“Because they’re extremely hideous.” As Alex stepped out of his shoes to reveal canary-yellow socks, she felt the fabric of his jacket. “This, too. It feels like it’s made of hardboard and the style is pure geeker. It has to go. I have a reputation to protect.”
“What is this place?”
“Holy Rollers. The place to be. I knew you’d led a sheltered life, just from one look at you. What do you do when you’re not taking orders from Mummy?”
“I build predictive computer models for solar system simulation. I don’t take orders from my mother.” But he did. Alex glanced at the despised jacket, which had joined the crumpled mess of clothes on the floor. “I should be running my predictive model now.”
“Computer models. Boring. Boring beyond death.” Lucy rubbed at the ruby studs on his shirt. “These, on the other hand, are pretty damned fine. Rubies are right in this season, and bright yellow is daring.” She surveyed him again. “You’ll do, especially those socks. When we get inside and meet my friends, tell them that you’re Alex Ligon, of Ligon Industries. Nothing about models, and for God’s sake nothing about computers. I don’t want to have to disown you. Let’s see, where shall we go?”
She glanced at the three shimmering openings. “Not Hispano-Suizas, because apparently it’s doing virtuals tonight. And it’s a bit early for Bugattis, they do a slow first few laps. So it has to be Lagondas. You’re not certified, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Of course you’re not. Hold tight to my hand, or it won’t pass you.”
She grabbed Alex’s hand in her own — it was warm and surprisingly strong — and pulled him toward one of the openings. There was a tingle over his whole body, then he stepped through into a roar of sound and a flicker of colored lights.
“You wait right here,” Lucy shouted in his ear. “If someone asks you to dance, don’t accept. Don’t speak. Just shake your head.”
She eeled away to the left. Alex stood rigid, wondering how he had ever been so stupid as to come with her in the first place. Lagondas — if that was the right name — was packed with people, some slowly moving together in couples and trios and quartets, some leaning against counters along the sides of the big octagonal room, others sitting on isolated round objects like giant mushrooms. In four of the corners stood square columns about two meters high, from which long hoses protruded ending in some kind of shiny guns. The columns were labeled: 87, 89, 91, 93. A dozen people clustered around each one. Judging from the elaborate dress and jewelry, everyone was rich. The wall paintings showed ancient forms of personal transportation that had dominated Earth in previous centuries.
The level of noise was astonishing. Everyone seemed to be talking against a background of recorded sound, rhythmic dance music overlain with the whine and roar of high-revving engines and the scream of over-stressed tires. Alex smelled fumes, like incompletely-burned hydrocarbons. He wondered why Lucy Mobarak had worried about someone asking him to dance. Unless they screamed right into his ear, he would never hear the invitation.
And then someone was at his side, and shouting at him. It was a short blonde girl. He felt a touch on his foot, and looked down. She was wearing a scanty halter top, long pants of faded blue, and what seemed to be heavy boots. But those boots had to be fake, because the touch on the top of his own stockinged foot was soft and light.
“Hot socks!” She had to stand on tiptoe to get her mouth close to his ear. “I saw you arrive at the same time as Lucy Mondeo. Does she have your starting handle?”
Don’t speak. Just shake your head. Alex could have used more guidance.
He leaned down and shouted, “I came here with Lucy Mobarak.”
“Lucky Lucy.” She took his hand in both of hers and put her mouth so close to his left ear that her lips brushed it as she spoke. “What’s your name?”
“Alex Ligon.”
“Ligon?” She frowned. “I don’t know that one. Are you one of the custom-builts?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, “I’m Suky Studebaker, except outside when I’m Suky Sylva. Wait and see how the Mondeo works out. If it doesn’t, look me up.”
She plunged into a knot of people in front of Alex, but he didn’t have much time to ponder what that had been all about, because Lucy was at his side again.
“Didn’t I tell you not to talk to anyone while I was gone? Especially Suky Stu. She’s Lagondas’ hottest tailpipe, and she claims she’s done more laps than anyone. What did she say to you?”
“She asked me my name, and I said Alex Ligon.”
“That’s all right, but you’ll need another one. Let me think. You can be Alex Lotus, I don’t think that’s in use. And here, take this.”
Lucy was holding two tall glasses shaped like vertical trumpet horns with round balls at the lower end. She thrust one into Alex’s hand. It was filled with a pale pink liquid. Alex sniffed at it suspiciously. Bubbles rose lazily through the drink in response to Ganymede’s low gravity and burst to tickle his nose.
She laughed at him. “You don’t need to worry, I wouldn’t start us on high octane. Perfectly safe. Here’s to Ligons and Mobaraks.”
She raised her glass and took a long drink. Alex, more cautiously, did the same. The flavor was pleasant and he tasted no intoxicants or fizzes.
“What’s in this?”
Lucy shrugged. “Who bothers to ask? It’s called a Sebring Special, and it tastes right. That’s all I need to know. Like it?”
“It’s very good.” Alex took a second gulp, and bubbles tickled his mouth and throat. “Really good.”
“One of these, and maybe a Daytona Swizzle, then I’ll introduce you to a couple of friends. Do you dance?”
“I can.” One of the miseries of Alex’s youth had been dance lessons. For formal occasions, Alex, any Ligon must be able to give an adequate account of himself on a dance floor. “I’m not very good.”
“Nor am I. You don’t have to be.” Lucy gestured to the swaying groups of people. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“I guess I can.” Alex wouldn’t have called it dancing. There was everything from close body contact to couples gesturing to each other from two or three meters apart.
He followed Lucy’s lead and tilted his glass up again. This time the level was low enough for liquid to flow from the round ball at the lower end. He felt a tingle start on his tongue and follow the drink all the way down to his stomach. And suddenly the glass was empty.
Lucy was laughing at him. “Afterburner.” She drained her own glass. “Time to fill the tank. That’s Deirdre de Soto and her brother over by the ninety-one octane. We’ll go there, I’ll show you how to work a pump, then if you like we can all dance.”
Alex followed her around the perimeter of the octagonal room. He was becoming used to the noise, but the lurid colors of clothes and walls seemed to be brightening. He stood beside Lucy, waiting their turn at the pump. The shouted introductions to Deirdre and Dafyd de Soto were unintelligible, but Deirdre touched his foot with hers, which seemed to be some sort of custom in this place, and Lucy shouted at her, “Go easy. This is his first circuit, and he’s not ready for the pole position,” which made even less sense.
Deirdre, like Lucy, was barefoot. It seemed to Alex that she was close to bare-everything. She wore a thin halter and a miniskirt, and had a ruby set in her navel. She touched that stone, put her finger on one of the studs of Alex’s shirt, and said, “Snap!” Everyone around the pump except Alex burst out laughing.
The front of the square column contained a complex menu of options. Dafyd de Soto pressed a series of commands that charged his glass with fluid that changed color as the ball was filled, then showed Alex how to do the same thing. Apparently Alex did not get the combination exactly right, because the other three laughed again and Deirdre called out, “Hi-test already! Lucy, are you sure it’s his first circuit?”
Alex tasted what he had produced. It was different from the Sebring Special, slightly less sweet and with a subtle, bitter aftertaste. He preferred it. He moved along the room with the other three, listening but not saying anything. If they noticed that he was quiet, no one commented on it.
They came to the edge of the dance area. No one mentioned dancing, but Deirdre de Soto stood in front of
