The side opened—let down like a drawbridge on heavy, polished chain, its purple padding held with six-inch purple poms.
“Why,” the Spike exclaimed, “that must be for us! How did thev ever find us, I wonder?”
“I believe it is for us.”—but, with a pressure just firmer than that with which she had started him walking, he held her back from bolting forward. “Someone once told me they worked by sense of smell, but I’ve never reallv understood it. How did your performance go tonight?” Nonchalantly, he maintained their ambling pace. “Was this evening’s fortunate audience appreciative? I gather you’ve been working prettv hard on this one, both from what you said and what Windy—”
At which point the Spike whispered: “Oh—!” because four footmen had come out to stand at the four corners of the lowered platform—four naked, gilded, rather attractive young ... women? Bron felt a moment of disorientation: on Mars, the footmen would have been male, usually themselves prostitutes (or one-time prostitutes), there for the delectation of the ladies paying the bill. But male prostitution was illegal on Earth. The women probably were prostitutes, or had been at one time or another; and were there for his delectation ... Well, yes, he thought, he was, officially, paying—which did not upset him in itself. But the reversal of roles was odd. After all, it was the Spike’s delectation he was concerned with this evening. And,
Charo aside, she had made it clear her lesbian leanings were rather intellectual. He said: “I’d be interested to know what you thought of Earth audiences now that you’ve had another performance.”
“Well, I ...” They reached the platform. “Urn ... good evening!” she blurted to the woman beside her, who smiled, nodded.
Bron smiled too, thinking: She’s talking to them! Which again (he realized, as a whole part of his youth flickered and faded) would be all right if she were paying and had known the young ... lady on a previous occasion ...
They walked across the plush ramp, entered the chamber with its red and coppery cushions, its viewing windows, its several plush hangings, its scarlet-draped walls.
As he guided the Spike to one of the couches, she turned to him. “Isn’t there someplace where you can find out what it all costs?”
Which made him laugh out loud. “Certainly,” he said. “If you’d really like to know.” Again, that youthful moment returned—the client who had first taken him to such a place; his own demand for the same importunate information. “Let me see—sit down. There ....” He sat beside her, on her left, took the arm of the couch and tugged. Nothing. (Is everything on this planet backward? he wondered.) “Excuse me ...” He reached across her, tugged the arm on her right. It came up, revealing on its underside, in a neatly-glassed frame, a card printed in terribly small type, headed: Explication de Tarif.
“You can find out there,” he explained, “about the salary of everyone we will have anything to do with this evening, either in person or by their services, the cost of all the objects we shall see or use, or that are used for us, the cost of their upkeep, and how the prices we shall be charged are computed—I wouldn’t be surprised, considering this is Earth, if it even went into the taxes.”
“Ohhhh ...” she breathed, turning in the comfortable seat to read.
The ramp was hauling closed. The footmen, inside now, took their places.
He looked at her shoulders, hunched in concentration. He suppressed the next chuckle. There was nothing to do: for the duration she simply must be the prostitute, and he must play the client. She was the young, inexperienced hustler, committing all the vulgarities and gaucheries natural to the situation. He must be charmed, be indulgent, assured in his own knowledge of the proper. Otherwise, he thought, I shall never get through the evening without laughing at her outright.
She was, he realized, reading the whole thing—which, frankly, was more like a diligent tourist. The real pleasure, of course, was in the amounts, and those you could get at a glance: they were printed in boldface.
The footmen, at the four corners of the chamber, sat at little tables that folded from the wall. Tables? Sitting? That was bizarre. What, he reflected, was a footman for if he (or she) did not remain on foot?
The chamber rocked. Ripples rained the drapes. He touched the Spike’s arm. “I think we’re on our way ....”
She looked up, looked around, and laughed. They rocked, they jogged. On a view window a darkness, either clouds or mountains, moved. “This thing must date back from when they first got gravity under control!” she exclaimed. “I doubt if I’ve ever been in a piece of transportation as old as this before!” She put her hand on his, squeezed it.
Moments later, they locked course; the jogging stopped. On cue, one of the footmen rose, walked toward them, stepping gingerly among the cushions, stopped before them, and inclined her head: “Would you like a drink before dinner ... ?”
And in one horrifying moment, Bron realized he could not remember the name of that most expensive of drinks! What leapt to his mind was the name of that one, indeed, tastier, but cheaper—and by which one always rated clients Definitely Second Rate (far and above the most usual type) if they ordered it, or even suggested it.
The Spike was reading the Tarif again.
Discomfort concealed—Bron was sure it was concealed—he touched her arm once more. “My dear, the footman would like to know if you wanted anything.”
Her eyes came up. Smiling, she gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Oh, I don’t—well ... really ...”
He’d hope the misremembered name had passed her eyes, that its huge price had caught them.
She blinked at him, still smiling, still confused.
It hadn’t. (She would make a lousy whore, he thought, a trifle less fondly.) He said: “Do you have any ... Gold Flower Nectar?” The small of his back moistened; but it was the only name he could remember. (His forehead moistened too.) “No—No ... I think we’ll have something more expensive. I mean, you must have something more expensive that ... well, don’t you ... ?”
“We have Gold Flower Nectar,” the young woman said, nodding. “Shall I bring two?”
A drop of sweat ran down his arm, inside Sam’s borrowed sleeve. Seconds into the silence, the Spike said, glancing back and forth between the footmen and Bron, “Yes! That sounds marvelous.”
The footman nodded, started to turn, then, with a quizzical expression, asked: “You’re from Mars, aren’t you?” Bron thought: She thinks I’m a cheap Bellona John and the Spike is a really dumb whore! A sweat drop ran out of his sideburn and down his jaw.
The Spike laughed again. “No. I’m afraid we’re moonies. We’re part of the cultural exchange program.”
“Oh.” The woman nodded, smiled. “We keep Gold Flower Nectar mostly for the Martian clients—it really is very good,” which went directly to Bron, with a wink. “Earthies hardly ever even know about it!” She bowed again, turned, and went back between the curtains behind her table.
The Spike took Bron’s arm now, leaned closer. “Isn’t that marvelous! She thought we were from a worldl” She giggled. For a moment her forehead touched his cheek. (He almost flinched.) “I know it’s all play-acting, but it really is exciting ... if only as theater.”
“Well ...” he said, trying to smile, “I’m glad you’ie enjoying yourself.”
She squeezed his wrist. “And the way you seem to know exactly what’s going on, you really are the perfect person to go with!”