The passengers off the first ship had been disappointing. Thus far, the second hadn’t provided anything better, with the possible exception of that blonde stew. Well, better than nothing. He felt in his jacket pocket to make sure the slip of paper with the number on it was still there.
A flash of color near the end of the first-class line caught his eye. He straightened, smiling. Well now, this was more like it!
The girl had paused at the gate to talk to the debarkation officer. That’s why he hadn’t spotted her till now. An off-planet citizen, obviously. Even better.
She was dressed in a bright yellow jumpsuit that clung to her like lemon icing. A simple band of some silvery metal on one wrist was the only jewelry. Not that a ring would have made a difference to Kingsley, but he preferred things simple to complex. A dun-colored bag was fabricatched to her right thigh. Jet-black hair was gathered together by a yellow band. It fell in a single thick braid to just above her waist, where it was held in place by another band and knotted. Kingsley pursed his lips disapprovingly. Minoan had gone out months ago.
Eyes deep blue, complexion deep tan, little makeup. The eyes were sharply slanted, cheekbones high, and prominent. At least half chinee or mongolian ancestry, he thought. What he could see of the body was exquisitely proportioned, if not voluptuous. It deviated from the perpendicular in all the appropriate places.
The only thing that made him a little uncomfortable was that she appeared to stand a good five centimeters taller than he. He left the counter and moved to intercept her as she headed for the public transport park.
Subtlety was not Kingsley’s forte. He grinned his best grin, every bicuspid and molar perfect (he had guarantees for that, too), and said, “Hello, stranger!”
The gaze she offered in return was faintly amused, otherwise noncommittal.
“Hello yourself, natives.” The voice was a husky soprano, with just a trace of terran accent.
Better and better! Everyone knew about terran girls, didn’t they?
“Russell Kingsley, but you can call me Russ. Can I give you a lift? My rates are reasonable.”
“Kitten Kai-sung. Sure. Are you passing anywhere near the . . .” she paused, “the Green Island Hostelry?”
“Green Island.” (Not filthy rich, but well-off—not that it mattered much.) “I am now. Got any luggage?”
“It’s being delivered.”
“Well, then. Come along!” He tried to put an arm across her shoulders. She shrugged it off.
Uppity bitch, he thought. He’d change that quickly enough, as soon as he got her back to the Tower.
His hoveraft was a Phaeton Mark IV, the latest. He was just a bit put off when she didn’t acknowledge the gleaming hunk of machinery. Not even a little oooh! or aaah! Let her play it cool, then. He’d change that, too.
As soon as he was sure all doors were secure, he gunned the powerful engine and blasted away from the station, scattering grit and sand over several pedestrians.
The cloud cover was still fairly heavy, the air typically warm and damp. Now and then a light mist would not so much fall as simply appear in the air. Wood was utilized to a great extent on Repler, not only because the planet was blessed with tremendous softwood jungles, but because wood had a natural advantage over many metals. It wouldn’t rust.
“You plan to be with us long?”
“Depends. My time is flexible.”
“Business?”
“Very little. Vacation, mostly.”
“Wise decision. Pleasure before business, I always say.” He made a hard left and swung out of the downtown section, heading towards the harbor.
She didn’t say anything for several minutes, but did take a long look out the back of the plastic bubble cabin. Getting a little worried, luv?
“The Tower’s only an hour off,” he said easily. “We’ve got our own island. Not so extraordinary when you consider that Repler is mostly islands, with very few open oceans; but Wetplace is unusual.”
“Tower? Wetplace? We’re supposed to be going to the Green Island Hostelry.”
“Only theoretically, luv. Take my word for it, you’ll prefer the Tower. It’s got some interesting extras that would startle the management of a common tourist trap like the Green Island. Magnificent view from the top, and the privacy can’t be beat. Can’t even be broken, in fact.” He giggled (that was one thing the cosmeticians hadn’t been able to correct). “Oh, everyone who visits the Tower enjoys it!”
“I’m sure,” she said drily.
“Especially some of the interesting devices I’ve had installed in my own quarters. Many of them custom-built, you know.”
“I can imagine.” There was a pause. “You don’t intend to turn around, I take it?” she said finally.
He sniggered. “Not while I’m still vertical, sister!” He kicked over the autopilot and reached out. Not voluptuous, no, but the breast that filled his left hand was more than satisfying. Expecting at least a mild protest, he was surprised (and a bit disappointed) when she continued to allow him to fondle her.
“All right. That little island coming up on our left . . . the one with the climax vegetation.”
“Clever, too,” he grinned. Inwardly he was upset. Sine needles and bugs! Oh well, if she wanted to start that way . . .
“Your wish is my command.” He drew away and swung the hoveraft in a tight arc, slowing.
“Your snappy repartee stuns me,” she said, but he chose to ignore the sarcasm. Plenty of time to wipe that out.
He pulled into a small cove, dodging one floating log, and cut the engine at the proper moment. The Phaeton sank gently into the sand. He released the doors, letting her exit first so he could watch the tight suit tauten over her perfect backside as she stepped out. He followed.
Passing her, he unlocked a side storage compartment in the lee of the ship, started to pull out a large package.
“I think you’ll find that for an inflatable setup this is rather exotic, including as it does a—”
“Don’t bother.”
He paused in his unwrapping, looked up at her. She was grinning right back.
“I hope you’ll understand, but while you’re not bad looking, something about obvious cosmetic jobs puts me off my tick. More importantly, initial psycho-emotional analysis indicates mental discrepancies confluent with your successive immature oeillades.”
“Huh?”
“To summarize, you don’t turn me on, buster. And besides,” she said as she turned to re-enter the cab of the raft, “it’s way past my check-in time.”
“Just a second, pretty bitch. You know what this is?” All pretense at politeness had been dropped. A small object sat in his palm. She glanced down at it.
“It appears to be a Secun vibraknife, battery powered. Very efficient. It will cut many metals, most plastics, but not ceramic alloy and a few other things. Do I pass?” She was facing him now, hands on hips.
“Oh you are funny. But we’ll change that. Since your face is not composed of ceramic alloy, or ‘a few other things,’ this toy is sufficient to make a very unpretty mess of it. I’d rather do this nicely, but if you’d rather be persuaded—”
“Okay, okay. I was only kidding, luv! I’m convinced.” She came towards him, biting her lower lip uncertainly, and put both hands around his neck. Trembling, her lips moved towards his.
Kingsley was puzzled. He couldn’t remember lying down. That blueness above him was unquestionably the sky, so he knew he was lying down. Yes, it was very blue and had fluffy white clouds in it.
The back of his neck hurt.
He sat up and rubbed it. The Phaeton floated a few meters offshore. The tall girl was leaning out of the cabin, staring back at him.
“Sorry, Mr. Kingsley! The tag next to the ignition here lists several private comm numbers. I’ll see that someone comes out to pick you up before it gets too cold!”
Maybe he could make it to the craft before she could swing away. He got to his feet and started a mad dash for
the beach. He got four steps before an excruciating twinge at the back of his neck crumpled him to the sand.
“Goddamn you!” he moaned. “What did you do to me?”
“Cooled your ardor!” she yelled back over the dull whine of the idling fans. “Nothing permanent. Ask next time before you reach!” She closed the door and pivoted the ship expertly, flinging small wavelets onto the beach.
He sat staring after her long after the hoveraft had disappeared over the horizon. Curses did equal time with moans.
His sea-green foxfire vest was full of sand.
“Miss Kitten Kai-sung?” The clerk tried hard to keep from goggling at her. She nodded. The gangling adolescent was trying to shift his eyes from the computerized registry to her face without lingering on any of the intervening territory. He was failing miserably. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Only a few years younger than she. But the way he was staring at her you’d think he’d never seen . . .!
She sighed. She ought to be used to this by now. The smile she gave him was seductive.
“And you say the room has a nice view?”
“Oh yes, ma’m! Best in the hotel! You can see most of the harbor. It’s nice here. You’re away from the noise of the shuttleport and docks.” He hesitated, stared statue-like at the register. “Uh, if there’s anything, uh, you need, Miss Kai-sung . . . ask for Roy. That’s I. Me.” He didn’t have enough room in the tiny clerk’s cubby for an honest swagger, but he tried.
She reached out and touched the tip of his nose with a finger, dropping her voice another octave.
“I shall keep that in mind . . . Roy.” She turned to leave.
“Oh, Miss Kai-sung!”
“Call me Kitten, Roy.”
The youth grew ten centimeters. Hate yourself, hussy, half of her thought! Love it, came the other half’s reply!
“There’s someone been waiting up for you in your room. He has diplomatic credentials, so I couldn’t keep him out. Says he’s an old friend. He’s not human.”
“That’s all right. I’m expecting him. His name’s Porsupah, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the boy said in surprise. “You know him, then?”
“I’ve been his mistress for five years. Those Tolians . . .” She rolled her eyes as the door to the lift closed, leaving a fish-eyed clerk below. Somehow she contained her laughter. By eventide 90 percent of the hotel staff would know about the “stranger” in room 36.
Her apartments were at the end of the hallway. She inserted her right thumb into the small recess at the left of the room number. The door registered her with the central computer and it slid back with the slightest hiss from the pneumatic guiderail.
She had a small suite. It was tastefully decorated, just extravagant enough to be in keeping with her supposed income. A well-stuffed conversation round was at one end of the greeting room, facing a broad ocean-view window. The being perched on it was the only thing out of place in the room.
That worthy stared back at her evenly. It . . . he . . . was just over a meter and a third in height. He looked remarkably like an oversized, portly raccoon. The major differences from the tiny terran mammal consisted of six long, dexterous fingers, more massive forearms, and a high, intelligent brow. There was no mask, the ears were sharply pointed and proportionately larger than the terran look-alike, and the rear feet were webbed.
It also possessed a biting tenor voice. This it used at her entrance, with practiced effect.
“Where the conceptualized clam excretement have you BEEN?”
Kitten tossed her thighbag on a small table holding local magazines and a vase of dampish green flowers.
“Conceptualized clam excretement . . . I like that one, Pors. Your knowledge of arcane invective is always stimulating.” She walked across the room to the bedroom portal and peeked in. “I see, wonder of wonders, that my luggage arrived reasonably intact and together. Did you overtip the bellhop again?”
“I was not here at the time they were deposited. Doubtless they were transported by a mechanism.”
“On this planet, in this metropolis? Don’t bet on it.” She began undoing the long braid. “This place has all the feel of a world that could still make a profit on slave labor. Oh, stop trying to burn holes in me! I was late because one of the local playboys, convinced of his masculine irresistibility, attempted to abduct me. He had visions of performing odd things on my precious body.” The last gold band slid off and she shook her head, generating an obsidian waterfall at her back.
Porsupah said nothing, continued to stare at her. She reached over suddenly and tickled his nose. “Now, wouldn’t that have upset you?”
Porsupah sneezed, attempted to slap her hand, but she drew back too quickly. “I begin to think not.” She moved close again and tried to cuddle, stroking the fur on his spine.
Lieutenant Porsupah was tolerant, but being regarded as cuddlesome was one thing he couldn’t quite put up with.
“Have you no shame, woman! We’re not even of the same species!”
She ruffled his fur again. “You’d have a hard time, by now, convincing the hotel staff of that. Besides, you’re as mammalian as I.”
He couldn’t help a slight smile. “Not by several points.”
“Anyhow,” she whispered huskily, “we could manage a little something, you know . . .”
Porsupah gave a loud screech and scrambled behind the circular couch. “Kai-sung, you are irrevocably, utterly, spiritually indecent!”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in four days.”
The Tolian recited several rapid and extremely potent native curses under his breath before he tried again.
“Major Orvenalix had to cancel a scheduled meeting between the three of us and Governor Washburn. At last word he was waiting in his office, steaming at the joints. I strongly suggest haste to arrange yourself properly so that we may be off before he sends the local constabulary to fetch us!”
“Oh, pooh!” She tumbled off the couch, thumbed a drink from the portabar. “I can handle the Major. Want something?”
“As you are well aware, none of the effects alcohol has on the Tolian system are in the least pleasurable. Fermented Ropus lymph, now—”
“Okay, have some of that, disgusting as it sounds.”
“I will not imbibe when late for assignment.”
“Foo. You’re worse than impossible. And stop worrying about Orvy-Dorvy. We’re old friends.”
“That may well be. The Major has an eye for a well-turned ovipositor. However, if I may so delicately point out, you are decidedly deficient in that area, however well compensated you may be in others. And I want to hear you call him ‘Orvy-Dorvy’.”
“Thanks . . . I think.” She sipped the pink and yellow liquid the machine had prepared. “Still, there’s a way of caressing the soft spot where thorax and b-thorax meet that—”
“Aghhhh!” The Tolian covered his eyes. “Disgusting, obscene, profane! No morals. No morality at all! If it were possible you would consider intercourse with a rock!”
“All right, all right, calm down! Listen, Pors, I’ve seen you with a few under your pouch, you sly tail-tickler, and you—”
“No more! Desist! Cease!”
“And stop throwing your fuzzy carcass all over the furniture or you’ll build up a charge that’ll shock the first diplomat you shake hands with two meters sunward! If you insist on throwing a fit, throw a stationary one.”
Porsupah tried a new tack. He ignored her while he rehearsed the explanation he would have to present to the Major. Ideas did not come rapidly to mind.
He was finally making some progress when his thoughts were scattered by a shrill, protesting voice from the nether depths of the bathroom.
“And I do so have morals!”
Outwardly a quiet, intense person, Major Orvenalix, the commander of Repler’s tiny military force, was capable of violent displays of emotion. These he kept private. It wouldn’t do for the members of Repler’s governing council to know
to what extremes their stubbornness could push him. They also did not know that the peaceful commandant held an equal and much more impressive rank in the intelligence arm of the United Church.
Repler warranted an intelligence operative of Orvenalix’s stature because of the AAnn Imperial Enclave, several hundred kilometers to the south across open seas. The Enclave was the vestigial remnant of early altercations between the Commonwealth and the Empire over planetary claims. The AAnn hadn’t really wanted Repler, but it was a matter of self-respect that they dispute all territorial claims by other races.
Johann Repler’s claim eventually proved the strongest. The AAnn demanded, however, and were granted sovereignty over, a small area south of the eventual capital. This was done to speed colonization and to promote a harmonious settlement. Actually, the Commonwealth had argued against the idea, the Church had been noncommittal, and the humans and thranx already settled positively blasé. After all, the great majority of the planet was unexplored, and the AAnn could probably have established a secret station anyway. Why not be generous and give them one?
When the AAnn found out that they wouldn’t be allowed to use the interspace facilities at Repler City and that the largest island in their Enclave was insufficiently bedrocked to support a shuttle station of any size, they almost gave up the Enclave idea in disgust. But to refuse after having won the concession would have been twice as bad. It would have made the AAnn diplomats who had arranged the treaty look ridiculous. This would be fatal to certain parties. Those same parties made sure that an elaborate facility was constructed on the main land mass. At least the oceanologists, a group that most AAnn considered congenital idiots, were happy. The AAnn home world and most of its colonies were desert-type planets. Those assigned to the Repler station were, with the exception of the scientists, very unhappy reptiles.
Major Orvenalix sat in his thimble-shaped chair and stared across at Kitten and Porsupah. At the moment the Major was employing his mid-pair of limbs as a second set of hands. In imitation of a human habit, the thranx was tapping all four sets of claws on the table in front of him. The twelve digits made a considerable racket.
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