The Spike laughed again. “I suppose so, but—”
“I spent a spell as a footman myself, once,” Bron said, which wasn’t exactly untrue: he had once shared a room in Bellona with two other prostitutes who had; and had even been offered a job ... something’d come up, though. “It gets to you.”
“That’s really incredible!” The Spike shook her head. Tm surprised they don’t tear it to pieces!”
“Oh, you learn,” Bron said. “And of course, like all of this, it’s all basically just a kind of ... well, Annie-show.” He gestured toward the rocks, the sky, the falls, which ran under the transparent section of path they walked over (moss, froth, and clear swirls of green passed beneath his black boots and her bare feet) toward fanning columns of green glass that were the Craw’s entrance.
The Spike rubbed a finger on her gauntlet. “This—if you look closely—has logarithmic scales. The middle band turns, so you can use it as a sort of slide rule.” She laughed. “From what I’ve always heard, you needed a computer to figure almost anything to do with money. But I guess somebody used to it gets by on pure flamboyance.”
Bron laughed now. “Well, it helps to know what you’re doing. It is dangerous. It’s addictive, no question. But I think the Satellites’ making it illegal is going too far. And you just couldn’t set up anything on this scale in the u-1.” The columns, seventy or eighty of them he could see, rose perhaps a hundred feet. “Besides, I doubt it would even catch on. We’re—you’re just the wrong temperament out there ... I mean, I like living in a voluntaristic society. With money, though, I suppose getting your hands on a bit once or twice a year is enough.”
“Oh, certainly ...” The Spike folded her arms, glanced back between them again. Bron put his arm round her shoulder.
He glanced back too.
The ramp had closed; the footmen were gone.
There were other walkways, other craft, other people ambling among the rocks.
Another footman, breasts and hips and hair dull bronze, stood beside what looked like a green ego-booster booth, curtained with multi-colored sequins. Bron pressed a small bill into the dull bronze palm. “Please ... ?”
She turned, drew the curtain. The interior was white enamel. The man who stepped out wore the traditional black suit with black silk lapels, black cummerbund, and small black bow at the collar of his white, white shirt. “Good evening, Mr Helstrom.” He stepped forward, smiled, nodded—“Good evening, ma’am.”—smiled, nodded to the Spike, who, somewhat taken aback, said:
“Uh ... hello!”
“How nice to see you tonight. We’re delighted that you decided to drop by this evening. Let’s all just go this way—” They were already walking together among the first fanning pillars of marbled green—“and we’ll see what we can do about finding you a table. What mood are you in tonight ... water? fire? earth? air? ... perhaps some combination? Which would you prefer?”
Bron turned, smiled at the Spike. “Your choice—?”
“Oh, well, I ... I mean, I don’t know what ... well, could we have all four? Or would that be ... ?” She looked questioningly at Bron.
“One could ...” The majordomo smiled.
“But I think,” Bron said, “it might be a bit distracting.” (She was charming ... All four? Really!) “We’ll settle for earth, air, and water; and leave fire for another time.” He looked at the Spike. “Does that suit you ... ?”
“Oh, certainly,” she said, quickly.
“Very well, then. Just come this way.”
And they were beyond the columns. The domo, though pleasant, Bron decided, was getting away with only the bare necessities. Those little extras of personality and elan that individualized the job, the evening, the experience (“. , . that you can never pay for but, nevertheless, you do” as one rather witty client of his had once put it) were missing. Of course, they were something you got by revisiting such a place frequently—not by being a tourist. But Bron was sure he looked used to such places; and the Spike’s evident newness to the whole thing should have elicited some more humane reaction. They certainly looked like they might come back.
“Just up here.”
The domo led them onto the grass ... Yes, they were inside. But the ceiling, something bright and black and multilayered and interleaved, was very far away.
“Excuse me ... this way, sir.”
“Uh?” Bron looked down. “Of course.” It was, very simply, Bron realized, that he did not like the man.
“This grass ... !” the Spike exclaimed. “It feels so wonderful to walk on!” She ran a few steps up the slope, turned and, with an ecstatic shrug, beamed back at them.
Bron smiled, and noticed that the domo’s professional smile had softened a little. Which damped Bron’s own a bit.
“We roll it once a day and trim it twice a week,” the majordomo said. “It’s nice when someone notices and actually bothers to comment.”
The Spike held out her hand to Bron, who walked up, took it.
“It is a beautiful place!” she said; and to the domo: “Which way did you say ... ?”
The domo, still smiling, and with a slight bow—“This way, then.”—started up the slope, in a direction Bron noticed was not the one they’d begun in.
The waterfall crashing outside apparently began in here, several levels above. For almost ten minutes they could hear it. Between high rocks, they climbed—
“Oh, my ...” the Spike whispered.
—and saw it.
“Will this do?” The domo pulled out one of the plush chairs, moved around the table on the grass, pulled out the other.
They were practically at the top of the immense en-closure. Water frothed beside them, rushing away down the rocks, both in front and in back of them. They had a view of tier after tier of the restaurant.
“What a breathtaking location ... !” the Spike exclaimed.
“Some people don’t like to walk this far,” the domo explained. “But you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Personally, I think it’s worth it.”
Bron9s hand was on his purse, prepared to offer the ritual bill and the ritual request for a better table. But it was a good location. Really, he thought, you shouldn’t accept the first place they showed you—clients never did on Mars; besides, he wanted to make the man work.
“Sir ... ?” The majordomo raised an attendant eyebrow.
“Well ...” Bron mused. “I don’t know____”
“Oh do let’s sit here! It was such a lovely walk, after such a lovely ride. I can’t picture a happier destination!”
Bron smiled, shrugged, and for the second time felt the perspiration of embarassment break on the small of his back. The Spike was overdoing it. They should have been shown some other place first and this one second. That would have been the proper way. Who did these people think they were? “This is fine,” Bron said, shortly. “Oh ... here.” He pressed the bill on the domo—it would look ridiculous to hunt out a smaller one.
“Thank you, sir.” The nod and the smile were brief. “Would you like another drink while I bring you the menu?”
“Yes,” Bron said. “Please.”
“You were drinking ... ?”
And Bron remembered the name of that drink: Chardoza. “Gold Flower Nectar.”
“It is delicious!” The Spike dropped into her chair, put her elbows on the high arms and locked both hands, inelegantly, beneath her chin, stretched both feet under the table and crossed her ankles.
The domo’s laugh was, momentarily, almost sincere.
The metal leaves on the table’s centerpiece fell open. The drinks rolled out on marbled, green-glass trays.