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Dressed in civilian clothes, a cap covering my hair, and carrying no visible weapons, I passed through Honolulu Airport without being noticed. This was not like entering the spaceports on Mars or in Salt Lake City where they had large security stations. Flights in and out of airports like the one in Honolulu originate on Earth and never leave the atmosphere. By the time you were on an Earth-bound jet, you were clean. You were clean, that is, unless you flew a rare self-broadcasting craft.
Freeman did not meet me in the airport. Being met by a seven-foot black man with arms like anacondas and tree trunks for legs did not lend itself to inconspicuousness. With nothing but an innocuous overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I strolled through the open air lobby of the private craft terminal and headed for the street. A few minutes later, Freeman swung by in a small rental car and I hopped into the passenger’s seat.
Freeman had selected a convertible. Most people drove these cars so that they could enjoy warm island weather; however, sun worship had nothing to do with Freeman’s decision. He simply did not fit in most cars. He sat scrunched behind the steering wheel, and everything above his nose was higher than the windshield. He looked like an adult trying to squeeze into a child’s go-cart.
“Have you ever been to this island before?” I asked Freeman, trying to ignore the sight of him in that driver’s seat.
He shook his head.
The Unified Authority maintained vacation spots on Earth as a way of reminding citizens on the 180 outworlds which planet was home. Hawaii was a living museum, and the only commerce conducted was tourist-related. Hawaii had a police force, garbage men, and air traffic controllers, but the only reason they were there was to keep the place nice for tourists. There were pineapple and sugarcane farms, but they were productive museum exhibits run by the government. They existed only to show visitors what island life had been like five hundred years before. Their production methods were antiquated and much of the produce was sold as souvenirs.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“There’s a place called Sad Sam’s Palace,” I said.
“The boxing arena you told me about?”
“Boxing, wrestling, professional fighters, amateur challenge. It all depends what night you go,” I said. “The Palace is near Waikiki. Can you find it?”
The March sky was a mixture of sunshine and shadow, and the city was drenched with moist air. Clouds the color of stainless steel gathered around the mountains to our left, choking out sunlight. To the right, the sky over the ocean was nearly clear.
Freeman and I drove along the outskirts of Honolulu. He sat in his seat, cramped behind the wheel, watching the road and quietly scanning every turn and approaching vehicle.
“I came in clean,” Freeman said. To avoid drawing attention to himself on Earth, as if a seven-foot black man could somehow make himself inconspicuous in this homogonous society, he took public transportation in from Mars. With a war brewing and security at an all-time high, he didn’t even bother trying to smuggle a gun in with him. “Any idea where I can find something?”
I thought about that for a moment. “No. Colorful shirts, yes. Alcohol, yes. I know where they sell a fruit drink that will knock you flat.”
“Where do you get the shirts?” Freeman asked.
“The International Marketplace,” I said. “It’s a bazaar for tourists. You want bathing suits, hats made with coconut leaves, candles, or Hawaiian shirts, that’s the spot. Guns …” I didn’t see any.
“Clean wholesome place?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Think you can find it?”
Finding the International Marketplace was no problem. It was in the middle of Waikiki, the heart of the tourist area. It was a wide open lot with trees and carts and buildings with walls made of faux lava rock. The time was just 1700 hours on what looked like a slow day. There was only a sprinkling of tourists around, and the sales people aggressively chased anyone who walked by their stands.
“You looking for sandals, sugar?” a girl called to me as we walked by her store. Not one customer stirred inside the store, just the sales girl and rows of shelves with leather and rubber sandals.
Freeman turned and glared at the woman and she shrank back.
“Didn’t see anything that you wanted?” I asked.
Freeman said nothing.
“Probably a good thing,” I said. “I doubt she had anything your size.”
We passed jewelry, candle, and clothes shops, and Freeman ignored them. Hucksters came to show us shirts and luggage. Freeman pushed past them without looking back. Then we passed a stand selling perfume and Freeman stopped. Beside the stand was a warty little man in shorts and a golf cap. The man had no shirt. His body was skinny but muscled. His stomach muscles showed distinctly, and his chest was flat and carved with sinew.
“Wait here,” Freeman growled. He went to the man and they spoke very quietly.
“Get specked!” the man yelled suddenly. “What kind of a store do you think this is.” He threw his hands in the air. Even reaching all the way up, the man’s fingers barely came level with Freeman’s eyes.
Freeman said something in his soft-thunder voice and the man lowered his hands.
“Go speck yourself!” the man yelled. “Who do you think you are?”
Freeman dug into his pocket and rolled out some dollars. I could not see how many dollars he peeled off, but I saw him place them on the counter. The warty man shook his head. Freeman laid out more. The man shook his head. Freeman peeled off two more bills. When Freeman went to retrieve his cash, the little man placed his hand over it.
Putting the money in the front pocket of his shorts, the warty little man trotted into a service corridor. He returned a few minutes later with a colorful red shirt folded into a neat square. The shirt did indeed look large enough for Freeman to wear.
Without saying a word, Freeman took the shirt and left. When we got back to the car, Freeman unfolded the shirt. Inside it he found a pistol and three clips filled with bullets.
“How did you know he’d have guns?” I asked.
Freeman looked at me in surprise. “Who would buy perfume from an asshole like that?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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