A RECEPTION AT THE ANARCHIST EMBASSY
by Brad Linaweaver
“He’s the most conservative man you’ll ever meet.”
The speaker was an attractive woman, although Special Agent Palmer didn’t approve of her surgically implanted third eye that regarded him from an otherwise placid brow. He couldn’t get used to these modern fashions, preferring instead an old-fashioned girl with a wedding ring in her navel.
Giving one of her breasts a friendly squeeze (and grateful that there were only two of them) he turned his attention to the gentleman in question. The man certainly stood out in the crowd.
“I had a professor like him once,” said Palmer. “He probably thinks the world went to hell in the twenty-third century.”
She laughed. “You’re almost right but try the twenty-first.”
He was surprised. “So tell me, Bretygne, why do I need to converse with this genuine eccentric?”
“Because,” she breathed into his ear while returning his friendly squeeze at a lower altitude, “he will provide invaluable assistance when we exchange pleasantries with the ambassador. You see, your crazy Mr. Konski is actually a fan of that old man’s books.”
In all the miserable time he’d spent on the self-styled anarchist planet Lysander, Palmer had not learned that Konski read any contemporaries. He pulled his forelock, the usual method of expressing thanks to a comrade. The Lady Bretygne Lamarr always did her homework.
“You’ll put in a good word for me in your report?” she teased him.
“Why bother? They never read mine but settle for the oral briefing. Now you, my dear, they actually read.”
“Flattery has always been your strongest suit.” With that, she kicked off on her disc and scooted in the direction of the Amazing Conservative Man.
Palmer wasn’t lazy enough to use a disc in low gravity. With a hop and a jump he was right next to her. Admittedly that sort of calisthenics was discouraged but he was good at it and hadn’t knocked anyone over yet.
Professor Bernard Astaroth greeted them with a broad smile. “My darling girl,” he said to Bretygne, squeezing her other breast (which fine point was noted by Palmer’s acute skills at espionage).
“Allow me to introduce Diplomat First Class Palmer, attached to the United States of Earth.” She got that out in one breath.
“No first name?” quizzed the professor.
“I’m not partial to them.”
Bretygne laughed for him and the professor kept the conversation going with, “I understand that we both enjoy Lady Lamarr’s way with words.”
“You’re too kind,” she replied, switching on a phase-three blush in her normally pale cheeks.
“She tells me you’re a writer.”
“Yes, on aestheto-politics with a heavy emphasis on history.”
“Orthodox?” asked Palmer, eyebrows raised.
“Would we be here together tonight if I were?” The professor smiled.
Bretygne thought it politic to change the subject. “Palmer spent a full quarter on Lysander.”
“Before or after the insurrection?” asked Astaroth.
Palmer shook his head. “There was no insurrection, no civil war. It was one of their stupid property disputes.”
“That evaporated a whole continent?” The professor was incredulous.
“You’d think they would have given up on anarchy after that, but no,” said Palmer. “One of the idiots said he had a natural right to protect his property line against intruders. Then he evaporated a six-year-old girl who wandered onto his land. Instead of apologizing and offering restitution, the father amazingly turned the matter over to his defense agency. The other fellow’s defense agency didn’t agree that their client had overreacted. Then the God-given natural right everyone has to own plasma bombs came into it and the continent went poof.”
“You were planet-side during this?” asked Astaroth.
“Safe behind a force field on the other side of the planet. Admittedly the anarchists over there seemed a little more inclined to take things to arbitration.”
“Whew,” said the professor. “I did a paper about Lysander, but I’m a few years out of date.”
“Palmer is always on top of things,” Bretygne grinned, her arm around his waist.
The professor nodded and then did them the favor of lowering his voice. “You’re both spies, of course, and lovers as well. There’s not much point to the former unless it adds spice to the latter, or do I have it turned around?”
Color drained out of the lady’s face, again at the flick of a switch.
Astaroth finally continued: “There’s no need to dissemble. Tonight we’ll be dealing with an anarchist who has less regard for our rituals than even I! We must be frank.”
He gestured to a servo-mech and the machine dutifully floated over. Palmer and Lamarr quickly ordered strong heroin and tonics. The professor settled for a vodka martini.
A few sips of Smirnoff later, he was still causing trouble. “I think we should put up a sign that reads All Diplomats Are Spies. Or how about this one—Military Attaches Have No Case?”
Palmer wasn’t amused. “If we’re going to be frank, perhaps you’ll answer a personal question. Why do you appear in public with those?” He gestured at the older man’s wrinkles. He was just as disturbed by Astaroth’s white hair.
No one pinches harder than a well-bred lady, but Bretygne was too late to stop her lover’s indiscretion. “A fair question. But tell me, both lady and field agent, what you see in this room. Look around!”
They were under the largest dome on the moon in a building that made maximum use of its location. Ambassador Konski had purchased this location with a small amount of the material that suddenly made his world of interest to the United States. He’d been offered prime real estate on Earth but this was as close as he wished to be to the Terran capital—Berlin.
Underneath the giant pressure dome, the Aristarchus embassy stood in solitary splendor. The Grand Ballroom had ceiling strips revealing the stars through a double layer of protective plastiglass. Gigantic chandeliers vied with the stars to hold the eye. But the effect was purely decorative as lighting for the room was a constant emanation from the walls.
Palmer sipped his drink and looked around, taking in the beautiful people. Hairstyles varied wildly. As for bald heads, no two carried the same design. The attire was scanty. Everywhere was an expanse of smooth, healthy skin. Fresh as cream and peaches. No blemishes. No wrinkles. And there was a scent of flowers.
The professor held his old hand in front of Palmer. “You want to know why I choose to have wrinkles and warts?”
Palmer shrugged. “Bretygne said you were a conservative. But to do this strikes me as genuinely reactionary, even perverse. You’re still healthy and it’s a crime to deactivate the anti-aging elements. You must have had the imperfections added surgically.” He gave an involuntary shudder.
The professor smiled over his martini. “May I ask another personal question?”
“What now?” she blurted out.
“How old are the two of you?”
“I’m seventy,” said Palmer.
“Forty-six,” added Bretygne.
“I see,” the old head nodded. “You will both appear youthful and vigorous for at least another two centuries even if we make no further progress in longevity. But we know that medical science marches on, ever relentless, ever vigilant.”
Fishing the olive out of the bottom of his glass, the professor held it up to his forehead before popping it into his mouth. Was he making fun of Lamarr’s third eye?
“I’m something of a spy myself,” he went on. “I know how young Bretygne was when you both became lovers.”
