“American Concubine, good morning!” Nymphetron, Inc. “Fille de Joie, salut, cherie!” Brutes, Unlimited. “Hello, handsome, here’s my card. I’m with the Adventuress Group.” The Wantons of the World, Ltd. “Fantasy Man, of New York and Paris.” Black Stud, Chicago. “Let us cater your next affair . . .” Dial-A-Stud, ask for our catalogue of certified service men. “Perhaps you saw our ad on the telly . . .”
At the Redplanet Inn you took your chances. Paramour, Inc. was a few million miles away. The Oscar Wilde Society hadn’t been heard of here. Nymphomania was a word, not a corporation. Johann thrust a mug of something bitter and alcoholic into my hand. He had his arm around a cheerful woman named Bettina, and they were laughing. Synthetic Martian panels ringed the main room, holding in the noise. The new arrivals were being toasted, especially the flush-faced women.
Hundreds of drama tapes had reconstructed the Inn, usually larger and gaudier than it was. Top vidstars portrayed the golden-hearted whores, with blossoming breasts and costumes of rich fabrics. Laser shootouts had cut the room to ribbons in a dozen adventures. Michael Tackett and Gregory Battle had faced down the heavies here. Margo Masters and Lila Fellini had leaned against various versions of the big bar, cut from a single slab of ruby-rock and polished to a high sheen. It was deja-vu, multiplied and overlaid.
I was halfway through my second drink of local top-pop when Nova came in. I heard the shouts before I saw her, and she let someone lift her to his shoulders only to be able to find me.
There was fire in her eyes.
“Wheaten just died,” she said. That had to be the redhead. “A good man gone because you had to play hero.”
“I—”
She turned and pushed through the crowd. A few heard, and I got some black looks. Johann put down his mug carefully. Without looking at me he asked about it and I told the story as objectively as I could.
He sighed and took a deep draft of the beer. “He asked for it. He changed a lot since Nova left. He’s been on Nikolai’s team for over two years and they’re a mean bunch. Damned near got thrown out of the Union because of the Planeta Rojo mine affair. Rough, but not nasty too often.” He paused and I felt his eyes on me. “All by yourself, huh?”
I felt foolish. I had never thought of myself as a fighter, a rough-house killer of men. I had studied with Shigeta for exercise and a feeling of confidence. I had never really thought I would ever use it, despite an alley fight in Montevideo’s Canelones sector and one in the
“Instant Slums” of the sprawling, shoddy Rangoon archotological complex of three million starving Indians.
But there I had been Brian Thorne. One helicab fare and I was dining with the governor or telling about the affair as an amusing anecdote in the Bolivar Tower’s penthouse.
Here I was Diego Braddock, Publitex outsider, clean-boot intruder, and someone associated with Nova.
Or was I? Was it boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl?
I didn’t ask for those brain-mushed goons to clutch at Nova. She couldn’t have handled it—except by relaxing and enjoying it—despite her newfound earthside
Pelf came out of the crowd and leered at me and melted away. Why couldn’t it have been Pelf who had the glommy hands?
“That’s quite a cargo you brought with you,” Johann said.
“Looks more like you plan to open up a business here than pound out copy.”
“I thought they might be needed. Or wanted.”
“Oh, the girls will kiss your left tube for the shimmercloth! That’s for certain. But you must think we’re millionaires out here. That herd of frozen cows you have there will cost a fortune to house and feed. Lucky for you that Casey’s
No luck, just Brian Thorne’s intelligence service feeding him information about almost everything on Mars, including Dr. Lorraine Casey’s transplanted mutated grass, used for holding down the sand and highly suitable for cattle feed.
“If someone here can adapt the beasties to this air pressure,” I said.
“Oh, Doc Hoffman has been working on that with those piglets of his.”
