To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) (6 page)

Blake knew that taste was simply knowing what was appropriate, nothing more. He had to know what was
going
to be fashionable as well as what
was
fashionable. Occasionally his own efforts started a trend.

As Blake had grown more popular he ceased taking on the commercial jobs, the ones for which he was merely "hired." He would concentrate more on the challenges, the commissions where he worked on his own, or those in real partnership with someone of taste. He was now in a sense an orchestrator, the one who brought together the artists, engineers, materials, and craftsmen, and yet maintained the original vision.

A bawdy laugh brought Blake back to the Casa Emperador. He heard more laughter, below, on the terrace, and the sound of the surf far below. He rolled onto his back and let out a long sigh. The sound of a soft gong came from a wall speaker, and a voice quietly and politely announced that dinner would be served in one hour.

Blake rolled off the bed and undressed. He took a sonic shower, luxuriating in the fresh, clean feeling as oils and dirt and dead cells were swept away. He stepped out dry, and dressed.

Blake looked at himself in the mirror. A crisp snow-silk shirt, with a ruffled front, accented his skin. Snug formal black trousers, soft black boots, and a black vest with silver conchos in the Spanish style gave him a bold, graphic look. Blake stared into his own dark eyes.

Why do I feel expectant?
Blake wondered. He closed his left hand slowly into a fist, then looked at his image in the mirror. Then he smiled, and snorted at his own fancies. He left the room, but an odd feeling of expectation was still within him.

From the top of the stairs he could see several of the male guests standing around the living room, dressed much as he was. Each had at least one girl at his side drinking in his every word, looking attentive.

Although the girls were still nude, their hairstyles were now much more elaborate, wound with velvet ribbons and set with pearls and delicate pins. They all wore shoes or fancy sandals of some sort, and many of them had suddenly sprouted long fingernails, some in color and some in bright designs. Much jewelry was in evidence, from diamond nipple ornaments to expensive earrings to toe rings and jeweled necklaces. All the lilies were gilded, but they were still not letting anyone forget their basic commodity: prime young flesh.

Blake descended the steps slowly, watching the guests, hearing the laughter. He spotted Voss standing between the count and a rather corpulent though obviously powerful man – the three of them surrounded by women. He took a rapid head count and realized there were several more women present than he had seen in the afternoon. Voss had seven male guests, and there were thirteen women visible, although neither Theta or her servant were in sight.

Caren saw him and left the side of one of the vice-presidents to come to the bottom of the stairs. Wendy also crossed the room, stroking executive backs as she passed, to wait for Blake.

"Hello," Caren said warmly, taking one arm.

"All rested?" Wendy said softly, taking the other. Blake nodded.

Voss gestured to the designer and introduced him to Vincent Kresadlova, a name Blake recognized at once as a prominent Czech pharmaceutical manufacturer, the owner of some basic patents for Eroticene.

"Ah, yes, the young man who designed the palace for the Shah!"

"The Gardens, Mr. Kresadlova. The palace was built centuries ago."

"Yes, a nice job, very nice. Perhaps you would do a summer home for me at Freya?"

The conversation turned to the Antarctic mines, then to Voss's adventures in traversing the Jaa Juosta racecourse in an icesailer two years before.

Blake stepped away from the group for a moment to stop a white-dressed Mexican waiter with a tray of drinks. A movement at the top of the stairs caught Blake's eye, and he looked up. For a moment he was stunned; then there was no reaction at all: he just stared. She had to be the most beautiful woman be had ever seen.

Her golden-tan skin was part nature, part sun. Her long, thick black hair was gleaming, and it moved with the motion of her body. Her dark eyes swept the crowd below as she stood with one hand on the railing.

She spotted Voss and she smiled, her mouth curving softly. Just as she started down the stairs she saw Blake. She faltered, looking at him with something like surprise. There was an awkward moment before she continued down the grand staircase. Blake stepped forward and stopped, uncertain and thoroughly surprised. In that brief moment when their eyes met it was as if an electric current had run between them.

The golden woman kept her eyes lowered, intent on each step, her exquisite body hidden by the simplest of black dresses. Long panels of thick, rich cloth hung down from a deep neckline. The panels were fastened at the sides, with openings that gave a hint of tanned flesh. She wore no jewelry, except for a large ornate ring. Her simplicity, contrasting with the jeweled displays of naked flesh in the room around her, was startling. Blake took a step closer, but could not detect any makeup. Her nails were of moderate length, and plain, but polished.

At the bottom of the stairs she raised her eyes and looked at him again. For a long moment no one was present but the two of them. The impact startled Blake, and he suddenly realized that the painful feeling in his chest was from a lack of breathing.

I feel like a fool,
Blake thought. He found he was nervous, and fought a curious desire to run outside into the cool night air. Instead, he impulsively started toward her.

"Rio!"

Voss walked on past Blake and swept the brunette beauty into his arms, hugging her tightly. She laughed, a deep throaty laugh of pure pleasure. Blake's heart turned to lead in his chest. He started to turn away. Voss called to him.

"Blake!"

He turned back to
see
Voss kiss her.

"Blake, come here!"

He walked closer, the drink forgotten in his hand, a symphony of emotions playing loudly in his mind. "Rio, this is Blake Mason. Blake, this is Rio Volas, our
Rio Grande!"

The girl smiled warmly at Blake as they shook hands, saying, "Mr. Mason, I very much liked what you did with the. Martian exhibit at the Fair. Have you been to Mars?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

Her hand was smooth, her fingers strong. The ring was a crimson diamond from Mars, held in what looked like a Simpson setting. He looked into her eyes and saw tiny curving reflections of his white shirt.

"It had such a
flavor,
a sense of being there."

"Thank you," he said, watching her. Her eyes were so big, so dark – intelligent eyes that seemed to be saying something to him.

Voss spoke, an arm around her waist. "It was Rio who really sent me after you. After I saw Shawna's house, I decided you were the one."

"Thank you," Blake said to Rio.

She smiled, her teeth white and strong against her golden flesh.

"Blake, honey, here's your drink," Caren said, slithering in close. "Oh, you have one," she said without surprise.

Blake turned toward her with a slight loathing. She stood close, staking out her territory.

"Uh, thank you," he said. He looked back into Rio's eyes and saw the understanding, a swift stab of empathy that surprised him.

"Rio, darlin', you look simply
luscious
in that dress, but isn't it warm?" Caren asked.

Rio smiled with some amusement and said, "No, I’m quite comfortable."

Caren wiggled closer to Blake, certain that everyone was watching her. He took a sip of his drink, glanced surreptitiously about, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Caren captured his arm and pressed her pelvis against his hip, making a small sound of pleasure.

A quick glance at Rio told Blake that she was politely ignoring Caren's obvious ploy.

The company president joined Voss, asking about Shawna Hilton's new triplet affair. Rio was silent, but she glanced at Blake from time to time. The conversation going on around him gave Blake a chance' to recover his poise – the sight of Rio 'had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

We all have types,
he thought.
We respond more to one type than to another. We look for what we don't have, or for someone to fulfill our dreams of youth.
Blake then thought about his male friends. Caleb liked his women small and slim, almost boyish. Kerrigan liked them almost pre-adolescent. Tom Oldman liked them at least warm. Dawson liked them older, in their early thirties, when they theoretically knew what they were doing.

And he, what did
he
like? Blake Mason knew. He had always known, had always responded, first to the physical part, for that was the first thing be noticed, then to the mental part – the spirit and wit and character of the woman.

But why had his reaction to Rio been so sudden, so total? He knew many beautiful women, for he moved in that kind of society. Beauty brought both men and women to the company of the rich, and it was only the rich who could afford his services. But his reaction to Rio had been more than a reaction to her beauty. And she had seemed to sense it as well, although she covered it well. But those first looks she gave him had betrayed her calm.

What made Rio so special?

Determined to fmd out, Blake waited until Rio was momentarily alone and then approached her. "Show me the villa by moonlight," he suggested.

She smiled, even as she took his arm. "There's no moon tonight," she said.

"What?" Blake exclaimed as they walked out onto the terrace and over to the wall overlooking the bay. "Surely that is some bureaucratic foul-up.
All
evenings at Casa Emperador require a moon. Heads will roll."

Rio laughed softly, almost politely, then turned to put her hands on the tile-topped wall and look out to sea. They could hear the surf and see the starlight glinting on the water.

"Do you think Jean-Michel's idea is mad?" she asked.

"No. Everyone wants to leave something behind, be remembered. He can afford it, that's all."

She looked at him, her face shadowed. "Do you want to live forever?" she asked seriously.

Blake thought a moment. "I suppose everyone has that fantasy. Living for hundreds of years, thousands perhaps, having enough time to do everything, see everything. Why do you ask?"

Rio shrugged and turned to lean against the wall, her face illuminated by the light from the arches. "Do you like what you do, Mr. Mason?"

"Blake, please. Yes, I do. It's very interesting, I get to go a lot of places, try out a number of ideas that are my own. Once I'd achieved a certain, um, prominence, people put themselves into my hands and let me do as I wished."

"Do you enjoy that power?"

"I don't really think of it as power, but as opportunity. It's a challenge to create something that hasn't been done to death, that is even better than the client thought it might be – and to find out what a client really wants." Blake paused a moment, then asked: "What do you really want?"

She smiled. "To find out about you. You are quite famous, really, but..." She let the sentence die, then started to speak, but Blake spoke first.

"But the famous are not always good, or interesting, or ... exciting?"

Rio's smile was renewed. "What is your philosophy of life, Mr. ... uh ... Blake?"

"I don't know. My subscription ran out. I used to belong to the Philosophy-of-the-Month Club. I used to have one, though, when I was a kid. The wheels fell off it and it died, and since then..." He made a gesture with both hands.

"Seriously."

"Seriously." Blake turned toward the sea again, his shoulder very close to Rio. "You mean how I separate the good from the bad, the right from wrong?" Rio nodded. "That's very difficult. What is right one time doesn't seem right another, sometimes. I suppose..." He took a deep breath, feeling her eyes on him. "I suppose it is in not hurting anyone, in giving pleasure, in being worthy of the friendship of people you like and admire. But to have friends like that you have to be that way yourself." He looked at Rio, but her face was shadowed by her hair. "What is your philosophy,
Senorita
Volas?"

"Rio." She smiled. "Once I was too poor to have a philosophy of life. If I had been asked, I wouldn't have known what they were talking about. My philosophy was survival." She paused, then asked, "Do you think having a philosophy of life is ... unfashionable?"

Blake shook his head. "No, not at all. You arrive at one Willy-nilly, at any rate; it's just better when you think it out. But I have a confession to make."

Her "Oh?" was carefully said.

"I think you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Rio's face sobered and she turned again toward the sea, looking down so that the twin falls of her bong hair hid her face. After a moment, in which Blake held his breath, Rio said, "Thank you." She raised her face and looked up at the stars, "But it's much too serious a confession to make and then continue a moonlight walk."

She turned, as if to go.

Blake stopped her. "But there's no moon. Besides, I have many confessions to make–"