PLAYERS AT THE GAME OF PEOPLE by John Brunner

by Players At The Game Of People (v5. 5) (html)

  Seeing him approach, one of the commissionaires on duty before the Global Hotel reacted alertly. “Good evening, sir!” he exclaimed as he trod on the pad before the automatic sliding doors to save Godwin the fractional delay involved in doing so himself.

  “Good evening—ah…?” Godwin said as he slid a pound into the man’s white-gloved hand.

  “Jackson, sir!”

  “Thank you, Jackson.”

  He walked into the foyer, which at this time of evening was full of customers smartly dressed for an evening on the town. He recognized several people who were household names—actors, politicians, businessmen—and was himself recognized, even though he did not recall ever being here before. But that was the way of things in his life.

  “No messages, sir!” the girl on the reception desk twinkled at him. “But I reserved your table in our disco, which opens at ten o’clock.”

  “Thank you, Molly,” he said, reading her name off the badge she wore pinned to her crisp white shirt, and left another pound lying discreetly on the counter.

  Glancing around as he turned away, he saw a head of fair hair above a lean, muscular back, and for a second could have imagined… but no. It belonged to a young man; when he turned, he revealed a beard. And why should he be paying attention to that kind of thing, anyhow?

  All the staff he encountered as he went up to his room—correction: “his” room—beamed at him. Entering it, he discovered awaiting him a bottle of champagne and a basket of fruit, the card accompanying which said they came with the compliments of the management.

  He nodded thoughtful approval of all that that implied. In the early days there had sometimes been disasters to sort out. As time passed, this kind of thing had become more and more typical. One might put it down to increasing skill, born of frequent practice.

  Or perhaps it was due to something else entirely. There was no means of finding out, so there was no point in worrying about it.

  He called room service for caviar, an underdone steak and a tossed salad, and ate quietly on his own, not touching the champagne. He could only drink in the safety of his own home. But he sampled the fruit and found it delicious.

  Lighting another of his favorite petit coronas, he went down to the hotel discothèque a few minutes after ten.

  This early, it was almost empty apart from staff. Its roof was mirrored at crazy angles. Chairs and tables were grouped to form a horseshoe. In the center was a dais of thick glass, over water kept constantly in motion, on which were reflected lights that constantly changed color. A bar ran down one wall, and at it sat some bored-looking prostitutes tolerated by the management—conceivably because they kicked back a portion of their takings. It was a very stock scene indeed. The DJ looked bored as he sorted through his supply of tapes and records; the barmen were yawning as though they had only just got up; the women were much too heavily painted, as though expecting to be viewed on stage by people the far side of footlights, not at close quarters. One girl, tawny-skinned and slender, was on the dance floor writhing and gyrating, but she was like the token coin in the collection tray.

  “Ah, good evening, sir!” a waitress said, purring up to him. “We have the same table for you as last night and the night before. I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you quite so early, so I haven’t set out your champagne yet—”

  “Coke,” he said.

  She blinked at him. She was pretty, brown-haired, youthful.

  “Coke,” he repeated. Her face fell, but she only shrugged and said nothing as she turned away, expecting him—of course—to know which table he had reserved.

  Instead, he remained where he was, glancing about him and wondering what he was here for. He knew, of course, in the broadest sense, but the details so far were elusive. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  The girl returned, bringing his Coke and also carrying an enormous menu which, as she indicated his table and he sat down at it, she thrust into his hands. He did no more than glance at it, registering that it offered extremely basic food—hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pizza, kebabs—at stratospheric prices… not, of course, that that could worry him. But he gave it back to her almost at once with a shake of his head.

  “I ate already,” he muttered, and leaned back to savor the last of his cigar.

  She gave him an extremely puzzled look, but departed with another shrug, and in a little while was seen to be talking with the headwaiter. Both of them kept casting glances in his direction. Godwin ignored them, and very shortly they were distracted as new customers arrived. Within half an hour or so there were twenty people present and four young couples were dancing under the randomly changing lights—and above them. The effect of the reflection from the ripples was colorful and imaginative; he watched it most of the time he was sitting alone.

  Now and then he was interrupted by the passage of one or other waiter or waitress, each of whom greeted him cordially and hovered for a while, clearly expecting him to place an order. As each in turn moved away disappointed, they wore identical looks of perplexity.

  It grew very warm in the room. One of the girls, who had come in with a fat, father-old escort, took off her blouse and started dancing topless; another, not to be outdone, peeled off her dress and danced in bikini panties, barefooted. Both were young and quite attractive, and fora while Godwin wondered whether he should be interested in them. But neither seemed to show any sign of recognition.

  It was not until nearly midnight—by which time the place was crowded and his table, in single occupation and with nothing on it but a half-empty glass of Coke and a clean ashtray, formed the eye of a storm of noise and shouting and feverish activity—that the girl he was expecting turned up.

  Two young men, both apparently Arabs, both in impeccable dinner suits incongruously combined with pale fawn headdresses bound with green silk cords, entered ahead of two women: one plump and blond, about thirty, and the other slim and brown-haired but with a streak of silver, very much younger—at most, eighteen. It was she who, glancing around, spotted him and gave a nervous wave and smile behind her companions’ backs. She wore yellow satin pants, very tight, and a blue strapless top held up by a ruched elastic insert. On the left of her neck, inexpertly powdered over, there was a strawberry-colored bite mark. She looked tired and ill at ease. But she smiled the instant she caught sight of Godwin, and everything—or almost everything—became clear to him.

  One table remained vacant, in a bad position well away from the dance-floor, and the party was shown to it and at once supplied with a bottle of whisky and a bowl of ice and a syphon of soda, along with dishes of junk food of the kind Godwin had been resolutely refusing since his arrival. Like alcohol, that was something he would only risk in the security of home. He waited another couple of minutes until the group settled down, then rose and approached them with his most leonine strides. Thanks to Irma, his body tingled with vitality, and virtually everyone in the place stared at him as he moved.

  The girl started up from her chair in excitement, holding out her hand to seize his as soon as he came in range.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaimed. “Let me introduce my friends! This is Rashad. This is Afif. This is Peggy. This is Godwin!”

  He acknowledged them with a succession of cool nods, not letting go of her hand. It was very clear from their expressions that neither Afif—the older—nor Rashad welcomed his intrusion. In fact both looked in a thoroughly bad temper. He sensed storm warnings, but continued anyhow.

  “Hello… I came over to ask if you’d like to dance with me.” Beautifully controlled, his voice lanced through the din.

  “Yes, I’d love to! You will excuse me, won’t you?”—to Rashad, who was clearly her partner for the evening, wherever it had begun.

  “No,” he said.

  Startled, she stared at him, poised half out of her chair.

  He pointed at the dance floor. Some quiet persuasion from the management had removed from it the girls who were going topless and obliged t
hem to dress again, but two or three who were up there now were in shorts and halters or strapless dresses slit to the thigh.

  “No,” he said again. “I have bought you for tonight. You have been paid for. If you dance, you will dance with me or with my brother.”

  The brother nodded firm agreement. Blond Peggy looked a trifle alarmed, but did her best to conceal her reaction.

  Godwin planted the knuckles of both fists on the table and leaned toward Rashad.

  “I asked the lady if she’d like to dance with me and she said yes,” he stated in level tones. “She said yes. I don’t care how you treat women in the slave markets of wog-land, but in this country they are not for buying and selling. They are people. Got that? Now let’s go and dance,” he concluded, turning to the girl again.

  Rashad’s hand flashed across the table and seized her by the wrist.

  “You will do as you are told!” he hissed.

  “Let go—you’re hurting!” she cried.

  By now the attention of half the room was on them. Most of the dancers had checked in mid-movement and were staring this way; eyes wide, lips apart, they were visibly hungry for something out of the ordinary run of events, and if it was violent they would be most pleased.

  It was not going to turn out that way.

  Three tall male members of the staff converged, two to take station either side of Godwin, one to bend deferentially over the Arabs’ table and say, “Is this gentleman disturbing you?”

  Rashad uttered an Arabic curse and made as though to spit. The deferential one turned to Godwin.

  “I believe the manager would like a word with you, sir. This way, if you please.”

  After what Irma had done to him, Godwin was well aware he could have broken all three of them into small pieces and scarcely been out of breath at the end of it, but somehow this did not feel like the right response. Shrugging, he let himself be led through a door set inconspicuously at the end of the bar, and instantly he was in another world: one of hustle and bustle, of deliveries and shouted orders, of dust and litter and junk to be concealed from the gaze of the clientèle. A few yards along a dim-lit corridor, and they entered the manager’s office: a shabby room with functional furniture, an old-fashioned desk, telephones, filing cabinets, a worn rug on a concrete floor.

  The manager, a balding man of fifty-odd, didn’t even glance up as he spoke on Godwin’s entrance.

  “I don’t know what your game is, chum, but I don’t like it. I’m not even sure you’re you, and not your twin brother. Last night and the night before, you come in here like the original big spender, you make with the tips and the champagne, you generally make yourself welcome. Tonight you don’t eat, you don’t drink, you don’t dance, you sit there like a bloody statue and, to crown it all, you make waves with Prince Afif and Prince Rashad—”

  One of the phones on his desk buzzed; it was an internal one. He barked at it, “Yes?” And listened.

  “The hell you say,” he said after a while. “That’s exactly what we don’t need!”

  Cradling the receiver, he stared directly at Godwin for the first time.

  “They marched out!” he snapped. “Said this wasn’t the way they expected to be treated! I hope you’re bloody satisfied!”

  “What do you expect me to do if your rich chums behave like slave dealers?” Godwin countered.

  “I don’t give a damn what you do so long as it doesn’t fuck up my operation!” He pulled himself to his feet; he overtopped Godwin by a good three inches.

  “I gather you have a room in the hotel. Go to it! Get some beddy-byes! And don’t come back in my disco, hear? Not until you’re prepared to act like a customer again instead of a specter at the bloody feast! Christ, what do you expect me to do—carry you because you spent so much here already you ran out of money? It won’t work on me, chummy, if that is your game! I’ve had ‘em all in here, and I keep the ones who can afford it. And only those! Now you get lost, okay?” To one of the heavies he added, “Show him back to the foyer. And I mean show him! Don’t turn him loose to ‘lose his way’ and sneak back into the disco!”

  Meekly Godwin let himself be shown, knowing what was in store.

  He just had time, eluding his escort, to vanish through the door marked Gentlemen before the pangs of punishment descended. There was one astonished young man in the toilet—barely more than a boy—who summed up his condition in a single glance and hurried away… and was wrong. Contrary to appearances, Godwin was not drunk enough to vomit, though his paleness and unsteady gait combined to give that impression.

  He was simply suffering, and resigned to the fact. He had, after all, messed up his assignment… one of the sort he was good at.

  In a bolted cubicle he struggled not to resist the pangs, recognizing them as just. But repressing the moans called forth from him cost all his energy, and when it was over he had to sit with head in hands fora long while before he dared venture forth again.

  He used the time well, though, and made plans.

  Miraculously, it appeared that no one had remembered to get at Jackson. Emerging cautiously into the hotel lobby, Godwin put on the boldest face he could contrive, and strolled toward the entrance as though to glance at the weather. The commissionaire leaped to attention.

  “Going out, sir?”

  “Not right away,” Godwin said musingly, and contrived to slide a fiver into the man’s hand. “But… Well, you saw Prince Rashad and Prince Afif leave some time ago with a couple of girls?”

  “Oh, yes! With Peggy and Gorse. I called them a cab.”

  “Well, I’m going to be in the lounge bar for a while”—with a jerk of his head. “I’d like to know when they come back. I take it they will come back? They have rooms here?”

  “The Imperial Suite on the second floor,” Jackson confided. He had made the money vanish without so much as a rustle.

  “Fine. I’ll sit where I can see you reflected in that glass door,” Godwin said, having rapidly checked several possibilities in his mind’s eye. “Give me a signal—wave your arm up and down, or something—as soon as you recognize them. Okay?”

  “Will do,” Jackson said, and Godwin headed for the lounge.

  It was almost two hours before the signal came. Thirty cabs had drawn up—for want of any better way to pass the time, Godwin had kept score—and this was the thirty-first. The lounge barman was reading a newspaper and trying not to yawn; the lights were lowered in the foyer; outside, the last of the beggars had quit for the night.

  Godwin rose to his feet with electric rapidity and strode out through the automatic doors so fast they would not have had time to open for him. Jackson, though, was already treading on the sensor pad against the arrival of the princes and their women. The taxi was drawing away. Godwin shouted commandingly, “Hang on, driver! I want you!”

  Obediently the woman—for it was a woman at the wheel—braked and reversed.

  The girl who had been identified by the peculiar name of Gorse was red-eyed and looked as though she had been crying. Peggy was attempting to comfort her. Both the brothers wore expressions of thundercloud rage and were talking to one another in rapid Arabic, paying no more attention to the girls than to make sure they were not trying to cut and run.

  The moment they recognized Godwin, they halted in their tracks and flinched away from him. He closed on them with his fists raised to elbow height, wider apart than the width of his body, and the eyes of each fixed, fascinated, on one fist.

  “I told you,” he said mildly. “I don’t care what you get up to in wog-land, but here we don’t buy and sell women!”

  And instead of punching, he kicked, leaping into the air like a ballet dancer. He caught Rashad first just below the left kneecap and the man crumpled with a yell; then he took Afif in the crotch and strode between the pair of them with one hand poised to catch Gorse by the elbow. With his other hand he hauled open the taxi’s door, and seconds later they were safely inside. Reflex made the driver start up the ins
tant the door shut.

  “Hey, I say!” she shouted over her shoulder. “I don’t like what you just done! You get right out of this cab again, now! Or else I’ll call a copper, understand?”

  But before she could brake to a halt, Godwin said, “They were going to sell her as a white slave!”

  Prompt on cue, the girl crumpled against his shoulder and began to utter huge gut-wrenching sobs.

  Before the driver could say anything else Godwin gave her his address and leaned back, stroking Gorse’s soft dark hair with its incongruous silver streak as though he were comforting a little child.

  So far the whole episode had gone so smoothly he was already on the verge of being bored.

  When they were nearly at their destination Gorse sat up without warning and said slowly and clearly, “Please stop. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Godwin tapped on the glass partition behind the driver, who understood instantly and pulled in at the curb. Deftly he opened the door and thrust her head out just far enough, keeping his other arm around her to steady her. She uttered a gush of liquid that made the air stink of gin.

  Wiping her chin with a handkerchief, he sat her back and closed the door again, and they completed their journey without further incident.

  In his home street all but two of the lamps were out. She shivered noticeably as he helped her to the ground, having already passed the cab fare plus a generous tip to the driver. Slowly, through her alcoholic fog, she registered the high-piled rubbish in the gutters, the derelict cars, the dark faces of the houses where many windows had been broken and mended, after a fashion, with cardboard or sheets of plastic.

  “What have you brought me here for?” she demanded between a cry and a sob.

  “It’s where I live,” he answered, taking her arm and guiding her roughly up the steps of his home. She tried to rebel, tried to hang back—but a fresh bout of nausea overcame her, and this time instead of spurting out, her vomit dribbled, staining the front of her clothes.