She reeled under the triple blasphemy and then faintly asked: “What’s the exception?”
Ross became aware that they were not alone. Their very manner of walking, he a little ahead, obviously leading the way, was drawing unfavorable attention from passersby. Nothing organized or even definite—just looks ranging from puzzled distaste to anger. He said, “Somebody named Haarland. Never mind,” and in a lower voice: “Straighten up. Step out a little ahead of me. Scowl.”
She managed it all except the scowl. The expression on her face got some stupefied looks from other pedestrians, but nothing worse.
Helena said loudly and plaintively: “I don’t like it here after all, Ross. Can’t we get away from all these women?”
Should the impulse seize you, placard ancient Brooklyn with twenty-four sheets proclaiming the Dodgers to be cellar-dwelling bums. Mount a detergent box and inform a crowd of Altairians that they are degenerate slith-fondlers if you must. Announce in a crowded Cephean bar room that Sadkia Revall is no better than she should be. From these situations you have some chance of emerging intact. But never, never pronounce the word “women” as Helena pronounced it on Fifteen Street, Novj Grad, Azor.
The mob took only seconds to form.
Ross and Helena found themselves with their backs to the glass doors of a food store. The handful of women who had actually heard the remark were all talking to them simultaneously, with fist-shaking. Behind them stood as many as a dozen women who knew only that something had happened and that there were comfortably outnumbered victims available. The noise was deafening, and Helena began to cry. Ross first wondered if he could bring himself to knock down a woman; then realized after studying the hulking virago in their foreground that he might bring himself to try but probably would not succeed.
She seemed to be accusing Helena of masquerading, of advocating equality, of uttering obscenely antisocial statements in the public road, to the affront of all decent-minded girls.
There was violence in the air. Ross was on the point of blocking a roundhouse right when the glass doors opened behind them. The small diversion distracted the imbecile collective brain of the mob.
“What’s going on here?” a suety voice demanded. “Ladies, may I please get through?”
It was a man trying to emerge from the food shop with a double armful of cartons. He was a great fat slob, quite hairless, and smelling powerfully of kitchen. He wore the gravy-spotted whites of any cook anywhere.
The virago said to him, “Keep out of this, Willie. This fellow here’s a masquerader. The thing I heard him say—!”
“I’m not,” Helena wept. “I’m not!”
The cook stooped to look into her face and turned on the mob. “She isn’t,” he said definitely. “She’s a lady from another system. She was slopping up triple antigravs at my place last night with a gang of jet pilots.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing!” the virago yelled.
“Madam,” the cook said wearily, “after her third antigrav I had to trip her up and crown her. She was about to climb the bar and corner my barman.”
Ross looked at her fixedly. She stopped crying and nervously cleared her throat.
“So if you’ll just let us through,” the cook bustled, seizing the psychological moment of doubt. His enormous belly bulldozed a lane for them. “Beg pardon. Excuse us. Madam, will you—thank you. Beg pardon—”
The lynchers were beginning to drift away, embarrassed. The party had collapsed. “Faster,” the cook hissed at them. “Beg pardon—” And they were in the clear and well down the street.
“Thank you, Sir,” Helena said humbly.
“Just ‘Willie,’ if you please,” the fat man said.
One hand descended on Ross’s shoulder and another on Helena’s. They both belonged to the virago. She spun them around, glaring. “I’m not satisfied with the brush-off,” she snapped. “Exactly what did you mean by that remark you made?”
Helena wailed, “It’s just that you and all these other women here seem so young.”
The virago’s granite face softened. She let go and tucked in a strand of steel-wool hair. “Did you really think so, dear?” she asked, beaming. “There, I’m sorry I got excited. A wee bit jealous, were you? Well, we’re broad-minded here in Novj Grad.” She patted Helena’s arm and walked off, smiling and jaunty.
Virgin Willie led off and they followed him. Ross’s knees were shaky. The virago had not known that to Helena “young” meant “stupid.”
The cook absently acknowledged smiles and nods as they walked. He was, obviously, a character. Between salutes he delivered a low-voiced, rapid-fire reaming to Ross and Helena. “Silly stunt. Didn’t you hear about the riots? Supposed to be arms caches somewhere here on the south side. Everybody’s nerves absolutely ragged. Somebody gets smashed up in traffic, they blame it on us. Don’t care where you’re from. Watch it next time.”
“We will, Willie,” Helena said contritely. “And I think you run an awfully nice restaurant.”
“Yeah,” said Ross, looking at her.
Willie muttered, “I guess you’re clear. You still staying at that hot pilot’s hangout? This is where we say goodbye, then. You turn left.”
He waddled on down the street. Helena said instantly, “I don’t remember a thing, Ross.”
“Okay,” he said. “You don’t remember a thing.”
She looked relieved and said brightly, “So let’s get back to the hotel.”
“Okay,” he said. Climbed the bar and tried to corner the … Halfway to the hotel he slowed, then stopped, and said, “I just thought of something. Maybe we’re not staying there any more. After last night why should Breuer carry us on her tab? I thought we’d have some money to carry us from the Cavallos by now—”
“The ship?” she asked in a small voice.
“Across the continent. Hell! Maybe Breuer forgave and forgot. Let’s try, anyway.”
They never got as far as the hotel. When they reached the square it stood on, there was a breathless rush and Bernie stood before them, panting and holding a hand over his chest. “In here,” he gasped, and nodded at
