Eros at Zenith: Book 2 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (4 page)

“The table,” repeated the Dragon Lady.

The
maitre d'
bowed and immediately led them up a steep incline where they could look down at the death throes of a galaxy as it was drawn into a black hole of ever-increasing dimensions.

Crane spent another few minutes observing the room, then looked at his menu.

“You're sure you're not hungry?” he said.

“Positive.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I want you to have some coffee; you won't be any use to me if you're sleepy.”

He signalled to a waiter, ordered soup, a mutated shellfish in cream sauce, and two cups of coffee.

“All right,” he said to her after the waiter had left.

“We might as well get to know each other, as long as we're going to be working together—which means that
I
might as well get to know
you
, since you've already read my dossier.” He paused. “How long have you been Chief of Security here?”

“19 years.”

“And before that?”

“I was a security guard here for six years.”

“25 years is a long time to spend in one place,” he commented.

“29 years, Mr. Crane.”

“Not unless my addition is wrong.”

“I was a prostitute for four years,” said the Dragon Lady.

“Oh?”

She nodded.

“A prostitute on this ship makes a lot more than a security guard,” he said. “What made you change?”

“I could see the handwriting on the wall, and I liked the ambience of the
Comet
.”

“What handwriting?”

“Look around you, Mr. Crane,” she replied.

“The men and women who work here are the finest physical specimens you're going to find anywhere in the Republic. And after four years of starving myself and working out in the gym every day, I figured it was a losing battle,” She smiled. “You can't imagine how I dreaded those Thursday weigh-ins.”

“You make it sound like you're all athletes,” he said.

“We are,” replied the Dragon Lady. “With one exception—
our
season never ends. Anyway, I looked around to see what else I could do, and since I'm neither a chef nor a technician, I applied for a job in Security, and they accepted me.”

“How long does the average prostitute last here?” asked Crane curiously.

“The
Comet
has no
average
prostitutes.”

“You know what I mean,” he said with a touch of irritation.

“Three to five years,” she replied. “I think eight is the record, even for our madams. No, I take that back: we had one, before my time, called the Leather Madonna, who made it for ten years.”

“I wish I knew where you people get your names,” said Crane.

“I never knew her, so I have no idea how she came by hers,” said the Dragon Lady. She paused as the waiter delivered their coffee and Crane's soup.

“Anyway, Security is a different story. Do you know that I'm only the second Chief of Security in the
Comet
's 46 years of existence?”

“No, I didn't know,” said Crane, sipping his soup.

“It's true. My predecessor, a man named Rasputin,”—Crane winced, but said nothing—“took me under his wing, so to speak, and taught me everything I know. And I've been a damned good Security Chief, too. I was rather hoping to retire with an unblemished record,” she added regretfully.

“You're off the hook on this one,” he replied. “If we don't come up with the killer, it's my neck that'll be on the chopping block, not yours.”

She shook her head. “It happened while
I
was in charge of the ship's security.”

“Then we'll catch him while you're in charge of the ship's security, and everyone will be happy,” said Crane, finishing his soup. “That was excellent,” he said, indicating the empty bowl. “If the rest of the meal is like this, I'm surprised that
all
the employees aren't lugging around a little extra weight.”

“No one can eat meals like this every day,” she said. “Not even me. They're much too rich.”

“
I
can.”

“But you're a very tense, very energetic young man. You work it all off.” She appraised him thoughtfully.

“Actually, you could do with fifteen more pounds.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked sardonically.

“Of course not,” she said with a laugh. “Professionally, all a patron ever had to be was alive, healthy, and possessed of a proper credit rating.”

“And a man,” added Crane.

“Usually.”

He was about to say something when the waiter reappeared with his shellfish, sitting atop a bed of rice and covered with a thick cream sauce.

“It's as good as it looks,” said Crane after taking a bite. “You're sure you don't want a taste?”

“No, thank you.” She paused. “You don't really eat a meal like this every day, do you?”

“Whenever I can,” he replied. “What's the good of making money if you can't enjoy it?”

“I got the feeling from your dossier that the only thing you really enjoyed was catching criminals.”

“You make me sound like some kind of avenging angel,” he said. “The thrill is in putting all the disparate pieces of the puzzle together. What happens to the killer after he's apprehended is really of very little concern to me.”

“Since you're not on a crusade to eradicate murder in our time, what led you to specialize in it?” asked the Dragon Lady.

“It gets the most publicity, so there's the best chance for advancement.”

“Would I be correct in assuming that you plan to be the Chairman of Vainmill by the time you're 40?” she asked with a smile.

“It would be nice,” he admitted. “However, I'm fully prepared to wait until I'm 45.”

“You sound as if you're serious.”

“It isn't one of the things I joke about,” he replied.

He finished his shellfish in silence, then signaled to the waiter and ordered Deluros-grown strawberries in a Rebecca sauce for dessert.

“God, if I could have eaten like that and kept my figure, I'd
still
be working in the Resort!” said the Dragon Lady.

“You didn't find it distasteful?”

“Not the work,” she replied. “Just the conditioning.”

He shrugged. “To each his own. Tell me about the Black Pearl.”

“What do you want to know about her?”

“I met her before. She's very beautiful, but so is everyone else on this ship. Why is
she
the madam?”

“She shares a quality in common with you.”

“And what is that?”

“She's a survivor.”

“And that's all?”

“Of course not. She's a very competent administrator, and she was bright enough to always be in the right place at the right time.”

“How long has she been the madam?”

“A little less than a year.”

“You've seen a lot of them come and go,” he noted. “How does she measure up?”

“She'll be a good one. She's still getting the feel of the job, but her priorities are right: she puts the
Comet
first, herself second, and everyone and everything else last.”

“Do all the madams come up through the ranks?”

“All but one,” she answered. “We imported one about 15 years ago, but it didn't work out.”

“Did you ever have one who hadn't worked as a prostitute?”

“That's like having a prizefight referee who didn't know the rules of boxing,” replied the Dragon Lady.

“The problems a madam deals with are unique, and so she requires unique knowledge and training to handle them.” She paused. “You look unconvinced.”

“I never had to be a murderer to know how one thinks.”

“It's not the same thing,” the Dragon Lady pointed out. “Her job is administrative; yours isn't. Why are you so interested in her?”

“If I'm going to be here for any length of time, I'm going to have to deal with her. I want to know what she's like.”

“I thought you said you met her.”

“I can always use a second opinion,” he responded, as the waiter arrived with his dessert. “What about Oglevie?”

“What about him?”

“The Black Pearl doesn't think too much of him.”

“He's very efficient at his job, as long as you don't turn your back on him.”

“Lazy?”

She smiled. “Ambitious.”

“Then why is he your second in command?”

“It's easier to keep an eye on him that way. And when I retire, he'll make a pretty good Security Chief. None of my objections to him concern the quality of his work.” She paused. “Still, I'm eight years from retirement. If a better prospect comes along...”

“These are marvelous strawberries,” he commented. “Would you like some?”

She stared at them, then sighed. “Just one,” she said, reaching across with a spoon. “My downfall,” she added wryly. “You wouldn't think that gaining one ounce per month is any great sin, but after a quarter of a century it really starts adding up.” She put the strawberry in her mouth. “Delicious!” she murmured.

“Then order some.”

She shook her head. “I'm on a diet. I lose my body weight every five years, but it doesn't seem to make much difference.” She stared at his plate. “Well, perhaps one more...”

“Have them all,” he said, shoving the strawberries across the table to her. “I'm finished.”

“I really shouldn't.”

“Eat them,” he said. “I'd like to feel your mind is on business once we walk out of here.”

“Funny,” she commented with a smile. “Guilt doesn't make them taste any worse.”

Suddenly the lights flickered, and Crane felt mildly disoriented.

“What's going on?” he asked. “Is there some kind of power failure?”

The Dragon Lady laughed. “Nothing as serious as that. It's just the death of the universe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The room, Mr. Crane. Take a look at it.”

He did so, and saw that one by one the galaxies were flickering and going out, that all Creation seemed to be contracting and coalescing into a tiny ball of energy. Soon the entire room was in total darkness except for one incredibly bright pinpoint of light.

Then the walls and the ramp around his table seemed to shudder, and suddenly the pinpoint exploded into a million embryonic stars and galaxies.

“The Big Bang?” he asked.

“Impressive, isn't it?” she replied. “That's why I like this restaurant above all the others. The cuisine is excellent in each of them, but where else can you watch the re-birth of the universe every two hours?”

He watched the dark clouds of gaseous matter begin to twinkle with stellar life and start swirling off into the distance, trailing the stuff of stars behind them like long, lazy tails.

“Impressive's as good a word as any,” he agreed. “How many projectors are required for an effect like this?”

“Well over 200,” she replied.

“It must have cost a great deal.”

“We
charge
a great deal,” she said, “so things even themselves out.”

“Are you through eating?” he asked, forcing his attention back to the table.

“Yes,” she said, rising.

“Just a minute,” he said. “I've got to sign for the meal.”

“No you don't, Mr. Crane,” she replied. “By now they know who you are.”

He shrugged. “I wonder why they use waiters at all, for that matter.”

“Most of our patrons like the human touch—and, of course, they can afford it.”

He followed her as the narrow ramp joined two others and wound its way down to the doorway. A few minutes later they were back in the reception foyer, watching two elegantly-dressed prostitutes take the escalator down to the tramway level.

“In retrospect,” remarked the Dragon Lady, “I wish we'd never gotten rid of the elevator.”

“There used to be an elevator here instead of an escalator?”

“Yes, but some of the prostitutes occasionally wore such elaborate costumes and headdresses that they couldn't fit into the confines of the elevator, and waiting for it also caused some traffic problems during our peak periods. So we ripped it out about ten years ago and replaced it with the escalator.” She sighed. “If we hadn't, the killer would have had to beat our security system in full view of everyone.”

“Speaking of your security system,” he said as they walked over to the escalator, “I thought you told me you had tightened it—but there was no one around when I took the tramway to the hospital.”

She looked amused. “Well, it could hardly be considered tight if an outsider could spot it.”

“The man in the suede suit who was sitting in the middle of the foyer?” he asked as they descended to the tramway.

“One of the cocktail waiters,” she replied. “If he hadn't known who you were this morning, you wouldn't have been permitted to get to the tram level.”

“If
he
knew who I was, why didn't the man at the other end of the computer?”

“Enoch Lyman? He knew.”

“Then why all the fuss about my retinagram?”

“He was just trying to impress you with his efficiency. After all, sooner or later you're going to report everything that happens to Vainmill.”

They reached the tramway level.

“How long before someone else follows us?” he asked.

“Who knows?” she replied. “I can seal off the area if you'd like.”

“Tell your guard not to let anyone down here for about ten minutes.” He waited for her to transmit the order via a small communicator. “You have no record of Infante trying to gain access to the tramway, right?”

“That's correct.”

“Neither here nor at the other two entrance points?”

She nodded.

“All right,” he said when they had reached the gate. “Call whoever monitors these things, have him wipe my credentials off the computer for five minutes, and tell him not to panic if we trip any alarms.”

While she was speaking to Security headquarters in low tones, Crane withdrew a plastic skeleton card and inserted it in the locking mechanism. The gate remained shut.

Next he took a small leather kit out of his pocket, withdrew a thin metal pin, and went to work on the lock with an expertise that surprised even her. After about ten seconds an alarm sounded, and she ordered Security to shut it off.

“All right,” he announced. “I think I know how they got into the tunnel. You've got more than just a scanning lens here, don't you? Where's the security camera—up in that corner?” He pointed to a darkened area where two walls joined the ceiling.