“Then you have absolutely no right to be sounding so damn cheerful,” Lacey muttered.
“Cheerful?” Marty said, wounded. “I haven’t even made one pun this morning! It is morning, isn’t it, Ramou?”
“By the chronometer, yes,” I assured him, “and someplace on Earth, definitely. Other than that, it seems to be an academic matter, aboard a spaceship.”
“It’s morning.” Lacey grunted. “It feels way too early.” She closed her eyes, held her nose, and tossed the mug-full back, swallowing mightily. Then she slammed down the mug and leaned on the table, eyes bulging and cheeks puffing out, turning a lovely shade of maroon.
I knew about the minor explosion that was going on inside. “Swallow,” I recommended.
She gulped, then opened her mouth and started panting. Her color slackened to normal as she made some sort of hissing sound.
It resembled words. “What’s she saying?” I asked Marty.
He leaned his ear close, then straightened up and looked at me. “Sounds like ‘assassin.’ ”
“It only feels that way for a moment,” I assured Lacey, and held out a glass of orange juice.
She took it, swallowed it all in one breath, then set it down, panting again. Her breathing slowed, her mouth closed, and she looked up at me in wide-eyed wonder. “It worked. I feel … well, okay, at least.”
“Knew you would.” Secretly, I felt relieved.
“Thanks, Ramou,” she said, as if the words felt strange on her lips.
“Just goes with the service.” I held out the filled mug. “Ready to try the coffee again?”
“Yes, thanks.” She took the mug, cradling it in her hands to absorb its warmth by osmosis as she looked up at Marty. “How come you’re feeling okay without tasting that stuff?”
I swiveled to look at him. Come to think of it, that was a good question.
“I cheated.” Marty looked abashed. “I didn’t get drunk.”
“How low!” Lacey cried. “You watched the rest of us totter around rolling under the gale, and you weren’t even three sheets in the wind?”
“Well, maybe three,” Marty allowed. “But I had a hangover once, and it made me very cautious.”
“Must do wonders for your sex life,” Lacey muttered, and turned away to find a soft, a very soft, chair.
Marty looked after her, and for just a split second, his face was bleak. It was over so quickly that I would have missed it if I’d blinked, but I hadn’t. When he turned back to me, though, the old grin was back in place. “Last I heard, sex was better when you could remember it afterward.”
“Only when it’s your own idea,” I assured him.
“Good morning, all!” a gravelly basso cried, and we turned to see Ogden sailing into the room in his floating stretcher.
“Ogden!” I yelped. “What’re you doing out of the sick bay?”
“The same as I was doing last evening, young man—or attempting to do, at least: live.” His voice was still slow and feeble, but his enthusiasm was high and strong. “No, don’t worry, when Barry realized there was no stopping me, he gave in and told me that I might attend rehearsal this morning.”
“Well,” I said doubtfully, “in that case…”
“In that case, I qualify for liquid refreshment, eh? Don’t stint, there’s a good fellow—but just a drop of something invigorating in it.” He looked around elaborately, to give me time to put something in his cup without his noticing. I wondered if he was old enough to have invented the term “legal fiction.”
Instead, he seemed to have the patent on early riser’s cheer. “Ah, what a splendid morning! Fit as a fiddle and ready to rehearse, eh?”
Lacey looked daggers at him from the safety of her chair.
He took up the mug I handed him, steadying it with both hands. “The oddest thing, Ramou. I became dreadfully sleepy after the second Scotch.”
It hadn’t been Scotch, just tasted like it—but I wasn’t about to let him know that.
“I just barely remember Susanne tucking me into bed,” Ogden said. “Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“About Susanne tucking you into bed? No, but …”
“Come now, come! You know very well I was referring to my sudden sleepiness!”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Yeah, sure. All the excitement—it was a big day. The dash to Newark Spaceport, the takeoff, the heart attack—follow all that with a party, and it’s amazing you lasted as long as you did.” I frowned. “How’d you get out of the sick bay, anyway?”
“I floated. Didn’t think I would willingly miss out on a one-time-only party, did you? Though I must admit to having waited until everyone was sufficiently intoxicated not to remember I wasn’t supposed to be there. So it was all the more disappointing to fade so quickly.”
I nodded, commiserating. “I’ve gotten sleepy after the second drink myself, sometimes.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lacey said dryly.
“Of course, it always follows high stress,” I said. “Nicely said.” Ogden nodded judiciously. “Did you have the words memorized, or just the gist?”
My stomach sank, but I spread my hands. “Would I lie to you?”
“Yes, if you thought it was in my own interest.” But the old man smiled and reached for a doughnut. “Your pastries are excellent, though, so I believe I’ll forgive you.” He trundled off to Lacey with his plate and mug, foghorning, “Good morning, Miss Lark!”
Lacey pulled herself together with only a small groan and prepared to be nice to the company’s most senior member, in age if not in authority.
Marty cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “You did know something about that early beddy-bye, didn’t you?”
“Hey, come on,” I said. “Whoever heard of a beverage dispenser having a drink code for a Mickey Finn?”
“Only the guy who did the programming,” Marty retorted.
There was a thump at the doorway, and we both looked up in time to see Susanne stumble against the jamb. I was over to her like a shot, but Marty beat me anyway. “Good morning, beauteous damsel! Allow me to lead you to the pavilion of refreshment and resuscitation!”
“Marty … please.” Susanne raised a hand to fend him off. “Not so early in the morning.” She looked up at me, squinting against the pain of the lights I’d carefully lowered. “It is early, isn’t it?”
“Relatively,” I assured her.
“The penalties for trying to create a pleasant ambience for others,” Marty sighed, taking her arm gently and walking her slowly toward the coffee table. “Set the lady up with a glass of the cure, would you, Ramou?”
I eyed Susanne carefully, for some reason unwilling to risk getting onto her bad side. “Maybe some hair of the dog …?”
“I tried,” she said. “It bit back. Please, Ramou?”
“Well, since you ask.” I turned away and punched up Merlo’s special. After all, she’d asked for it.
She took it and knocked it back so fast the aroma was just registering in her nose as the bomb went off in her stomach. Marty steadied her through the frog eyes and the bulging cheeks and the red face while I seethed with jealousy. Then she went limp, and Marty had to set himself to hold her up. “My lord! What a relief!” She turned wide eyes to me and, for a miracle, they were almost as clear as usual. “Thank you, Ramou.”
“Ever the knight to the rescue of the damsel in distress.” I handed her the glass of juice, secretly marveling at the contrast with Lacey. “This for the taste, then a mug of black coffee to set you up.”
“Just keep me away from the bowling ball that hit me last night,” she said.
I was about to ask who he was, jealousy ready to rip into mayhem, when I remembered that she had been one of our merry little troupe of homebound alcoholics and had dropped off at her own door. I also seemed to remember volunteering to see that she got to her bed okay, and being turned down with a kiss. Yes, I definitely remembered it— the spot on my cheek flowered into tingling.
“Front row
, on the left,” Marty said, ushering her away from the table and off to a lounger a quarter of the way around the lounge from Lacey. I thought he was being too cautious—after a night like that, neither of them was apt to be on speaking terms, period.
But Lacey knew a break when she saw one. She looked up, smiled sweetly, and called out, “Good morning, Susanne dear!”
“Susanne?” Ogden turned his stretcher toward the new arrival. “Excuse me, Miss Lark! I must thank my valiant nurse!”
“Go right ahead,” Lacey purred, and Ogden floated over to Susanne, who blanched for only a split second before she forced a tired smile. “Good morning, Mr. Wellesley.”
Footsteps, slow and dignified. I turned to the doorway and saw Barry and Horace coming in arm-in-arm—or leaning against each other, whichever way you wanted to look at it. Their dignity was draped around each of them like an iron toga, but their faces were rigid. I seemed to remember a quartet still going in the lounge as Marty and I steered what was left of Larry out, and I had a notion they’d gone through at least two more musicals after I’d finally left. After all, they had only worked their way through Rodgers and Hart and Rodgers and Hammerstein, and had just barely begun work on Lerner and Loewe.
Barry stopped, hip leaning against the table, not looking, and held out a hand. I put a cup of hangover remedy in it. He passed it to Horace, and the hand came back, cupped for another one. I filled it.
Horace sputtered and gagged. “Ramou! What is this stuff?”
“Gran’ma Horrhee’s Hangover Remedy,” I said, giving it the short form. “I thought you knew.”
“I assure you, I did not. Phaugh! That is positively the worst thing I have tasted since the crew substituted pure vanilla extract for the elderberry wine in Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“I am sure it will be good for us, though,” Barry said, with iron determination, “I think. Come on, old fellow, drink up.”
Horace still hesitated, eyeing the fluid in his cup as if it might pull itself together into some sort of obscene parody of an anthropoid shape and reach out to bite him.
“I’ve got barf bags,” I supplied.
He nodded grimly and tossed back his glass-full. So did Barry.
I wasn’t prepared for the reaction in men of their age. Apparently it hit harder than with us young’uns—their knees buckled, and they both grabbed at the table. I jumped to lean down on the back edge, to keep it from tipping and drenching them with hot coffee, and Marty leaped over to catch Horace’s arm. I reached across the table to grab Barry’s elbow before he sagged all the way, but he dropped the cup and waved away my hand, straightening up slowly and sucking in a very, very long breath. “Yesssss,” he hissed, and hauled up on Horace’s arm. “I dare say that will help us get things off to a good start. Shall we, old fellow?”
“By all means,” Horace croaked, and they turned away, still leaning on each other, heading for the chairs.
“Think they’ll make it?” Marty muttered to me in a low voice.
“To the chairs, yes,” I whispered back. “Through the whole morning? That’s another guess completely.” I handed him two cups of black coffee. “Here, take these over as a cover and make sure they’re okay.”
He took them, but asked, “Don’t you want to yourself?”
“Yes,” I hissed, “but I have another customer coming.” He looked up at the doorway and saw Mamie feeling her way along the wall, her head very high, her back very stiff, wearing dark glasses. Indoors. In dim light.
Marty nodded and whispered, “Bye, Ramou!” and hurried away to Barry and Horace.
“Good morning, Ms. Lulala,” I muttered, careful to keep it soft and sad.
“Don’t be so impertinent, young man!” She tried to snap, but her heart just wasn’t in it. “I’ll tell you whether it’s good or not—and I assure you, it’s not.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I won’t say I didn’t feel like arguing, but now was not the time. It would have been like picking on a hamstrung hamster. “Coffee, ma’am?” I knew better than to mention the doughnuts.
“Is there an alternative?” she groaned.
“Yes, ma’am. Gran’ma Horrhee’s Patent Hangover Cure.”
Mamie stood very still for a moment. Then she said, “Anything is worth a try—well, almost anything, anyway. Give it to me, young man.”
I handed her the glass-full and stood back. Warning? Why should I have given her a warning? “It works best if you just drink it straight down in one breath, ma’am.” Otherwise, she would have had to smell it.
“Don’t tell me how to drink!” she growled, and knocked the dose back as if she were a Russian with a shot of vodka. Then she froze, and the glass fell from numbed fingers.
I waited, holding my breath. And waited. And waited.
She just stood there in rigor mortis, with her arm in the air and her head tilted halfway back. And stood. And stood.
Finally, I started getting worried. I came around the table and reached out, but didn’t quite dare touch her. Instead, I positioned my arm under, hers, ready to grab, and asked, “Ms. Lulala?”
“Hm?” Her head swiveled around toward me, and I could have sworn I heard something snap.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Could I recommend a short orange juice now, ma’am? It kinda helps with the aftertaste.”
“Yesssssss,” she said, with an expulsion of long-held breath. “I can see that it might.”
I reached over and set a new glass in her hand. She set it to her lips mechanically and drank it off in one straight draft, then lowered it. “You missed your calling, young man.”
“My calling?”
“Yes; I can see you were trained by the Borgias. Now fetch me some coffee!”
“Yes, ma’am.” I took the cup from her fingers and replaced it with another, warmer, one. As she sipped, I reflected that, like so many women, she really wanted to be a spoiled little girl. Problem was that Mamie had been in a position where she could get away with really being one, and still thought that’s what she was.
No, strike that—if she really had been able to behave like a spoiled brat, she wouldn’t have been here with us.
“That will do,” she said regally. “Ordinarily I would censure you for making coffee strong enough to make the flag itself snap up and salute—but this morning, it is just what the physician fizzed. Now show me to a chair.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I figured she meant it, considering that I had the lights set low and she was wearing dark glasses. “If you’ll just rest your hand on my arm, ma’am …”
She hooked her fingers through my elbow, and I played seeing-eye ’bot for her, guiding her to a very soft chair. “We’re here.”
She stepped back gingerly, feeling for the edge of the chair with her calf. “Take the cup.”
I did.
She sat, slowly and carefully, then held out a hand again. “Cup.”
I gave it back to her.
She sipped, then said, “Keep it filled.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You may go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can’t you say anything but ‘Yes, ma’am’?”
But I had gone. After all, Winston had just come in the door, and I couldn’t favor one star to ignore the other, could I?
He was walking extremely erect, carrying himself carefully, but that was the only sign of hangover. Other than that, he wore his usual polite smile—I was beginning to realize that was what it was, though on his face, it looked like a sarcastic smirk. Just the way he was put together, apparently—the eyebrows slanting in over the nose, the black mustache and goatee, the raven hair …
“Good morning, Ramou.” His voice sounded only a little rusty. “I believe coffee is in order.”
“Yes, sir.” But it was Gran’ma Horrhee’s torture syrup I lifted. “Unless you’d consider the alternative. Takes the top off your head, but when it settles back on, the hangover’s gone.”
He just stared at it for a minute. Then
he said, “Interesting.”
“It works,” I said helpfully. “I’m living proof.”
“So am I, though it’s closer to a hundred proof than living. However, if you’re alive, you’re a testament to its effects.”
“I know it looks villainous …”
“Then it’s sweets to the sweet.” He took the little cup, passed it under his nose twice, grimaced, then knocked it back.
I ran around the table to stand at his elbow.
I hadn’t needed to; he stood ramrod straight, totally immobile, but his eyes widened enormously, and he drew in a very, very long breath.
I waited.
He exhaled slowly, for a very long time. Then he went loose and gave his head a shake. “Quite a kick, hasn’t it?”
“Like a chorus girl straight out of Toulouse-Lautrec, sir.”
“I assume you refer to his paintings. Yes. I’d just as soon experience Montmartre in other ways than this. Could we see about that coffee, now?”
“Yes, sir!” I bustled around behind my table again. “Unless you’d like to try the orange juice first—it cleans the taste off your tongue.”
“Along with the skin, no doubt. Still, what have I to lose? Though it’s not my general rule to be healthy.” He took the glass of juice, sipped, rolled it around on his tongue, and nodded. “Not bad. Must have been a good year.”
“It’s very fresh, sir.” In fact, the synthesizer had just put it together out of scrap molecules a half hour before—but I didn’t see any reason to mention that.
He set down the empty glass. “Very well, I’ve served my penance. Now about that coffee?”
“Thick and dark, sir.” I handed him the cup. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in cream or sugar?”
“Only academically—and organic chemistry never was my strong suit.” Winston turned away toward the chairs. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll go sit down, now.”
“I’ve never been one to argue with a man’s beliefs, sir.” He glanced back to see if I was being sarcastic, but I kept a perfect poker face, so he just nodded. “There may be more to you than meets the eye, young man—a certain pawky vein of humor, as Holmes said of Watson.”
I would have thought he would have been more familiar with Moriarty, but I didn’t think it was polite to say so.
We Open on Venus - Starship Troupers 2 Page 5
