddenly all of Citrine’s screens flash with scenes of Bungle life, obedient to her unvoiced command. Stone is taken aback. Here are the sordid details of his youth: urinereeking alleys with rag-covered forms lying halfway between sleep and death, the chaos around the Immigration Office, the razor-topped fence by the river.
“The Bungle,” Citrine continues, “is contested ground. It has been so for over eighty years. The corporations cannot agree over who is to develop it. Any improvement made by one is immediately destroyed by the tactical team of another. This is the kind stalemate prevalent in much of the world.
“Everyone wanted to be pulled into an earthly paradise by his purse strings, like a Krishna devotee by his pigtail. But this patchwork of fiefdoms is what we got instead.”
Stone’s conceptions are reeling. He came expecting to be quizzed and to disgorge all he thought he knew. Instead, he has been lectured and provoked, almost as if Citrine is testing whether he is a partner fit to debate. Has he passed or failed?
Citrine settles the question with her next words. “That’s enough for today, Mr. Stone. Go back and think some more. We’ll talk again.”
* * * *
For three weeks Stone meets nearly every day with Citrine. Together they explore a bewildering array of her concerns. Stone gradually becomes more confident of himself, expressing his opinions and observations in a firmer tone. They do not always mesh with Citrine’s, yet on the whole he feels a surprising kinship and affinity with the ancient woman.
Sometimes it almost seems as if she is grooming him, master and apprentice, and is proud of his progress. At other times she holds herself distant and aloof.
The weeks have brought other changes. Although Stone has not slept with June since that fateful night, he no longer sees her as the siren figure of his portraits, and has stopped depicting her in that fashion. They are friends, and Stone visits with her often, enjoys her company, is forever grateful to her for her part in rescuing him from the Bungle.
During his interviews with Citrine, her pet is a constant spectator. Its enigmatic presence disturbs Stone. He has found no trace of sentimental affection in Citrine, and cannot fathom her attention to the creature.
One day Stone finally asks Citrine outright why she keeps it.
Her lips twitch in what passes for her smile. “Aegypt is my touchstone on the true perspective of things, Mr. Stone. Perhaps you do not recognize her breed.”
Stone admits ignorance.
“This is Aegyptopithecus zeuxis, Mr. Stone. Her kind last flourished several million years ago. Currently she is the only specimen extant, a clone—or rather, a recreation based on dead fossil cells.
“She is your ancestor and mine, Mr. Stone. Before the hominids, she was the representative of mankind on earth. When I pet her, I contemplate how little we have advanced.”
Stone turns and stalks off, unaccountably repelled by the antiquity of the beast and the insight into her mistress.
This is the last time he will see Alice Citrine.
* * * *
Night time.
Stone lies alone in bed, replaying snapshots of his terminal screen, of pre-FEZ history that has eluded him.
History that has eluded him.
Suddenly there is a loud crack like the simultaneous discharge of a thousand gigantic arcs of static electricity. At that exact second, two things happen:
Stone feels an instant of vertigo.
His eyes go dead.
Atop these shocks, an enormous explosion above his head rocks the entire shaft of the Citrine Tower.
Stone shoots to his feet, clad only in briefs, barefoot as in the Bungle. He can’t believe he’s blind. But he is. Back in the dark world of smell and sound and touch alone.
Alarms are going off everywhere. Stone rushes out into his front room with its useless view of the city. He approaches the front door, but it fails to open. He reaches for the manual control, but hesitates.
What can he do while blind? He’d just stumble around, get in the way. Better to stay here and wait out whatever is happening.
Stone thinks of.June then, can almost smell her perfume. Surely she will be down momentarily to tell him what’s going on. That’s it. He’ll wait for June.
Stone paces nervously for three minutes. He can’t believe his loss of vision. Yet somehow he’s always known it would happen.
The alarms have stopped, allowing Stone to hear near-subliminal footsteps in the hall, advancing on his door. June at last? No, everything’s wrong. Stone’s sense-of-life denies that the visitor is anyone he knows.
Stone’s Bungle instincts take over. He ceases to speculate about what is happening, is all speed and fear.
The curtains in the room are tied back with thin but strong velvet cords. Stone rips one hastily down, takes up a position to the side of the outer door.
The shock wave when the door is hit nearly knocks Stone down. But he regains his balance, tasting blood, just as the man barrels in and past him.
Stone is on the man’s burly back in a flash, legs wrapped around his waist, cord around his throat.
The man drops his gun, hurls himself back against the wall. Stone feels ribs give, but he tightens the rope, muscles straining.
The two stagger around the room, smashing furniture and vases, locked in something like an obscene mating posture.
Eventually, after forever, the man keels over, landing heavily atop Stone.
Stone never relents, until he is sure the man has stopped breathing.
His attacker is dead.
Stone lives.
He wriggles painfully out from under the slack mass, shaken and hurt.
As he gets his feet under him, he hears more people approaching, speaking.
Jerrold Scarfe is the first to enter, calling Stone by name. When he spots Stone, Scarfe shouts, “Get that stretcher over here.”
Men bundle Stone onto the canvas and begin to carry him off.
Scarfe walks beside him, and conducts a surrealistic converstion.
“They
