"Sounds like a quaint locale for a restaurant. Should be nice."
"It is. Why don't you meet me there at 13.0. You can familiarize yourself with the square and maybe catch a little of the flavor of Tolive." The square was near the IMC complex and she told him how to get there, then called an orderly to drive him out of the maze of buildings to the front entrance.
A cool breeze offset the warmth of the sun as he walked and when he compared the vaguely remembered cab trip of the morning to the route El had given him, he realized that his hotel was right off the square. He scrutinized his fellow pedestrians in an effort to discern a fashion trend but couldn't find one. Men wore everything from briefs to business jumpers; women could be seen in everything from saris through clingsuits to near-nude.
Shops began to proliferate along the street and Dalt sensed he was nearing the square. A sign caught his eye: LIN'S LIT in large letters, and below, at about a quarter of the size above, For the Discerning Viewer.
("There's plenty of time before your lunch date. Let's see what they sell on Tolive—you can learn a lot about a culture's intellectual climate from its literature.")
All right. Let's see.
They should have been prepared for what was inside by the card on the door: "Please be advised that the material sold within is considered by certain people to be obscene—you might be one of those people."
Inside they found a huge collection of photos, holos, telestories, vid cassettes, etc., most devoted to sexual activity. Categories ranged from human & human, through human & alien animal, to human & alien plant. And then the material took a sick turn.
I'm leaving, Dalt told Pard.
("Wait a minute. It's just starting to get interesting.")
Not for me. I've had enough.
("Immortals aren't supposed to be squeamish.")
Well, it'll he a couple more centuries before I can stomach some of this junk. So much for Tolive's cultural climate!
And out they went to the street again. Half a block on, they came to the square, which was actually round. It was more like a huge traffic circle with the circumference rimmed by shops and small business offices; inside the circle was a park with grass and trees and amusement areas for children. A large white structure was set at its hub; from Dalt's vantage point it appeared to be some sort of monument or oversized art object in the ancient abstract mode.
He wandered into a clothing store and was tempted to make some purchases until he remembered that he had no credit on Tolive as yet, so he contented himself with watching others do the buying. He watched a grossly overweight woman step onto a fitting platform, punch in a style, fabric weight and color code, and then wait for the measuring sensors to rise out of the floor. A beep announced that her order was being processed and she stepped down and took a seat by the wall to wait for the piece she had ordered to be custom-made to her specifications.
A neighboring shop sold pharmaceuticals and Dalt browsed through aimlessly until he heard a fellow shopper ask for five hundred-milligram doses of Zemmelar, the trade name for a powerful hallucinogenic narcotic.
"You sure you know what you're getting into?" the man behind the counter asked.
The customer nodded. "I use it regularly."
The counterman sighed, took the customer's credit slips, and punched out the order. Five cylindrical packages popped onto the counter. "You're on your own," he told the man who pocketed the order and hurried away.
Glancing at Dalt, the counterman burst out laughing, then held up his hand as Dalt turned to leave. "I'm sorry, sir, but by the expression on your face a moment ago, you must be an off-worlder."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you think you just witnessed a very bold illegal transaction."
"Well, didn't I? That drug is reserved for terminal cases, is it not?"
"That's what it was developed for," the man replied. "Supposed to block out all bodily sensations and accentuate the patient's most pleasant fantasies. When I'm ready to go, I hope somebody will have the good sense to shoot some of it into me."
"But that man said he uses it regularly."
"Yeah. He's an addict I guess. Probably new in town ... never seen him before."
"But that drug is illegal!"
"That's how I know you're an off-worlder. You see—there are no illegal drugs on Tolive."
"That can't be true!"
"I assure you, sir, it is. Anything in particular you'd like to order?"
"No," Dalt said, turning slowly and walking away. "Nothing, thanks."
This place will take some getting used to, he told Pard as they crossed the street to the park and took a seat on the grass beneath one of the native conifers.
("Yes. Apparently they do not have the usual taboos that most of humanity carried with it from Earth during the splinter-world period.)
I think I like some of those taboos. Some of the stuff in that first shop was positively degrading. And as for making it possible for anybody with a few credits to become a Zem addict ... I don't like it.
("But you must admit that this appears to be a rather genteel populace. Despite the lack of a few taboos traditional to human culture, they all seem quite civilized so far. Admit it.")
All right, I admit it.
Dalt glanced across the park and noticed that there were a number of people on the white monument. Letters, illegible from this distance, had been illuminated on a dark patch near the monument's apex. As he watched, a cylinder arose from the platform and extended what appeared to be a stiff, single-jointed appendage with some sort of thong streaming from the end. A shirtless young man was brought to the platform. There was some milling around, and then his arms were fastened to an abutment.
The one-armed machine began to whip him across his bare back.
VII
"Finish that drink before we talk," El said.
"There's really not much to talk about," Dalt replied curtly. "I'm getting off this planet as soon as I can find a ship to take me."
They drank in silence amid the clatter and chatter of a busy restaurant, and Dalt's thoughts were irresistibly drawn back to that incredible scene in the park just as he himself had been irresistibly drawn across the grass for a closer look, to try to find some evidence that it was all a hoax. But the man's cries of pain and the rising welts on his back left little doubt. No one else in the park appeared to take much notice; some paused to look at the sign that overhung the tableau, then idly strolled on.
Dalt, too, looked at the sign:
A. Nelso
Accused of theft of private ground car on 9-6.
Convicted of same on 9-20. Appeal denied.
Sentence of public punishment to 0.6 Gomler units to be administered on 9-24.
The whipping stopped and the sign flashed blank. The man was released from the pillory and helped from the platform. Dalt was trying to decide whether the tears in the youth's eyes were from pain or humiliation, when a young, auburn-haired woman of about thirty years ascended the platform. She wore a harness of sorts that covered her breasts and abdomen but left her back exposed. As attendants locked her to the pillory, the sign came to life again:
H. T. Hammet Accused of theft of miniature vid set from retail store on 9-8. Convicted of same on 9-22. Appeal denied. Sentence of public punishment to 0.2 Gomler units to be administered on 9-24.
The cylinder raised the lash, swung its arm, and the woman winced and bit her lower lip. Dalt spun and lurched away.
("Barbaric!") Pard said when they had crossed the street and were back among the storefronts.
What? No remarks about being squeamish?
("Holograms of deviant sexual behavior posed for by volunteers are quite different from public floggings. How can supposedly civilized people allow such stone-age brutality to go on?")