CHAPTER THREE
Maybe it was just an ad hoc resort colony, Berto thought, sprung up in a
remote, unlikely corner of the universe. He'd been trying to get a feel for
Monsipur, and Garshak in particular, ever since he'd cleared decontam. Garshak
had the look of a business or technology center with its gleaming spires and
high-speed magnetic monorails. Everything looked new, or so clean and well-kept
he couldn't tell the difference. The streets were busy with pedestrians and the
latest models of sleek speeders, rollers and floaters, but over a third of the
people he'd seen had been in tongis. Berto was sure they were all productive
members of Garshak society, but baggy pastel robes were not what he considered
appropriate business attire.
And that was just his first contradictory observation. There were a lot
more.
Legalized prostitution in what he'd heard was the Outer Rim's leading
supplier of biotechnology components. The governing body an apparently
old-fashioned, traditionally strict oligarchy, and yet Monsipurian society was
relaxed enough to allow public nudity. Nudity, and prostitution, and eighty
channels of sex programs on the I-Vid. When he'd seen the schedule in his room
he'd about choked. He'd checked in briefly, by vidcall, with his shipmates, to
make sure they'd made it to their rooms without trouble. They'd all been agog
at the programming too.
If he started watching sex on the I-Vid he knew he'd never get out of
his room, and Berto wanted to interact with some actual living beings before
this layover was over. Women who weren't prostitutes. Sure, there'd been a
time or two when he'd exchanged a few Universal Credits for female
companionship, but those had been the exception to the rule, and he'd been a lot
younger. Paying for sex was something he found slightly distasteful, actually.
Unlike Hamee.
The I-Vid had a long listing of local establishments where he could get
food, drink, and female companionship, but he couldn't decide where to go. As
detailed as it was, the list didn't seem to be able to tell him what he wanted
to know. After half an hour he finally gave up and headed out.
Berto had showered in the room's small stall, luxuriating in the hot
spray, then changed into fresh clothes. Black midcalf boots, baggy black pants,
and a white, fauxsilk shirt with baggy sleeves and a square collar. Not the
cutting edge of fashion, but not horrible to look at, either. It was so hard to
keep current on fashions. What was in style on one world was horribly out of
date on the next, and some worlds, like Monsipur, seemed to set their own
fashion trends. Tongis, for example.
Berto took the lift down the seventy-one floors to the lobby and headed
toward the front desk. The hotel - suprisingly - had attendants, instead of
just reactive consoles. Berto was halfway convinced that they were actual
humans, not synthetics, as amazing as that sounded. It seemed like such a waste
of manpower, but he vaguely remembered something from his memory dump that was
fading far too fast for his liking. Some edict that required any job that could
be performed by a human to be performed by a human. How could such a thing even
be legal? he wondered.
"Yes, Sir?" The attendant wore the hotel's black and burgundy uniform
coat and smiled politely.
"Where can I find something to eat and drink?" he asked. "Someplace not
too loud, where there's a chance some of the women there won't require UC's for
services rendered, if you grab my meaning."
The attendant, a dark-haired pleasant-looking fellow a few years younger
than Berto, laughed politely. "Well," he said, "there are dozens of eateries
within minutes of here, by walkway or magrail. Most of which will give you a
good meal at a fair price. But, if I may, I'd like to recommend the Port
Authority. It's located between this hotel and the Garshak Princess. Not only
is the food as good as you're going to find, but because of its location the
clientele is very . . . diverse. Spacers from all over, as well as zuppers --
travelling businesspeople," he explained. "The Port Authority has been known to
attract a certain kind of woman, the kind who's spent her entire life on-planet
and is intrigued by the men who sail amongst the stars." He wiggled his
eyebrows.
"No professionals?"
"Oh, there'll be those there too," the attendant admitted. "Lots of
'em. We call them treats here, and you're going to find they're everywhere.
But just tell the first couple that you're not interested in paying for it and
the word will get around."
"I just don't want to be hustled while I'm trying to eat."
"Oh, you won't have to worry about that, sir," he was reassured. "We
have strict laws about that sort of thing, and we Monnies are the most polite
people you'd ever want to meet."
"Well, I can't say I've been disappointed yet."
Christopher hurried down the hall to the lift. He was so hungry he was
feeling faint. His stomach was grumbling so loudly he thought he'd heard an
echo. Always eager to try out local cuisine, he'd asked the (surprisingly)
human attendant about nearby eateries even before he'd made it up to his room.
Ship food, never spectacular, lost what little glamour it had after two weeks,
much less six. The attendant had recommended a restaurant right next to the
hotel. Christopher was sure that was because the hotel got a percentage of
their business, but he had plenty of time to search out the best restaurants in
the capital. Right now all he wanted to do was EAT.
The light above the lift doors blinked steadily as the car neared.
Finally, with a beep, the doors opened and he stepped inside. The car's other
occupant was a slender female wearing a white robe. He'd seen a lot of women in
robes since leaving Immigration and assumed it was the latest style on Monsipur.
Not very attractive or flattering to the female shape, at least in his opinion.
Even though she was wearing a robe, Chris wondered if this woman was a
native. Her robe was white. He'd seen robes in all sorts of colors, but this
was the first white one. And her skin -- it was pale. Very pale. Almost all
of the women he'd seen onplanet had dark tans from the intense sunlight.
Chris smiled at her politely. He stood to one side and stared blankly
at the wall. "Lobby," he told the car.
"Good day," the woman said warmly, turning to face him. She eyed his
clothing. "Might it be that you're a spacer?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes," he said tentatively. Some women were attracted to the adventure
that they saw in spacer life, but she could also be the not uncommon native
upset at all the offworlders on her planet. "Just arrived." He raised his left
arm slightly to show off the silver bracelet, assuming she knew what it was.
"Just arrived? When? This day?"
She seemed a little too eager, too interested in him, but he wasn't sure
what to make of it. Her manner of speaking could be totally normal for
Monsipur. He remembered Berto saying that prostitution was legal on-planet, but
she didn't seem the type.
"Only a few hours ago. We spent forever in orbit. I only cleared
Decontam less than an hour ago."
The woman began to look him over more intently. Christopher saw her
forehead crease, then she licked her lips. "What did you think of the chemical
bath?" she asked, referring to the main tool used to destroy body-borne
contaminants.
He laughed. "It stunk, as usual," he replied. The chemical wash didn't
just smell bad, it smelled horrible. Thank the stars he didn't have to suffer
through it more than once a month. "I'm glad they've got it, I don't want to be
the one who brings in some strange disease that kills half a million people, I
just wish they could make it smell a little better. As soon as I got to my room
I took a wetshower to get the smell off me."
"A wetshower too? You must like to be clean." She had moved closer and
was eyeing him intently.
"Uh, sure. I was a little surprised. As dry as this planet is, I
would've thought I'd be stuck with sonic showers through the whole layover."
Chris noticed her short blond hair seemed to sparkle in the light, and wondered
if she had it treated. He also couldn't help but see right down the front of
her robe. It was V-necked and hung loose on her. Chris tried to show some
restraint, but it didn't appear that she was wearing anything underneath, and it
had been over six weeks since he'd scooped a piece. An erection began to make
its presence known.
"I love a clean man," she murmured, hand moving up to touch his arm.
"Cleanliness is next to Godliness."
"Uh . . . ummm, you know," he floundered for words, "I was just heading
to the hotel restaurant to eat. Would you like to join me?"
"You want to eat?" she said. Chris though he might've heard just a hint
of disappointment in her voice.
"I haven't had anything to eat in nearly eighteen hours, Standard," he
explained. "I can barely stand up."
The blond pursed her lips, and pressed her body against his. When her
hand cupped his crotch he jumped involuntarily.
"How long has it been since you've had a woman?" she murmured throatily
into his ear. "Come to my home. I'll prepare a delicious meal for you, and
then afterward, well, you can have me for dessert."
The lift car beeped and the doors slid open to reveal the lobby. The
woman never stopped massaging his crotch.
"Krikes, you've sold me," he burst out. Chris put a hand on her
kneading fingers. "You'd better stop that soon. I've been shipbound for six
weeks, you know. You're not going to charge me, are you?"
"All I want from you is your seed,"
"Krikes!" He looked around in case anybody heard her. He didn't know
why she'd chosen him, and honestly was afraid to ask in case she changed her
mind. All he knew was that a young, attractive female was throwing herself at
him, practically laying down and spreading her legs, and after six weeks on the
Nancy, he didn't think he'd be able to say no even if he wanted to. Alarm bells
should have been going off in his head, but after six weeks staring at Race's
tight ass wiggling around the ship in twoskin his balls felt bigger than his
head.
She removed her hand from his crotch and took his wrist. "Lead on," he
told her as she began tugging him through the lobby.
One of the uniformed hotel employees standing behind the lobby counter
saw the white-robed woman leading Chris toward the moving walkways. He shook
his head, a disgusted frown on his face, and nudged his coworker.
"Another Dane lover," he said, jerking his head. "I wonder how they
keep getting in here, they never go past the desk except on the way out. We
should call the Blues." The coworker watched Chris and the woman until they
were out of sight.
"Some people have all the luck," was his only response. He laughed at
his own joke, then went back to work.
The Port Authority was big. Very big, and very busy. Most of it was a
simple eatery, and glorious smells of cooking food wafted through the air.
Tables littered the long floor, and booths ran along the walls. Berto spotted a
small dance floor on the far side of the room. It was about half full of bodies
flailing to the sonicrock beat. Luckily the music speakers were shielded, so
the incessant beat was muted to all but those on the dance floor. There was
also a long, old-fashioned bar, with well dressed attendants dashing to and fro
pouring drinks.
Berto paused at the end of the small queue trailing out the door and
waited his turn. There was a partition just beyond the door plastered with
signs, and since he had the time he studied them.
Posted in the six major languages, including Standard and Monny, was a
notice. Berto decided to test his Monny dump and tried to read the local
language version.
"Attention all freelance" . . . pulatritas was the word, a plural, but
he didn't know its definition. The rest of the notice seemed to have the flavor
of a legal document.
"1. Management must be notified of your presence. See the Manager on
duty for details or if you have any questions.
2. No penetrative acts or body fluid transfers will be permitted on the
premises."
Ah, Berto thought. Pulatritas must be sex workers. Treats is what the
hotel clerk had called them. He read on as the line slowly moved forward.
"3. Genitals must be regularly covered."
Regularly? Just what do they mean by regularly?
"4. We are a Mundane-friendly establishment -- all working pulatritas
on premises must exhibit no more than 5% visible deviation from human standard
as measured on the Compton scale."
"Good evening sir. Food, drink, dancing, or a little bit of all three?"
The waitress appeared before him wearing a pleasant smile. She had long dark
hair in a topknot and wore a pleated knee-length blue skirt and a black
waistcoat that left her midriff bare and revealed as much of her breasts as it
covered. All of the waitresses were dressed in the same uniform. Her eyelids
were colored blue to match the skirt.
"Food, please," he replied, totally unconscious of the fact that he'd
addressed his reply to her chest.
"Follow me." Most of the men talked to her chest. She didn't mind,
didn't even notice it anymore. Most of her customers were longhaul spacers,
just off their ships and stinking from Decontam. If they didn't stare at her
big chest (courtesy of an extensive battery of pituitary stimulations, the
cheapest and longest to implement augmentation procedure) then she figured they
liked men instead, and didn't count on any tip.
She led him down an aisle between clumps of tables filled with raucous
spacers. The Port Authority wasn't that busy, perhaps only half full, but after
six weeks surrounded by only three other people and a synthetic Berto was a bit
overwhelmed. The aromas of a dozen different exotic dishes assaulted his
nostrils and Berto's salivary glands began to ache. His eyes darted left and
right at people talking, laughing, at the dance floor half-filled with gyrating
bodies. The outfits he saw were substantially briefer here than what he'd seen
at the spaceport. TwoSkin, Plastex, spray-ons and old-fashioned fishnet
dominated. As he followed the waitress up two steps onto the raised section of
the floor running along the back wall a small smile crossed his features. It
was good to be back on a planet, among people, with real gravity and oxygen that
wasn't parsed out by the cubic meter by some computer.
Berto slid into the small booth the waitress indicated, sliding around
the horseshoe-shaped bench seat until he was facing out.
"I'm Nadiline, I'll be your server," the waitress told him "Can I start
you out with something to drink?"
"Do you have djilk?"
"Coming right up. If you need help with the menu, I'll be back in just
a minute or you can hit the Help button." She strode off at a high rate of
speed and Berto began examining the menu. It was displayed on a small
touch-control vidscreen set into the center of the table top. He scrolled up
and down the entrees. A description was provided for each, as well as a
picture. The prices seemed reasonable, although he'd never heard of any of the
local specialties. Monnies seemed to like red meat and a lot of spices. He
tried not to drool on the screen and its delicious-looking offerings. After six
weeks of ship food he was ready to eat the table.
No alcoholics listed amongst the beverages, which was a surprise, but
there were some mild euphorics. He vaguely remembered from his memdump that
alcohol was all but outlawed onplanet. Strange, considering prostitution was
legal. He would've thought the two went hand in hand.
He tapped in his order for one of the local specialties and slid his
hotel room card into the slot in the edge of the table for billing. He hoped it
wouldn't be too long -- his stomach was growling loud enough to be heard in the
next booth.
Nadiline returned with his drink in a large lidded container which she
set on the table. He tried not to stare at her abundant cleavage and was only
partway successful. The pungent aroma of djilk seeped out of the carafe and
found Berto's nose.
"Just hit the Call button when you need another one," she told him with
a smile. He forced his eyes up and returned her smile, trying to not be too
neanderthal.
"My shift ends right about the time you'll be finished eating," she told
him. "If you'd like to scoop a piece after that my prices are very competitive,
and as you can see," she looked down at her chest, " I've got a lot to offer."
She flashed a smile at him and rapped her knuckles against the table. "Think
about it." Then she spun away and was gone.
Caught totally by surprise at this turn of events, Berto blinked twice
and worked his mouth. He watched Nadiline's hips wiggle beneath her skirt as
she moved across the room, weaving in-between tables deftly. If he wasn't so
biased against paying for it he would have seriously considered her offer. He
was a true breast man, and it had been quite some time since he'd been with a
big-busted woman. A whole year, in fact-that dusky prostitute with the
award-winning smile and breasts the size of small continents on Nubia.
Berto took a long draught of his djilk and sighed contentedly. Just the
right sweetness, and only a faint buzz. Perfect. He leaned back and looked
around the big room. Half the tables and most of the booths were full, most of
them occupied by men who -- by their manner of dress -- were spacetrekking
longhaulers of one sort or another. He saw some female spacers at one table,
and a handful of patrons standing up at the bar in native robes. Plus a few
dozen individuals in dress so bizarre they had to be from the Outer Rim.
As he looked closer Berto noticed there were quite a few single women in
the place. Most of them were sitting with spacers, talking animatedly, while
others roamed the floor around the dancers. It was their attire that convinced
him they were the aforementioned pulatritas -- he hadn't seen so much Sweatrem,
or rather, so little of it, since that dance revue on New Vegas. Why they even
bothered with clothing at all . . . .
Whether they were sincere about it or not, most of the pulatritas, or
"treats" as the slang went, seemed to be enjoying themselves, dancing or just
soaking up the festive atmosphere. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to drag their
prospective customer back to his room for a scoop.
Nadiline reappeared and deposited several wide, steaming plates onto the
table in front of him.
"Need anything else? No? Okay, let me know about later," she told him
cheerfully, flipping her skirt at him and disappearing again. Berto paused, a
forkful of food halfway to his mouth. When she'd flipped her skirt at him she'd
done it so he could see that she had on absolutely nothing under it. Unless the
yellow sunflower design permdyed onto her pubic mound counted.
"This planet," he said disbelievingly, shaking his head. He reached
down and surreptitiously adjusted his pants. He wondered if the sunflower
design had any meaning, such as her specializing in a certain kind of sex act.
Probably not.
While he ate he entertained himself by peoplewatching. The spacers on
the dancefloor had no rhythm or technique. Mostly they just ground their pelvis
against a willing treat, who was usually grinding back. Maybe it was just six
weeks in space, but Berto had to admit that the prostitutes circulating around
the club seemed especially attractive. Better looking than most women he'd met,
period, no matter their occupation. In fact, all of the local females,
pulatritas or not, were damn good looking. Pretty, thin, and athletic. He
remembered that a lot of the original settlers of Monsipur were of Arabic or
Japanese descent, which helped to explain some of the good genes displayed by
the women here tonight. One such specimen on the dance floor was garnering some
attention. She was gyrating spasmodically to the beat, hair whipping around her
face like stormy surf. She also happened to be nude from the waist up, sweaty,
and was bouncing her small breasts so violently it appeared she was trying to
fling them from her chest.
There were a few bare breasts here and there, and quite a bit of heavy
petting, but mostly the patrons seemed to be obeying the posted rules.
Multicolored holos flashed above the dance floor in time to the music, and there
were a few big flatscreens on the wall above the bar. They seemed to be showing
either local news or sports, or both at the same time. The hotel attendant had
been right, not only had he gotten a good meal at a fair price, but the place
had a very friendly atmosphere.
Halfway through his meal a woman appeared beside his table, hand on a
cocked hip. She wore green twoskin shorts and a white longsleeve half-jacket
that left her midriff bare. Bare slivers of her breasts peeked out beneath it.
She was pretty, with short brown hair and a trim figure. Short hair seemed to
be the style among the women of Monsipur.
"Warm greetings," she said. "Care for some companionship?"
Berto looked her over and once again marveled at the thinness of
Sweatrem. Couldn't see through it, not at all, but it was so thin, tight, and
elastic that he could see that the woman's pubic hair was cut into a vertical
stripe of stubble. It didn't even look like clothing, it looked like she'd been
sprayed with a thin layer of bright green paint.
"Only if it's free," he replied with a grin. She gave a little pout.
"Mind all set?" she asked. She performed a little pirouette so he could
get a good look at her tight little bottom. It was perfect. He took a deep
breath.
"Sorry."
She moved on without complaint and Berto did his best to finish his
meal. It was tough. Between the two propositions and the frequent nudity
glimpsed on the dance floor or among the busy tables he had a constant erection.
Berto's first container of djilk was running low and he was considering
ordering another when yet another woman appeared beside his table. He'd been
told that the treats would pass the word that he wasn't interested in paying for
it, but that apparently wasn't the case. He made no attempt to disguise his
frank evaluation of this one, but reminded himself to be polite even if he was
getting a little aggravated at the interruptions; after all, they were just
trying to make a living.
This woman had short brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her
features were of the type that Berto didn't even try to guess her age -- she
could have been fifteen or thirty-five, although he was pretty sure she was
younger than his thirty-two years(S). She wore a baggy white short-sleeved
shirt that came halfway down her thighs. Blue Sweatrem shorts peeked out from
under the shirt. Simple pull-ons covered her feet, and she held a small bag in
one hand.
"And a good hello to you," he managed. Her round face was rather
pretty, and she liked to smile. Pretty green eyes set off pale -- for a native
-- skin. Pale pink lips. Her legs below the shirt hem were slender and
well-defined. Big hard nipples set high on her chest, real attention getters,
poked aggressively against the white shirt. Yow. Her breasts didn't seem that
big, but her nipples apparently more than made up the difference.
This treat seemed a little nervous, a small smile flicking on and off
her face. Her nervousness didn't seem to be that big of a deterrent, though --
she kept her eyes glued to Berto's face.
"Would you like to sit down?" he blurted out, not sure why. Her smile
flicked on and off again.
"Yes, very much," she said, and quickly slid in beside him, close enough
to bump his arm.
Berto's heart sank. When she'd bent over and shuffled sideways into the
booth her shirt had pulled tight against her abdomen and he'd seen jiggling
rolls of fat. Oh well, he thought. Too bad. Her face is pretty, though. And
a cute, squeaky voice.
"I'm Berto," he said politely, determined to be cordial. It was one of
the few remaining virtues left over from his strict upbringing. He stuck out
his hand. The woman giggled and shook it, her grip firmer than he'd expected.
"Gilly," she said. She looked him over, a little wide-eyed. "Are you a
spacer?"
"Sure," he said. Okay, so she was playing the innocent little girl. He
was willing to play along, for the entertainment value if nothing else, at least
until she started asking for credits. "Just arrived this day. Do you like this
place?" He gestured around the Port Authority.
Gilly looked around the big room, her eyes taking in the sights. "No,"
she said. "I've never been here before."
"Okay," he said as he tried to follow the script. "Well, I guess I
should be flattered you picked me to talk with."
Gilly giggled again. She seemed a little breathless, still acted
slightly nervous.
"You're cute," she said, staring into his face, as if that explained her
presence. "I was hoping I'd find somebody cute." She pressed her hands to her
mouth as if she couldn't believe she'd just said that. The bench seat jiggled
as she bounced her thighs together.
"Well, I'm glad I was here." He smiled, and offered her the dregs of
his djilk. She smiled and took the green plastic container and downed its
contents in one quick gulp. As she put the empty plastic container back on the
table a red flush warmed her cheeks and she wiggled nervously on the seat.
Faint blue traceries of veins colored her pale neck.
Gilly seemed unsure of what to say. "Are you on-planet long?" She slid
closer and he could feel the heat of her leg against his thigh. Her leg was
quivering.
"Ten days." He had to admit, she smelled good. Soapy, and another,
more earthy girl smell.
"Monny or Standard?"
That's right! he thought. He slapped himself mentally in the head.
There was some difference between the two.
"Monny. I'm not even sure what that is in Standard days. Eight?
Something like that." At least Monsipur wasn't as bad as Yorra, with its
sixteen hour days that just destroyed his internal clock.
"I don't know, I'm so bad at math, I can never convert anything into
Standard." Gilly was just a bundle of nervous energy, wiggling constantly on
the seat.
"Are you a native?"
"Oh sure, I'm a Monny," she said. "Born and bred."
"You don't look tan enough," he told her. "And you're not wearing a
tongi."
"I don't look good at all in a tongi," she admitted, and giggled
self-consciously. "And I don't get outside very often. With my blessing -- my
job, I don't really have much opportunity to head out to the Rose Cliffs." She
wiggled again.
"That's a landmark around here, isn't it? Tourist attraction? Big tall
cliffs that look like they were painted by a bunch of short-circuiting
mega-mechs. You'd defintiely get a tan out there, your sun's a real burner."
He lifted his container of djilk before remembering Gilly had finished the last
of it off. He punched in an order for another one on the flatscreen terminal
and asked, "So what do you do? What's your job?" Logic told him that she had
to be a pulatrita, but his gut told him there was something different about her.
She just didn't have the right demeanor to be a professional sex worker.
"I'm a lackey," she told him with more than a little pride in her voice.
Her butt continued its squirming on the seat, her thighs scissoring open and
shut, open and shut.
"A lackey. You mean you're an employee?"
His waitress appeared with another container of djilk and set it on the
table. She looked Gilly over, evaluating her as a possible challenger for
Berto's money, but her expression remained blank as she left without a word.
"No," she explained patiently, putting a hand on his thigh. "A lackey,"
she reiterated in her sweet high voice. His heartrate jumped ten percent as the
heat from her hand seeped into his skin.
From the perplexed expression on Berto's face she could tell he didn't
have the slightest idea what she was talking about. Gilly looked a little
confused.
"You don't know what a nurser is?"
Berto shook his head. "I'm always bouncing back and forth between
worlds all the time," he told her. "You'd be amazed at all the things that
happen in the universe that I don't hear about until years later. Stuff just
slips through the cracks, I guess. You take care of other people's children?"
Gilly laughed. "Oh, who'd ever want to do that?" She pressed against
his side and slid her hand up his thigh until it was only a hair's breadth away
from his raging erection.
"So what's a lackey?" Berto asked, his voice thick. He moved his arm
that was between the two of them and laid it on the seat back and Gilly pushed
even closer. She wasn't a pulatrita, that much he'd figured out. Exactly what
she was, however, he had no idea.
The tip of Gilly's tongue appeared between her teeth and a wicked,
naughty gleam came into her eyes. She furtively glanced around and saw nobody
was close or looking in their direction, then shifted on the seat so that she
was facing Berto. Another quick peek around, then she grabbed the bottom of her
shirt and pulled it up in front to just below her shoulders. For a brief
moment, Berto's brain didn't comprehend what his eyes were looking at. Then his
jaw dropped.
Gilly lowered her shirt and giggled and snorted at the expression on his
face. She pressed even closer to him, her nose against his neck. Her hand
darted into his crotch and gave his organ a quick squeeze.
"What . . . I mean, how, uh . . . ." Berto was at a loss for words.
His jaw moved up and down several times but no coherent sounds emerged.
Gilly's hand stole back into his crotch and began massaging his turgid
flesh in earnest. He kept staring at the front of her shirt, but it was too
baggy for him to see anything.
"Listen," she said. "I'm all juiced up. My hormone pop is really
hitting me hard today. I need a man to scoop me before I go crazy, a pod's just
not going to do it this time. I can't remember the last time I had a real man.
Do you have a room we can go to?"
"Uh, I . . . ."
"I can't wait much longer," she entreated him. "I'm all squishy
already. Or didn't you like what you saw?" She was afraid that by flashing him
in her unattractively drained condition she'd repulsed Berto.
"Krikes," was all Berto could say, but he quickly motioned for her to
scoot out from behind the table so he could lead the way.
"You live here?" Chris asked dubiously. Leesee -- that was her name,
he'd learned -- smiled.
They'd traveled by moving walkway and magrail to the edge of the city.
She'd groped him nearly constantly in the railcar, totally unconcerned by the
presence of other passengers. And in truth, even though her vigorous massaging
of his crotch was visible to the entire car, no one said anything or even
appeared offended. Perhaps they assumed she was a whore and he her customer,
but their behavior was still strange, at least to him. She might have been
holding his hand for all their lack of reaction. Once they'd left the rail
platform she'd taken him by the hand and led him down a narrow street. This was
obviously an older part of the city, the buildings darker, smaller, and mostly
made of brick and stone. The street was nearly empty, and lights shone in only
a few of the buildings. It made Chris a little uneasy -- even though the area
wasn't overtly threatening, it was so different from the area around his hotel
that he got a little concerned. In the darkness he couldn't see much, but he
got the impression the open desert was just a few minutes away. A dry breeze
blew along the street, and for the first time Chris saw some sand -- caught in
the cracks of the pavement.
Her residence turned out to be a six-story brick and stone building with
a commercial look about it. Faint light shone from a few of its windows, but
the glow was too feeble to assuage Chris' feelings of unease. This is insane,
this is insane, this is insane, he kept telling himself, over and over and over.
A strange woman, on a strange planet, acting strange, and I'm actually following
her into the bad part of town?
"It looks deserted," he said. "This whole area does."
"Most of the business in this area had to relocate when an undetected
rock fault shifted last year and ruptured all the power lines. Most of the
problems have been repaired, but tenants have been slow to move back, afraid the
same thing'll happen again. Between that and the location, practically in the
desert, it's very inexpensive to live here. Come." Leesee took his hand and
led him up the wide staircase into the dark building. And, in a triumph of
testosterone over common sense, he went willingly.
