Players at the Game of People (3 page)
Read Players at the Game of People Online
Authors: John Brunner
It being the day it was, nobody but one of her oldest acquaintances
(friends? Somehow the concept rang false, but there it was, to be put up
with) could have walked in and stated his, or her, requirements. She was,
though, awaiting Godwin; they had known each other for quite a while.
It was preferable not to put a number to the years.
She looked him over in the high-ceilinged room, lit with pitiless
fluorescents, where she plied her trade. She was a handsome, square-faced,
ash-blond woman who had decided to appear forty and lay claim to fifty
because of Signe Hasso in
L'Éternel Retour
. . . which, in fact,
was the name of her shop. Her hobby, which dated back to the time when
she was reading biology at university, was the raising of exotic plants.
Currently she had a species which glowed with a rich deep sheen whenever
it decided to cross the floor in search of a new location. She had half
a dozen trays of earth set out, and electronic gear which provoked the
response, and when Godwin came in, three of the things -- plump, luscious,
like cacti but luminous and far more graceful -- were under way from
one to another rooting site. The first was ruby-red, the next yellow,
and the third shone with a vibrant blue.
"Perfect timing!" Irma crowed as Godwin entered. "Aren't they darling?
Are they not perfectly and entirely darling?"
She spoke with especial fervor. Almost all her clients -- for obvious
reasons -- were forbidden to see and admire her treasures, and a visit
from someone who was allowed to witness her achievement was to be
exploited to the full.
Godwin, though, was aching from head to toe. Whatever his body had had to
put up with recently, it had taken a gigantic toll of his resources.
As he stripped off his clothes and prepared to lie down under the apparatus
which Irma was marshaling, he could only say curtly, "Yes -- very pretty!
But what happened to the Regulan plants you had before?"
"Rigelian!" she corrected sharply, pushing him with a firm hand into
the right position on the table, which was broad and white and cold,
and very hard. "Yes, they were all very well in their way, but they
couldn't stand the nitrogen . . . or was it the carbon monoxide? No,
that was the ones I had before . . . Oh, never mind!" -- with a sketch
for a laugh. "They are lovely, these, aren't they?"
"Gorgeous!" he said with feigned enthusiasm, shutting his eyes. "Where
are they from?"
"Oh, I don't know! Somewhere interesting, I think . . . What
have
you
been doing to yourself?" -- as she probed and tested his body tissue.
"I hope you've allowed plenty of time, because you don't look in the least
like you ought to at your age."
That was a gibe, and he resigned himself to it; it was deserved. It was
Irma's talent to correct him so that every time he came back he would
always leave here looking precisely as someone of thirty-two ought
currently to look.
And not, of course, him alone.
Her mood improved as soon as she set about her work, as always. While
she was removing his surplus fat she began to hum, and by the time she
got around to erasing his wrinkles -- not just from his face, but from
every inch of his skin -- she was cheerful enough to start boasting.
"Say, know who I had in here yesterday? Bruce Bastard-Bitch of the
Claimjumpers!
You
know! This Aussie sick-rock group they're all talking
about now! Was he a
mess
! I swear, I don't know what they get up to
down under to ruin their bodies in such short order. Of course if they
had" -- archly -- " guidance . . . !"
Meantime she was readjusting his hairline to correspond with the present
fashion and dehydrating him of a kilo of superfluous fluid. He could feel
the tingling sensation as it flowed out through his pores, taking with
it the fatigue products accumulated around his strains and bruises.
He relaxed, and despite the discomfort began to feel quite sympathetic
toward her. Almost, indeed, affectionate.
"I suppose you
do
have to keep up that level of 17-ketosteroids, but
it sure plays hell with your follicles," she sighed as she checked his
hormone count. It was one of her minor abilities, to be able to sigh
at such length. But he tolerated it, just as he did her belief in being
guided. It was, after all, one way of putting it . . .
"Now let's do something about the accommodation of that right eye of
yours," she continued, shuffling her machines around and bringing to bear
one which focused a dim green light on his retina. " Oh, yes. Still a
bit lazy, just as I thought. Won't take a moment, though . . . What's
new with you, by the way?"
"Oh, nothing much . . ." But it was scarcely worth the doing unless
there were people he could tell, and there were so few of them. He came
out with it directly.
"I won the George Medal for rescuing a kid during the Blitz. I saved
her life."
"You never!" But it wasn't a contradiction, only an exclamation. "I always
knew you had it in you! Well, well, you actually won a medal! Did you get
it from the king in person?"
"Yes. Want me to prove it with a press cutting?"
Already on first recounting it seemed far away and irrelevant. His eye
had been attended to and everything in the room, including the faint
reflections on the bright white tiles as the plants wandered from soil
tray to soil tray, gleaming amber now and russet and orange, was far
too sharply in focus for his comfort. Next, he knew, needles would
probe his neck and shoulder muscles, eliminating rheumatoid plaques,
and after that she would set about the business of updating him. She
was invariably meticulous; every time he left here, he looked exactly
as a contemporary thirty-two-year-old should.
But it was not always a pleasant experience.
"A George Medal!" she was repeating, as though to savor the very shape
of the words. "Well, well! God, I bet you wish you could go around
telling everybody!"
That idea was so patently absurd it was uncomfortable. Rolling over at
her insistence so she could insert her needles, he caught sight of the
plants again and said with an effort, "They certainly are very pretty,
these new things of yours. Where did you say they came from?"
"Oh -- one of the planets of Sirius, I think," she answered absently.
"Just a second. Don't move, don't even breathe . . . Got it. Ah -- yes,
Sirius or somewhere. But you should see the big ones I have at home!
Taller than me, and
so
graceful! You really ought to drop around some
time. What about tonight?"
He knew and she knew what the response was sure to be, but he was glad
to be able to say honestly, "I'm afraid not. I'm being called."
"I see. That's why you're here, hm?" she said with affected nonchalance.
"Okay, there goes your rheumatism. Now we'll service your face and hands
and that'll do."
Her voice betrayed her, though. It must have been a long while since
she was called. Clearly she wasn't relishing retirement. Moreover,
since she and he dated back to about the same time . . .
But she put a brave face on it, and a moment later as she reorganized
his eyebrows she was saying, "I'm going to win a trophy at the Chelsea
Flower Show, you know. For gladioli, I think. And tomorrow -- I mean on
Monday -- you'll never guess who's coming for the first time! Candida
Bright! You know, the actress who just won the best-of-year award on ITV?"
Not, of course, to enjoy this kind of treatment. Godwin said absently,
"When?"
"Oh, last month some time, I think. It was in the papers."
"No, I meant the trophy."
Even before the words were out, he realized how tactless they were.
"Soon, let's hope!" he added heartily as she stood back and indicated
that he could get up and dress. The addition provoked a wan smile.
She ushered him personally to the door and kissed him on both cheeks
before letting him out into the street. As he strode away, she called,
"Do remember what I said about dropping by some time, won't you?"
That obliged him to turn around and wave back and thus look at her again.
He would much have preferred not to see her as she was with her defenses
down: as other people were not privileged to see her, as she should never
have been seen at all.
For that insight, too, there was of course a reason.
A proper caution.
The evening was cool but at least it was dry. Godwin drove to the
underground car-park in Park Lane and left the Urraco there, jingling the
hotel key he had found. Crossing the road, he noticed that the whores
and beggars were out in force tonight, though traffic was naturally
as light as it always was nowadays. Half a dozen couples of police --
one man, one woman -- were trying to prevent people being accosted,
but it was a job like painting the Forth Bridge. Driven from one spot,
the nuisance rematerialized elsewhere a moment later.
Seeing him approach, one of the commissionaires on duty before the Global
Hotel reacted alertly. "Good evening, sir!" he exclaimed as he trod on
the pad before the automatic sliding doors to save Godwin the fractional
delay involved in doing so himself.
"Good evening -- ah . . . ?" Godwin said as he slid a pound into the
man's white-gloved hand.
"Jackson, sir!"
"Thank you, Jackson."
He walked into the foyer, which at this time of evening was full of
customers smartly dressed for an evening on the town. He recognized
several people who were household names -- actors, politicians,
businessmen -- and was himself recognized, even though he did not recall
ever being here before. But that was the way of things in his life.
"No messages, sir!" the girl on the reception desk twinkled at him.
"But I reserved your table in our disco, which opens at ten o'clock."
"Thank you, Molly," he said, reading her name off the badge she wore
pinned to her crisp white shirt, and left another pound lying discreetly
on the counter.
Glancing around as he turned away, he saw a head of fair hair above
a lean, muscular back, and for a second could have imagined . . . but
no. It belonged to a young man; when he turned, he revealed a beard. And
why should he be paying attention to that kind of thing, anyhow?
All the staff he encountered as he went up to his room -- correction:
"his" room -- beamed at him. Entering it, he discovered awaiting him a
bottle of champagne and a basket of fruit, the card accompanying which
said they came with the compliments of the management.
He nodded thoughtful approval of all that that implied. In the early
days there had sometimes been disasters to sort out. As time passed,
this kind of thing had become more and more typical. One might put it
down to increasing skill, born of frequent practice.
Or perhaps it was due to something else entirely. There was no means of
finding out, so there was no point in worrying about it.
He called room service for caviar, an underdone steak and a tossed salad,
and ate quietly on his own, not touching the champagne. He could only drink
in the safety of his own home. But he sampled the fruit and found it
delicious.
Lighting another of his favorite petit coronas, he went down to the
hotel discothèque a few minutes after ten.
This early, it was almost empty apart from staff. Its roof was mirrored at
crazy angles. Chairs and tables were grouped to form a horseshoe. In the
center was a dais of thick glass, over water kept constantly in motion,
on which were reflected lights that constantly changed color. A bar ran
down one wall, and at it sat some bored-looking prostitutes tolerated
by the management -- conceivably because they kicked back a portion of
their takings. It was a very stock scene indeed.
The DI looked bored as he sorted through his supply of tapes and records;
the barmen were yawning as though they had only just got up; the women
were much too heavily painted, as though expecting to be viewed on stage
by people the far side of footlights, not at close quarters. One girl,
tawny-skinned and slender, was on the dance floor writhing and gyrating,
but she was like the token coin in the collection tray.
"Ah, good evening, sir!" a waitress said, purring up to him. "We have
the same table for you as last night and the night before. I'm afraid we
weren't expecting you quite so early, so I haven't set out your champagne
yet -- "
"Coke," he said.
She blinked at him. She was pretty, brown-haired, youthful.
"Coke," be repeated. Her face fell, but she only shrugged and said nothing
as she turned away, expecting him -- of course -- to know which table he
had reserved.
Instead, he remained where he was, glancing about him and wondering
what he was here for. He knew, of course, in the broadest sense, but
the details so far were elusive. There was nothing for it but to wait.
The girl returned, bringing his Coke and also carrying an enormous menu
which, as she indicated his table and he sat down at it, she thrust
into his hands. He did no more than glance at it, registering that it
offered extremely basic food -- hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pizza, kebabs
-- at stratospheric prices . . . not, of course, that that could worry
him. But he gave it back to her almost at once with a shake of his head.
"I ate already," he muttered, and leaned back to savor the last of his
cigar.
She gave him an extremely puzzled look, but departed with another shrug,
and in a little while was seen to be talking with the headwaiter. Both
of them kept casting glances in his direction. Godwin ignored them, and
very shortly they were distracted as new customers arrived. Within half
an hour or so there were twenty people present and four young couples
were dancing under the randomly changing lights -- and above them. The
effect of the reflection from the ripples was colorful and imaginative;
he watched it most of the time he was sitting alone.
Now and then he was interrupted by the passage of one or other waiter or
waitress, each of whom greeted him cordially and hovered for a while,
clearly expecting him to place an order. As each in turn moved away
disappointed, they wore identical looks of perplexity.
It grew very warm in the room. One of the girls, who had come in with a
fat, father-old escort, took off her blouse and started dancing topless;
another, not to be outdone, peeled off her dress and danced in bikini
panties, barefooted. Both were young and quite attractive, and for
a while Godwin wondered whether he should be interested in them. But
neither seemed to show any sign of recognition.
(friends? Somehow the concept rang false, but there it was, to be put up
with) could have walked in and stated his, or her, requirements. She was,
though, awaiting Godwin; they had known each other for quite a while.
It was preferable not to put a number to the years.
She looked him over in the high-ceilinged room, lit with pitiless
fluorescents, where she plied her trade. She was a handsome, square-faced,
ash-blond woman who had decided to appear forty and lay claim to fifty
because of Signe Hasso in
L'Éternel Retour
. . . which, in fact,
was the name of her shop. Her hobby, which dated back to the time when
she was reading biology at university, was the raising of exotic plants.
Currently she had a species which glowed with a rich deep sheen whenever
it decided to cross the floor in search of a new location. She had half
a dozen trays of earth set out, and electronic gear which provoked the
response, and when Godwin came in, three of the things -- plump, luscious,
like cacti but luminous and far more graceful -- were under way from
one to another rooting site. The first was ruby-red, the next yellow,
and the third shone with a vibrant blue.
"Perfect timing!" Irma crowed as Godwin entered. "Aren't they darling?
Are they not perfectly and entirely darling?"
She spoke with especial fervor. Almost all her clients -- for obvious
reasons -- were forbidden to see and admire her treasures, and a visit
from someone who was allowed to witness her achievement was to be
exploited to the full.
Godwin, though, was aching from head to toe. Whatever his body had had to
put up with recently, it had taken a gigantic toll of his resources.
As he stripped off his clothes and prepared to lie down under the apparatus
which Irma was marshaling, he could only say curtly, "Yes -- very pretty!
But what happened to the Regulan plants you had before?"
"Rigelian!" she corrected sharply, pushing him with a firm hand into
the right position on the table, which was broad and white and cold,
and very hard. "Yes, they were all very well in their way, but they
couldn't stand the nitrogen . . . or was it the carbon monoxide? No,
that was the ones I had before . . . Oh, never mind!" -- with a sketch
for a laugh. "They are lovely, these, aren't they?"
"Gorgeous!" he said with feigned enthusiasm, shutting his eyes. "Where
are they from?"
"Oh, I don't know! Somewhere interesting, I think . . . What
have
you
been doing to yourself?" -- as she probed and tested his body tissue.
"I hope you've allowed plenty of time, because you don't look in the least
like you ought to at your age."
That was a gibe, and he resigned himself to it; it was deserved. It was
Irma's talent to correct him so that every time he came back he would
always leave here looking precisely as someone of thirty-two ought
currently to look.
And not, of course, him alone.
Her mood improved as soon as she set about her work, as always. While
she was removing his surplus fat she began to hum, and by the time she
got around to erasing his wrinkles -- not just from his face, but from
every inch of his skin -- she was cheerful enough to start boasting.
"Say, know who I had in here yesterday? Bruce Bastard-Bitch of the
Claimjumpers!
You
know! This Aussie sick-rock group they're all talking
about now! Was he a
mess
! I swear, I don't know what they get up to
down under to ruin their bodies in such short order. Of course if they
had" -- archly -- " guidance . . . !"
Meantime she was readjusting his hairline to correspond with the present
fashion and dehydrating him of a kilo of superfluous fluid. He could feel
the tingling sensation as it flowed out through his pores, taking with
it the fatigue products accumulated around his strains and bruises.
He relaxed, and despite the discomfort began to feel quite sympathetic
toward her. Almost, indeed, affectionate.
"I suppose you
do
have to keep up that level of 17-ketosteroids, but
it sure plays hell with your follicles," she sighed as she checked his
hormone count. It was one of her minor abilities, to be able to sigh
at such length. But he tolerated it, just as he did her belief in being
guided. It was, after all, one way of putting it . . .
"Now let's do something about the accommodation of that right eye of
yours," she continued, shuffling her machines around and bringing to bear
one which focused a dim green light on his retina. " Oh, yes. Still a
bit lazy, just as I thought. Won't take a moment, though . . . What's
new with you, by the way?"
"Oh, nothing much . . ." But it was scarcely worth the doing unless
there were people he could tell, and there were so few of them. He came
out with it directly.
"I won the George Medal for rescuing a kid during the Blitz. I saved
her life."
"You never!" But it wasn't a contradiction, only an exclamation. "I always
knew you had it in you! Well, well, you actually won a medal! Did you get
it from the king in person?"
"Yes. Want me to prove it with a press cutting?"
Already on first recounting it seemed far away and irrelevant. His eye
had been attended to and everything in the room, including the faint
reflections on the bright white tiles as the plants wandered from soil
tray to soil tray, gleaming amber now and russet and orange, was far
too sharply in focus for his comfort. Next, he knew, needles would
probe his neck and shoulder muscles, eliminating rheumatoid plaques,
and after that she would set about the business of updating him. She
was invariably meticulous; every time he left here, he looked exactly
as a contemporary thirty-two-year-old should.
But it was not always a pleasant experience.
"A George Medal!" she was repeating, as though to savor the very shape
of the words. "Well, well! God, I bet you wish you could go around
telling everybody!"
That idea was so patently absurd it was uncomfortable. Rolling over at
her insistence so she could insert her needles, he caught sight of the
plants again and said with an effort, "They certainly are very pretty,
these new things of yours. Where did you say they came from?"
"Oh -- one of the planets of Sirius, I think," she answered absently.
"Just a second. Don't move, don't even breathe . . . Got it. Ah -- yes,
Sirius or somewhere. But you should see the big ones I have at home!
Taller than me, and
so
graceful! You really ought to drop around some
time. What about tonight?"
He knew and she knew what the response was sure to be, but he was glad
to be able to say honestly, "I'm afraid not. I'm being called."
"I see. That's why you're here, hm?" she said with affected nonchalance.
"Okay, there goes your rheumatism. Now we'll service your face and hands
and that'll do."
Her voice betrayed her, though. It must have been a long while since
she was called. Clearly she wasn't relishing retirement. Moreover,
since she and he dated back to about the same time . . .
But she put a brave face on it, and a moment later as she reorganized
his eyebrows she was saying, "I'm going to win a trophy at the Chelsea
Flower Show, you know. For gladioli, I think. And tomorrow -- I mean on
Monday -- you'll never guess who's coming for the first time! Candida
Bright! You know, the actress who just won the best-of-year award on ITV?"
Not, of course, to enjoy this kind of treatment. Godwin said absently,
"When?"
"Oh, last month some time, I think. It was in the papers."
"No, I meant the trophy."
Even before the words were out, he realized how tactless they were.
"Soon, let's hope!" he added heartily as she stood back and indicated
that he could get up and dress. The addition provoked a wan smile.
She ushered him personally to the door and kissed him on both cheeks
before letting him out into the street. As he strode away, she called,
"Do remember what I said about dropping by some time, won't you?"
That obliged him to turn around and wave back and thus look at her again.
He would much have preferred not to see her as she was with her defenses
down: as other people were not privileged to see her, as she should never
have been seen at all.
For that insight, too, there was of course a reason.
A proper caution.
The evening was cool but at least it was dry. Godwin drove to the
underground car-park in Park Lane and left the Urraco there, jingling the
hotel key he had found. Crossing the road, he noticed that the whores
and beggars were out in force tonight, though traffic was naturally
as light as it always was nowadays. Half a dozen couples of police --
one man, one woman -- were trying to prevent people being accosted,
but it was a job like painting the Forth Bridge. Driven from one spot,
the nuisance rematerialized elsewhere a moment later.
Seeing him approach, one of the commissionaires on duty before the Global
Hotel reacted alertly. "Good evening, sir!" he exclaimed as he trod on
the pad before the automatic sliding doors to save Godwin the fractional
delay involved in doing so himself.
"Good evening -- ah . . . ?" Godwin said as he slid a pound into the
man's white-gloved hand.
"Jackson, sir!"
"Thank you, Jackson."
He walked into the foyer, which at this time of evening was full of
customers smartly dressed for an evening on the town. He recognized
several people who were household names -- actors, politicians,
businessmen -- and was himself recognized, even though he did not recall
ever being here before. But that was the way of things in his life.
"No messages, sir!" the girl on the reception desk twinkled at him.
"But I reserved your table in our disco, which opens at ten o'clock."
"Thank you, Molly," he said, reading her name off the badge she wore
pinned to her crisp white shirt, and left another pound lying discreetly
on the counter.
Glancing around as he turned away, he saw a head of fair hair above
a lean, muscular back, and for a second could have imagined . . . but
no. It belonged to a young man; when he turned, he revealed a beard. And
why should he be paying attention to that kind of thing, anyhow?
All the staff he encountered as he went up to his room -- correction:
"his" room -- beamed at him. Entering it, he discovered awaiting him a
bottle of champagne and a basket of fruit, the card accompanying which
said they came with the compliments of the management.
He nodded thoughtful approval of all that that implied. In the early
days there had sometimes been disasters to sort out. As time passed,
this kind of thing had become more and more typical. One might put it
down to increasing skill, born of frequent practice.
Or perhaps it was due to something else entirely. There was no means of
finding out, so there was no point in worrying about it.
He called room service for caviar, an underdone steak and a tossed salad,
and ate quietly on his own, not touching the champagne. He could only drink
in the safety of his own home. But he sampled the fruit and found it
delicious.
Lighting another of his favorite petit coronas, he went down to the
hotel discothèque a few minutes after ten.
This early, it was almost empty apart from staff. Its roof was mirrored at
crazy angles. Chairs and tables were grouped to form a horseshoe. In the
center was a dais of thick glass, over water kept constantly in motion,
on which were reflected lights that constantly changed color. A bar ran
down one wall, and at it sat some bored-looking prostitutes tolerated
by the management -- conceivably because they kicked back a portion of
their takings. It was a very stock scene indeed.
The DI looked bored as he sorted through his supply of tapes and records;
the barmen were yawning as though they had only just got up; the women
were much too heavily painted, as though expecting to be viewed on stage
by people the far side of footlights, not at close quarters. One girl,
tawny-skinned and slender, was on the dance floor writhing and gyrating,
but she was like the token coin in the collection tray.
"Ah, good evening, sir!" a waitress said, purring up to him. "We have
the same table for you as last night and the night before. I'm afraid we
weren't expecting you quite so early, so I haven't set out your champagne
yet -- "
"Coke," he said.
She blinked at him. She was pretty, brown-haired, youthful.
"Coke," be repeated. Her face fell, but she only shrugged and said nothing
as she turned away, expecting him -- of course -- to know which table he
had reserved.
Instead, he remained where he was, glancing about him and wondering
what he was here for. He knew, of course, in the broadest sense, but
the details so far were elusive. There was nothing for it but to wait.
The girl returned, bringing his Coke and also carrying an enormous menu
which, as she indicated his table and he sat down at it, she thrust
into his hands. He did no more than glance at it, registering that it
offered extremely basic food -- hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pizza, kebabs
-- at stratospheric prices . . . not, of course, that that could worry
him. But he gave it back to her almost at once with a shake of his head.
"I ate already," he muttered, and leaned back to savor the last of his
cigar.
She gave him an extremely puzzled look, but departed with another shrug,
and in a little while was seen to be talking with the headwaiter. Both
of them kept casting glances in his direction. Godwin ignored them, and
very shortly they were distracted as new customers arrived. Within half
an hour or so there were twenty people present and four young couples
were dancing under the randomly changing lights -- and above them. The
effect of the reflection from the ripples was colorful and imaginative;
he watched it most of the time he was sitting alone.
Now and then he was interrupted by the passage of one or other waiter or
waitress, each of whom greeted him cordially and hovered for a while,
clearly expecting him to place an order. As each in turn moved away
disappointed, they wore identical looks of perplexity.
It grew very warm in the room. One of the girls, who had come in with a
fat, father-old escort, took off her blouse and started dancing topless;
another, not to be outdone, peeled off her dress and danced in bikini
panties, barefooted. Both were young and quite attractive, and for
a while Godwin wondered whether he should be interested in them. But
neither seemed to show any sign of recognition.
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