He wants to go lie down. He wants that very much.
“I want to know! “
He shakes his head gently. He merely wants to be left alone. There is very little of the Catman now; there is almost too much of Lewis Leipzig. “Please, Karin…it was a miserable shiftday.”
She slips her blouse down off one perfect breast. The fine powder-white lines of the plasticwork radiate out from the meaty nipple, sweep down and around and disappear under the lunar curve. He watches, the film over his eyes growing darker, more opaque. “Don't,” he says.
She touches a blue-enameled fingernail to the nipple, indenting it slightly. “There'll be bed tonight, Lewis.”
He starts to rise.
“There'll be bed, and sex, and other things if you don't tell me, Lewis.”
He slumps back into his round-shouldered dining position. He can hear the whine of generators far back in his memory. And the odor of dead years. And oil slicks across stainless steel. And the rough sensuality of burlap.
“He was out tonight. Robbery on the ninetieth level. He got away with three tubes of the Antarean soul-radiant.”
She covers her breast, having won her battle with nasty weaponry, rotted memories. “And you couldn't stop him.”
“No. I couldn't stop him.”
“And what else?”
“I lost the panther.”
Her expression is a combination of amazement and disgust. “He destroyed it?” Her husband nods; he cannot look at her. “And it'll be charged against your account.” He does not nod; she knows the answer.
“That's it for the promotion, and that's it for the permutations. Oh, God, you're such a burnout…I can't stand you!”
“I'm going to lie down.”
“You just sit there. Now listen to me, damn you, Lewis Leipzig. Listen! I will not go another year without being rejuvenated. You'll get that promotion and you'll get it bringing him in. Or I'll make you wish I'd never filed for you.” He looks at her sharply. She knows what he's thinking, knows the reply; but he doesn't say it; he never does.
He gets up and walks toward the dropshaft in the main room. Her voice stops him. “You'll make up your mind, Lewis.”
He turns on her. The film is gone from his eyes. “It's our son, Karin. Our son!”
“He's a thief,” she says. The edge in her voice is a special viciousness. “A thief in a time when theft is unnecessary. We have everything. Almost everything. You know what he does with what he steals. You know what he's become. That's no son of mine. Yours, if you want that kind of filth around you, but no son of mine. God knows I have little enough to live for, and I'm not going to allow your spinelessness to take that from me. I want my permutation. You’ll do it, Lewis, or so help me God-”
He turns away again. Hiding his face from her, he says, “I'm only permitted to stalk him during regulation hours, you know that.”
“Break the regs.”
He won't turn around. “I'm a Catman. I can't do that. I'm bound.”
“If you don't, I’ll see that someone else does.”
“I'm beginning not to care.”
“Have it your way.”
“Your way.”
“My way then. But my way whichever way.”
He vanishes into the main room and a moment later she hears the dropshaft hiss. She sits at the table staring into the mid-distance, remembering. Her face softens and flows and lines of weariness superimpose themselves over her one hundred and sixty-five year old youthful face. She drops her face into her hand, runs the fingers up through her thick coppery hair, the metal fingernails making tiny clicking noises against the fibers and follicles. She makes a sound deep in her throat. Then she stiffens her back and rises. She stands there for several moments, listening to the past; she shrugs the robe from her slim, pale body and follows her husband's path to the dropshaft.
The dining salon is empty. From the main room comes the hiss of the dropshaft. Menials purr from the walls and clean up the dining area. Below, punishment and coercion reduce philosophies to diamond dust and suet.
Seven miles away, the thief reappears in his cool apartments. The sights and sounds of what he has overheard and seen between his parents, hidden in the main room till his father left his mother, tremble in his mind. He finds himself rubbing the palm of his left hand up the wall, rubbing over and over without control; his hand hurts from the friction but he doesn't stop.
He rubs and rubs till his palm is bloody. Then he vanishes, illegally.
Sub-level one:eleven-Central was converted to ocean. Skipboats sliced across from Oakwood on the eastern shore to Caliban on the western cliffs. In the coves and underwater caves sportsmen hunted loknesses, bringing home trophies that covered large walls. Music was bubblecast across the water. Plankton beaneries bobbed like buoys near the tourist shores. Full Fathom Five had gotten four stars in The Epicure and dropshafts carried diners to the bottom to dine in elegance while watching the electro stims put on their regularly scheduled shows among the kelp beds. Neil Leipzig emerged into the pulsing ochre throat of the reception area, and was greeted by the maitre d'.
“Good evening, Max. Would Lady Effim and her party be here yet?”
The maître d' smiled and his neck-slits opened and closed
to reveal a pink moistness. “Not yet, Mr. Leipzig. Would you care to wait at the bar? Or one of the rooms?”
“I'll be at the bar. Would you let them know I'm here when they arrive?”
The thief let the undulant carry him into the bar and he slid into a seat beside the great curved pressure window. The kelp beds were alive with light and motion.
“Sir?”
The thief turned from watching the light-play. A domo hovered at the edge of the starburst-shaped table. “Oh. A chinchin, please, a little heavier on the Cinzano.” The domo hummed a thankyou and swirled away. Neil Leipzig turned back to the phantasmagoria beyond the pressure window. A bubble of music struck the window and burst just beyond the thief's nose. He knew the tune.
“Neil.”
The thief saw her reflection, dimly, in the window. He did not turn around for a moment, gathering his feelings. “Joice,” he said, finally. “Nice to see you again.”
“Then why don't you turn around so you can.”
He let the seat turn him toward her.
She was still remarkable. He wanted to see dust marks on her loveliness, product of treachery and floating ethics, but he knew she had not really been treacherous, and if there had been an ethical failure, it had been his.
“May I sit?”
“I'm going to be joining a party in a few minutes, but please…” He waved her to the seat beside him. She settled into it, crossing her legs. The chiton opened and revealed smooth thigh vanishing up into ivory fabric. “How have you been?”
“I've been excellent, Neil. Breve sends his best.”
“That was unnecessary.”
“I'm trying to be reasonable, Neil. It's been a long time and I'm uncomfortable with it this way between us.”
“Be comfortable. I've got it all straight.”
“I'm trying to be friendly.”
“Just be reasonable, that'll be enough.”
The domo came bobbing through the room and hovered beside the table. It set the chin-chin down. The thief sipped and nodded acceptance. “Lady?” the domo hummed.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
The domo shot straight up and went away just below ceiling height
“Are you still doing dust?” she asked.
He stiffened and his eyes came to her face with anger as he stopped watching the domo. “Your manners haven't improved any with time.”
She started to say I'm sorry. But his anger continued to sheet: “If we run out on that topic, we can always discuss Breve's throat!”