Friday (30 page)

“Do you have tickets to sell? Is this money legal tender?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me. Please sell me a ticket. And give me your name and clock number in accordance with that notice posted back of your head.” I handed him the exact amount.

“Here’s your ticket.” He ignored my demand for his identification; I ignored his failure to comply with the regulations. I did not want a hooraw with his supervisor; I simply wanted to create a diversion from my own conspicuous eccentricity in using money rather than a credit card.

The capsule was crowded but I did not have to stand; a Galahad left over from the last century stood up and offered me his seat. He was young and not bad-looking and clearly was being gallant because he classed me as having the apposite female qualities.

I accepted with a smile and he stood over me and I did what I could to repay him by leaning forward a bit and letting him look down my neckline. Young Lochinvar seemed to feel repaid—he stared the whole way—and it cost me nothing and was no trouble. I appreciated his interest and what it got me in comfort—sixty minutes is a long time to stand up to the heavy surges of an express capsule.

As we got out at Vancouver he asked me if I had any plans for lunch. Because, if I didn’t, he knew of a really great place, the Bayshore Inn. Or if I liked Japanese or Chinese food—

I said that I was sorry but I had to be in Bellingham by noon.

Instead of accepting the brush-off, his face lit up. “That’s a happy coincidence! I’m going to Bellingham, too, but I thought I would wait until after lunch. We can have lunch together in Bellingham. Is it a deal?”

(Isn’t there something in international law about crossing international boundaries for immoral purposes? But can the simple, straightforward rut of this youngster correctly be classed as “immoral”? An artificial person
never
understands human people’s sexual codes; all we can do is memorize them and try to stay out of trouble. But this isn’t easy; human sexual codes are as contorted as a plate of spaghetti.)

My attempt at polite brush-off having failed, I was forced to decide quickly whether to be rude or to go along with his clear purpose. I scolded myself: Friday, you are a big girl now; you know better. If you intended to give him no hope whatever of getting you into bed, the time to back out was when he offered you his seat at Winnipeg.

I made one more attempt: “It’s a deal,” I answered, “if I am allowed to pay the check, with no argument.” This was a dirty trick on my part, as we both knew that, if he let me pay for lunch, that canceled his investment in me of one hour of standing up and hanging on and fighting the surge of the capsule. But barnyard protocol did not allow him to claim the investment; his act of gallantry was supposed to be disinterested, knightly, no reward expected.

The dirty, sneaking, underhanded, rutty scoundrel proceeded to chuck protocol.

“All right,” he answered.

I swallowed my astonishment. “No argument later? It’s
my
check?”

“No argument,” he agreed. “Obviously you don’t want to be under the nominal obligation of the price of a lunch even though I issued the invitation and therefore should have a host’s privilege. I don’t know what I have done to annoy you but I will not force on you even a trivial obligation. There is a McDonald’s at surface level as we arrive in Bellingham; I’ll have a Big Mac and a Coke. You pay for it. Then we can part friends.”

I answered, “I’m Marjorie Baldwin; what is your name?”

“I’m Trevor Andrews, Marjorie.”

“Trevor. That’s a nice name. Trevor, you are dirty, sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. So take me to the best restaurant in Bellingham, ply me with fine liquor and gourmet food, and
you
pay the check. I’ll give you a fair chance to sell your fell designs. But I don’t think that you will get me into bed; I’m not feeling receptive.”

That last was a lie; I was feeling receptive and very rutty—had he possessed my enhanced sense of smell he would have been certain of it. Just as I was certain of his rut toward me. A human male cannot possibly dissemble with an AP female who has enhanced senses. I learned this at menarche. But of course I am never offended by male rut. At most I sometimes imitate a human woman’s behavior by pretending to be offended. I don’t do this often and tend to avoid it; I’m not that convincing an actress.

From Vicksburg to Winnipeg I had felt no sexual urge. But, with a double night’s sleep, a hot, hot bath with lots of soap, plenty of food, my body now was restored to its normal behavior. So why was I lying about it to this harmless stranger? “Harmless?” In any rational sense, yes. Short of corrective surgery I am sterile. I am not inclined to catch even a sniffle and I am specifically immunized against the four commonest venereal diseases. I was taught in crèche to class coition with eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping, playing, talking, cuddling—the pleasant necessities that make life a happiness instead of a burden.

I lied to him because human rules call for a lie at that point in the dance—and I was passing as human and didn’t dare be honestly myself.

He blinked down at me. “You feel that I would be wasting my investment?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”

“You’re mistaken. I never try to get a woman into bed; if she wants me in her bed, she will find some way to let me know. If she does
not
want me there, then I would not enjoy being there. But you seem to be unaware of the fact that it is worth the price of a good lunch just to sit and look at you, while ignoring any silly babble that comes out of your mouth.”

“Babble! That had better be a
very
good restaurant. Let’s catch the shuttle.”

I had thought that I might have to argue my way through the barrier on arrival.

But the CHI officer looked most carefully at Trevor’s IDs before validating his tourist card, then barely glanced at my San Jose MasterCard and waved me on through. I waited for Trevor just past the CHI barrier and looked at the sign
THE BREAKFAST BAR
while feeling double
déjà vu
.

Trevor joined me. “If I had seen,” he said mournfully, “that gold card you were flashing just now, I would not have offered to pay for the lunch. You’re a wealthy heiress.”

“Now look, buster,” I answered, “a deal’s a deal. You told me it was worth the price just to sit and drool over me, In spite of my ‘babble.’ I’m willing to cooperate to the extent of easing the neckline a little. One button, maybe two. But I won’t let you back out. Even a rich heiress likes to show a profit now and then.”

“Oh, the shame and the pity of it all!”

“Quit complaining. Where’s this gourmet restaurant?”

“Well, now—Marjorie, I’m forced to admit that I don’t know the restaurants in this glittering metropolis. Will you name the one you prefer?”

“Trevor, your seduction technique is terrible.”

“So my wife says.”

“I thought you had that harness-broken look. Get out her picture. Back in a moment; I’m going to find out where we eat.”

I caught the CHI officer between shuttles, asked him for the name of the best restaurant. He looked thoughtful. “This isn’t Paris, you know.”

“I noticed.”

“Or even New Orleans. If I were you, I would go to the Hilton dining room.”

I thanked him, went back to Trevor. “We’re eating in the dining room, two floors up. Unless you want to send out your spies. Now let’s see her picture.”

He showed me a wallet picture. I looked at it carefully, then gave a respectful whistle. Blondes intimidate me. When I was little, I thought I could get to be that color if I scrubbed hard enough. “Trevor, with that at home why are you picking up loose women on the streets?”

“Are you loose?”

“Quit trying to change the subject.”

“Marjorie, you wouldn’t believe me and you would babble. Let’s go up to the dining room before all the martinis dry up.”

Lunch was okay but Trevor did not have Georges’ imagination, knowledge of cooking, and skill at intimidating a maître d’hôtel. Without Georges’ flair the food was good, standard, North American cuisine, the same in Bellingham as in Vicksburg.

I was preoccupied; discovering that Janet’s credit card had been invalidated had upset me almost more than the horrid disappointment of not finding Ian and Janet at home. Was Janet in trouble?
Was she dead?

And Trevor had lost some of the cheerful enthusiasm a stud should display when the game is afoot. Instead of staring lecherously at me, he too seemed preoccupied. Why the change in manner? My demand to see a picture of his wife? Had I made him self-conscious thereby? It seems to me that a man should not engage in the hunt unless he is on such terms with his wife or wives that he can recount the lurid details at home to be giggled over. Like Ian. I don’t expect a man to “protect my reputation” because, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they never do. If I want a man to refrain from discussing my sweaty clumsiness in bed, the only solution is to stay out of bed with him.

Besides, Trevor had mentioned his wife first, hadn’t he? I reviewed it—yes, he had.

After lunch he perked up some. I was telling him to come back here after his business appointment because I was punching in as a guest in order to have comfort as well as privacy in making satellite calls (true) and that I might stay overnight (also true), so come back and call me and I would meet him in the lounge (conditionally true—I was so lonely and troubled I suspected that I would tell him to come straight up).

He answered, “I’ll call first so that you can get that man out but I’ll come straight up. No need to make the trip twice. But I’ll send the bubbly up; I won’t carry it.”

“Hold it,” I said. “You have not yet sold me your nefarious purpose. All I promised was the opportunity to present your sales talk. In the lounge. Not in my bedroom.”

“Marjorie, you’re a hard woman.”

“No, you’re a hard man. I know what I’m doing.” A sudden satori told me that I did know. “How do you feel about artificial persons? Would you want your sister to marry one?”

“Do you know one who might be willing to? Sis is getting to be a bit long in the tooth; she can’t afford to be particular.”

“Don’t try to evade me. Would
you
marry one?”

“What would the neighbors think? Marjorie, how do you know I haven’t? You saw my wife’s picture. Artifacts are supposed to make the very best wives, horizontally or vertically.”

“Concubines, you mean. It isn’t necessary to marry them. Trevor, you not only are not married to one; you don’t know anything about them but the popular myths…or you wouldn’t say ‘artifact’ when the subject is ‘artificial persons.’”

“I’m sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. I misused the term so that you would not suspect that I am one.”

“Oh, babble! You aren’t one, or I would know it. And while you probably would go to bed with one, you wouldn’t dream of marrying one. This is a futile discussion; let’s adjourn it. I need about two hours; don’t be surprised if my room terminal is busy. Tape a message and curl up with a good drink; I’ll be down as soon as possible.”

I punched in at the desk and went up, not to the bridal suite—in the absence of Georges that lovely extravagance would have made me
triste
—but to a very nice room with a good, big, wide bed, a luxury I had ordered from a deep suspicion that Trevor’s low-key (almost reverse) salesmanship was going to cause him to wind up in it. The difficult louse.

I put the thought aside and got to work.

I called the Vicksburg Hilton. No, Mr. and Mrs. Perreault had punched out. No, no forwarding address. Sorree!

So was I, and that synthetic computer voice was no comfort. I called McGill University in Montréal and wasted twenty minutes “learning” that, Yes, Dr. Perreault was a senior member of this university but was now at the University of Manitoba. The only new fact was that this Montréal computer synthesized English or French with equal ease and always answered in the language in which it was addressed. Very clever, these electron pushers—too clever, in my opinion.

I tried Janet’s (Ian’s) call code in Winnipeg, learned that their terminal was out of service at the subscribers’ request. I wondered why I had been able to receive news on the terminal in the Hole earlier this day. Did “out of service” mean only “no incoming calls”? Was such arcanum a close-held secret of S.T. and T.?

ANZAC Winnipeg bounced me around through parts of its computer meant for the traveling public before I got a human voice to admit that Captain Tormey was on leave because of the Emergency and the interruption of flights to New Zealand.

Ian’s Auckland code answered only with music and an invitation to record a message, which was no surprise as Ian would not be there until semiballistic service resumed. But I had thought that I might catch Betty and/or Freddie.

How could one go to New Zealand with the SBs out of service? You can’t ride a seahorse; they’re too small. Did those big waterborne, Shipstone-driven freighters ever carry passengers? I didn’t think they had accommodations. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that some of them didn’t even have crews?

I believed that I had a detailed knowledge of ways to travel superior to the professional knowledge of travel agents because, as a courier, I often moved around by means that tourists can’t use and ordinary commercial travelers don’t know about. It vexed me to realize that I had never given thought to how to outwit the fates when all SBs are grounded. But there is a way, there is
always
a way. I ticked it off in my mind as a problem to solve—later.

I called the University of Sydney, spoke with a computer, but at last got a human voice that admitted knowing Professor Farnese but he was on sabbatical leave. No, private call codes and addresses were never given out—sorry. Perhaps customer service might help me.

The Sydney information service computer seemed lonely, as it was willing to chat with me endlessly—anything but admit that either Federico or Elizabeth Farnese was in its net. I listened to a sales pitch for the World’s Biggest Bridge (it isn’t) and the World’s Grandest Opera House (it is), so come Down Under and—I switched off reluctantly; a friendly computer with a Strine accent is better company than most people, human or my sort.