Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

“Call your Three over,” Rydra said. “Why?” “I’m looking for a full crew.” Calli wrinkled his forehead. “We don’t got no One anymore.” “You’re going to mope around here forever? Go to the Morgue.” Calli humphed. “You wanna see my Three, you come on.” Rydra shrugged in acquiescence, and the Customs Officer followed behind them. “Hey, stupid, swing around.” The kid who turned on the bar stool was maybe nineteen. The Customs Officer thought of a snarl of metal bands. Calli was a large, comfortable man— “Captain Wong, this is Ron—best Three to come out of this Solar System.” —but Ron was small, thin, with uncannily sharp muscular definition: pectorals like scored metal plates beneath drawn wax skin; stomach like ridged hosing, arms like braided cables. Even the facial muscles stood at the back of the jaw and jammed against the separate columns of his neck. He was unkempt and towheaded and sapphire-eyed, but the only cosmetisurgery evident was the bright rose growing on his shoulder. He flung out a quick smile and touched his forehead with a forefinger in salute. His nails were nub-gnawed on fingers like knotted lengths of white rope. “Captain Wong is looking for a crew.” Ron shifted on the stool, raising his head a little; every other muscle in his body moved too, like snakes under milk. The Customs Officer saw Rydra’s eyes widen. Not understanding her reaction, he ignored it. “Don’t got no One,” Ron said. His smile was quick and sad again. “Suppose I found a One for you?” The ...