I'm not the only one who's looking at her. Gaunt Man, two tables away, is staring at her, his eyes wide and bulging.
He takes a sip from his wineglass. And another, his eyes never budging from her.
Last to speak is the Director. He's powdered his face, buffed up his hair, polished his nails a blood red. “Dear esteemed guests, I trust that you have found the Institute— with its unsul ied reputation— to have met your high expectations to night. The food, the décor, the grandeur of this bal room— all , I do hope, to be pleasing to such regal guests as yourselves, who ordinarily wouldn't deign to travel so far for entertainment. But this is not an ordinary occasion, is it? For tomorrow night, the Heper Hunt begins!”
The guests, already with a few drinks in them, clink glasses, pound tabletops.
“To night is the night to celebrate the benevolent sovereignty of our beloved Ruler, under whose leadership the Heper Hunt was made possible. And celebrate we shal ! Without restraint! For we will have plenty of time tomorrow daytime to sleep off to night's ex-cesses!” The rasping of wrists sounds across the hal .
The Director totters slightly; I realize that he's had a few too many drinks in him. “Now, just in case some of you are getting ideas, ideas about, hmm . . . shal we say, ‘unoffi cial y' joining this Hunt tomorrow, upon my shoulders fal s the burden of dispel ing any such hope. This building goes into lockdown mode an hour before dusk. You simply won't be able to leave this building for the duration of the Hunt.”
He swirls the wine in his glass dramatical y, gazing at it in the mercuric light. “Sometime before lockdown, the hunters wil be taken to an undisclosed, secret location. At the cusp of dusk, as early as each shal dare, they will set off into the Vast after the hepers. And so,” he says, his voice rising, “the most exciting, most scin-til ating, most extravagant, most bloody, most violent Heper Hunt ever shal begin!”
The banquet hal erupts into a spasm of hisses and bone cracks and wineglasses smashed.
After the speech, as the guests settle down, a string quartet assembles on the edge of the dance fl oor. The quartet plays the Baroque piece slowly and freely, a late- century arrangement. Gradual y, couples make their way to the fl oor. Halfway through the fi rst song, I catch sight of Gaunt Man rising from his chair. He has his eyes on Ashley June, and as he starts making his way toward her, his tongue sticks out, licks his lips. I push my chair back and walk swiftly toward Ashley June, outpacing Gaunt Man. She sits with her hands placed in her lap, her back straight, head up, expectantly.
As I draw closer to her, her head tilts up ever so, and she looks at me from the corner of her eye. Do I detect the faintest smile touch her lips, a brief emergence of her cheek dimple? I offer her my elbow and she takes it, rising graceful y from her chair with the slightest pul on my arm.
We walk to dance fl oor, past Gaunt Man, left standing stiffl y and awkwardly by himself.
As if on cue, the quartet starts another song, this one softer and more romantic in tone. There are whispers and murmurings all around, and then the other couples on the dance fl oor slide away to the edge, surrendering the spotlight to Ashley June and me, the 204 ANDREW FUKUDA hunter couple. The fl oor is ours. And suddenly, unwittingly, all eyes in the bal room are on us. A few photographers move into position, cameras at the ready. I turn to face Ashley June: a hint of dread in her eyes. Neither of us wants this attention. But it is too late for that. My shoulder squares with hers, so close I feel heat waves humming off her body.
And despite everything, there is an almost audible click of rightness. A strong pul draws us closer, as if our hearts are powerful, insistent, opposite magnets.
Drumming up everything I learned in school, I fi st both hands and interlace my knuckles with the knuckles of her fi sted hands.
Back at school, I dreaded dance classes, hating the proximity, fear-ing that I hadn't shaved the light hairs on my knuckles close enough.
But with Ashley June now, I am free of fear. And free to feel: the texture of her skin, the musky proximity of her body, her breath delicately touching my neck. Her glistening green eyes look into mine. I wish I could whisper to her, but there are too many eyes upon us, the music too soft. But what I would say.
I'm so lost in the moment that I almost forget we actual y have to dance. I press my knuckles deeper into hers to let her know I'm about to start. A slight push back in ac know ledg ment, and then we begin. For two people who've never danced together, we're surprisingly adept. Our bodies move in fl uid synchrony, the distance between us constant and close. Other than a few minor brushes, our legs are harmonized and rhythmic, our feet fal ing within inches of one another, never closer. In my school dance class, dancing was never more than a bul et- point progression to fol ow, a checklist to complete in sequence. But with Ashley June it is a fl ow, a matter of simply hoisting a sail and all owing yourself to be caught up. At the end of the piece, I let her loose for the three- step spin, and her long, slim arms raise above her head like a whirling dervish. She teases out of her spin, hair spil ing seductively across her face, her green eyes puncturing me deep inside. I hear a few gasps coming from the tables.
“Wow,” I mouth to her.
The next piece begins. Ashley June and I separate. Now begins the obligatory dances with the wives of the offi cials, all streaming their way over to me, their high- offi cial husbands too disinterested in dancing or their wives (or both) to bother rising from their tables. It's taxing, the endless dancing and perfunctory smal talking, and after a number of dances, a fi lm of sweat starts forming on my forehead. I need to take a break, but there are simply too many women waiting in line.
“Do you smel something?” asks the woman in front of me.
I've been dancing with her for the past minute, but it's only when she asks that question that I really see her for the fi rst time.
“No, not real y.”
“Smel of heper is so strong. Don't know how you can al concentrate with that odor around. So distracting. I know they say you get used to it after a while, but it's so potent it's like it's right in front of me.”
“Sometimes when there's a westerly wind blowing, the odor blows inside from the Dome,” I say.
“Didn't seem to be much of a breeze to night,” she says, glancing out the opened windows.
The next woman is even more direct. “I say,” she declares, “there's a heper in this hal somewhere. Smel 's quite pungent.”
I tel her about the westerly wind.
“No, no,” she says, “it's so strong it's like you're the heper!”
I scratch my wrist; she fol ows suit. Fortunately.
After the song ends, she curtsies and I bow; the next woman in line is already heading over. There's a swift movement, and someone else cuts in. It's Ashley June.
Looking in her eyes, I can tel she knows exactly what's going on and she's worried. The other woman is upset and about to complain until she realizes who it is. She backs away. Ashley and I begin to dance.
Some cameras start click-ing again.
This time, the dance lacks enjoyment. We're too conscious of the people around, too fearful of a sheen of sweat that might appear on my face any moment, of the odor I'm emitting. I've danced too hard. When the number ends, I say (loudly, so others can hear) to Ashley June that I need to use the restroom. I'm not sure what good that'l do me, but I can't exert any more energy dancing. Got to get away, give my body a chance to cool down. She tel s me she'l wait for me.
I'm cooling down and doing my business at the urinal when somebody walks in. He stands at the urinal next to mine even though the whole row is otherwise unused. The whole restroom is empty, in fact.
“How long you going to last?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Simple enough question. How long are you going to last?”
He's a tal and imposing man, broad- shouldered. A prissy pair of glasses sits on his nose, completely at odds with the burly brawn of his body. The tuxedo is il - fi tting, a few sizes too smal and bunched under his arms.
I decide to ignore him, instead focusing on hitting the target sticker in the urinal. That's what you have to hit, supposedly the lowest splash zone that gives optimum drainage. In most places, the sticker is of a fl y or bee or soccer bal .
Here, it's a picture of the Dome.
“Long or short?” the man says.
“What?”
“Long time or short time?”
“Look, I still don't know what you're talking about.”
The man sniffs. “I predict short. Maybe thirty minutes. Soon as you hunters are out of sight, that's when the other hunters take you out. You and the girl both.”
A reporter. Probably a paparazzi hack who's snuck in using fake credentials, jonesing for an inside scoop. This is how they work: throw out an outrageous story to get a reaction, then report on the reaction. The best thing to do is ignore him.
I zip up and walk over to the paper towel dispenser by the door.
He zips up and pul s up next to me, hand under the dispenser, blocking my way out. The dispenser spits a short towel into his hand.
“Use the FLUNs, that's all I'm tel ing you,” he says, crumpling the towel in hand. “Use them early, use them without hesitation.
The hunters, especial y the col egiate kids, will want to take you out early in the game. Be very careful.” Not once does he look at me as he speaks, just at the dispenser as if it's a teleprompter.
“Who are you?” I ask. And how does he know about the FLUNs?
“Word to the wise?” he says. “Things are not as they appear.
Take to night, for example. Look at the glamour of this banquet.
What did they tel you? That it was a last minute decision to host it? Look at the food, the wine, the décor, the number of guests, and you tel me if this looks like something slapped together quickly. And think about the so- called lottery— as manipulatable a scheme as they come. Think you're here by chance? Things are not as they appear.” He puts his hand on the doorknob, about to leave. Then he turns back to me.