we’re married, aren’t we?” Her lips were mocking again. “Amazonian style, that is.”
She was suddenly gone from the apartment.
Ronny Bronston sat down. Except for her direct order to remain in the apartment, he was free to act.
His eyes went about the room desperately. There must be something he could do. Surely she would be gone for at least an hour. Perhaps not. Perhaps within that time she would discover the magnitude of his troubles and be back on the double with Clete and Lysippe, or some other Amazonian warriors, to apprehend him and return him to the questioning.
He went from one room to another. A bedroom, a refresher, an eating alcove with an auto in it. Back to the livingroom.
His eyes hit upon the small bar. By the looks of the whole apartment, Minythyia’s friend must be quiet a hedonist. The bar, the decor, some of the murals, all pointed in that direction. He wondered what the equivalent of an orgy, here on Amazonia, might be.
His eyes swung quickly back to the bar and something came to him.
Come-Along. It didn’t react favorably with alcohol. You couldn’t give it to a drunk. It did no more than to make him terribly ill. It was even comparatively ineffective if you dosed someone who had just a couple of belts. To give it to someone in an alcoholic state, was just wasting your time, which was quite a deterent to both espionage agents and Romeos.
He made his way to the bar. It was a bar all right. Two shelves below held bottles, glasses, ice tongs, swizzle sticks, all the universal paraphernalia of the home bar, be it on Earth, Avalon, New Delos…or Amazonia.
Ronny Bronston picked up the handiest bottle and scowled at the label. It meant nothing to him. He wrenched the top off and applied it to his lips. Sickeningly sweet! He couldn’t put away much of that. He took up another bottle. Another damned cordial!
He grasped a third bottle. It contained a colorless fluid, something resembling gin or vodka. He tried it and sputtered, shooting a fine spray from his mouth. He looked at the label in respectful wonder. It told him nothing.
Ronny Bronston, though not habitually a heavy drinker, had done his share of nipping in his time. But never on anything as potent as this. He couldn’t take it straight. He poured a hefty belt into a tall glass and went into the refresher room for water.
There was a faint taste of anis in the far background of the spirit, not too unpleasant. He got the first glass down, feeling the stuff already beginning to warm his belly, and quickly poured another.
He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. How long ago was that? It seemed ages. The drink was getting to him quickly. He put down still more and the room began to go hazy. He shook his head, bear-like, and decided to make his try.
His orders had been quite definite:
Ronny shook his head again in attempt to achieve temporary clarity and walked with deliberation toward the door. He took the knob in his hand. And couldn’t twist it. He stared down, his eyes bleary. Was it locked? No, it wasn’t that. He simply
He shook his head still again and went back to the bottle. He eyed it, finding difficulty in focusing. He closed one eye. That was considerably better. Hell, he wasn’t any molly when it came to guzzle. He could put it down with anybody. Even with his ultimate superior, Ross Metaxa, with that Denebian tequila of his in the stone bottle.
He’d show ’em who could drink like a gennulman. Hold his guzzle like a trooper. He took up the bottle with a flourish of braggadocio and applied it to his lips.
He got down three or four full gulps before it hit him. He dropped the bottle to the floor, unknowingly. His eyes were glazed now He had never passed out from drink in his life, but this was preciously near it. He tried to achieve clarity by slapping his cheek hard with his right hand.
He staggered toward the door, grasped the knob just in time to prevent falling. There was something he was supposed to remember, he knew. Something about that girl. What was her name? Miny…Minythy…something or other. Something she told him. He couldn’t remember.
He swayed and his hand on the knob turned in his effort to keep himself erect. The knob turned and the door pushed open and he staggered into the hall beyond in effort to keep his balance.
He held onto the ironwork banister at the stairs’ head, breathing deeply. Zen, but he was drenched. You had to admit that, all right. He was drenched.
He had better get out and get some fresh air. Either that or go back into the apartment and climb into bed. Yes, that was it, go back into the apartment and get some sleep. He had to wait for Miny…whatever her name was.
But then he turned sly, even as he wavered, holding onto the banister. Now he remembered. She’d hooked him. Amazon style. Tha’s why he hadda get outta this house.
He started down the stairs, as only a drunk can navigate stairs.
He chortled, “Thas what
Unbelievably, he made it down the three flights and then to the street. As he left the building, he was singing to himself, “Somethin old, somethin new, somethin borrowed, somethin blue.”
On the street, the fresh air had a small effect on him. Besides that, the change of scene forced him to think anew. He had someplace to go, or he’d better have some place to go. If not, he might as well try to get back up the stairs to the apartment. For a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, he didn’t want to go back to that apartment. Though, come to think of it, that Miny girl wasn’t so bad. She’d got him out of some kind of trouble once, hadn’t she? He knew damn well she had, but it was kind of hazy.
He took a deep breath and started down the street, in the opposite direction from which he had originally approached with Minythyia.
Just as he reached the corner, he heard a hovercar coming up behind him. Oh, oh. He didn’t turn, even when he heard it come to a quick stop before the building. He did a commendable left face, with all a drunk’s cunning, and went down the side street.
Fifty feet further on there was an opening to the left again. A snort of mews, British style. A courtyard at the end with a water fountain. For reason unbeknownst to himself, he headed toward it.
Only half way there the nausea hit him and he was deathly ill. He emptied his insulted stomach into a doorway, feeling like a pig, but still not caring…not caring about anything. When the retching was over, he resumed his way toward the fountain, somewhat steadier. There was something nagging him from within, don’t…leave… the…apartment…under…any…circumstances. But it didn’t seem to make much sense.
There were children playing in the litttle courtyard. He ignored them, stumbled to the water and plunged his head into it. He came up for air. Zen! it was cold and good. He plunged his head back in.
The children were standing around watching him, wide-eyed.
He glowered at them. There were, he realized, both boys and girls. All of them wore either shorts or kilts, nor did the attire seem to be based on sex. Some boys wore shorts, some kilts, so did the girls.
He scooped up water with his hand and drank it. It hit his stomach with a chill and for a moment he was afraid he was going to be sick again.
No, that passed. He decided he’d have to get out of here, but quick. Before one of the kids went running to a parent, or teacher, or whatever, and somebody turned up to investigate him.
By the moment, his true situation was coming back to him. He was still drunk, sodden drunk, but his mind was clearing slowly. He couldn’t allow himself to be picked up. He had to do something, he couldn’t quite remember what.
He retraced his way to the street and turned left on it. What was it he had to do? It came to him in stages. He had to warn somebody about something.
He came to a crossing and paused for a moment, scowling. Two pedestrians passed him, a man and a woman. Once again, their garb was so similar as to be almost identical.
This crossing. He had been here once before. But he couldn’t have been. He shook his head, to clear it further of fumes.
