Floating Worlds

by Cecelia Anastasia Holland

  “I’m sorry for you, baby, but you’ll get what you deserve.” She went to the door. Her white face appeared over her shoulder. “You know, breaking and entering is against the law on Mars.”

  The Styth took two steps toward her, and Cam went out. The sliding door sighed closed. Paula rested her hands on the edge of the bar. The big man wheeled toward her and looked at her down his long Styth nose. His eyes were round and black, protuberant, eyes for the dark. He said, “When I come into the room, you stand up.”

  “I am standing up,” she said. “I’m very short. How did you get in here?”

  “I walk through walls.”

  “That must be hard work. Would you like a drink?”

  He picked up her glass and swirled the dark amber liquor and drank the whole two fingers straight down. “Give me some of this.”

  Paula filled up the short glass to the top. The sliding door whisked back into the wall, and Cam Savenia came in again. Three men followed her, identically dressed in gray jackets. One carried a weapon with a trumpet muzzle. Paula started around the bar.

  Savenia pointed at the Akellar. “Him.” She touched the wall switch and the ceiling lights burst up, dazzlingly bright. The Akellar reached for the glass of Scotch. The air smelled of hot copper. Paula sniffed, puzzled. The three policemen stopped midway across the room, and the gun disappeared.

  “Dr. Savenia, we’ve been told not to interfere with the Styths.”

  Paula stopped at the end of the bar, relieved. Cam said, “Do you know who I am?” in a voice that squeaked.

  The guards backed to the door. “Yes, sir, Dr. Savenia.”

  Paula went around behind them to the light switch and dimmed the lights. The policemen filed quickly out. Cam stood where she was, staring at the Akellar. Paula said, “You must be tired, Cam, after all your labors. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Cam said, “When the Council hears this, there will be hell, I can tell you.” She left. The door slid closed behind her.

  Paula laughed. The Styth rubbed his eyes. She put the bar between them again and poured another three fingers of Scotch into his glass. Maybe she could get him drunk.

  “Do you think you’re a man?” he said.

  “I’m not a Martian. I don’t have to be a man.” The stink of copper was coming from him. She opened the cold drawer. “Do you want some ice?”

  “Ice.”

  She used the tongs to put two ice cubes into his glass. He fished one lump out with his fingers and put it in his mouth. She made herself another drink. His mustaches hung down past his collarbones, so Cam was right, he was her age, or a little older, thirty-five or forty. The ice crunched between his teeth.

  “Do you want to see my credentials?” she said.

  “I know who you are. What is this stuff?” He drank his glass empty.

  “Scotch whiskey.”

  “It’s not bad.”

  She poured his glass full again, remembering Kary’s capacity. He ate the other ice cube. She stooped behind the bar, found a bowl in the back, and filled it with ice cubes and put it down on the counter next to him.

  “From now on,” he said, “when I send for you, you come.”

  “What did Cam tell you about us?”

  “Nothing I didn’t already know.” He laid his forearms on the bar. “We know all about the Committee.” He stared at her a moment, eating ice. She busied herself neatening up the bar. The coppery stink was gone. He reached for the bottle and topped off his glass.

  “This is Earthish, this drink?”

  “Whiskey? Yes. It’s distilled in Scotland.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  She shook her head. “I grew up in Havana. Now I live in New York. You speak the Common Speech very well.”

  His chest swelled; he was proud of that. “I taught myself. Reading engine manuals. Do you speak Styth?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Say something to me in Styth.”

  She did not want him to know she was fluent. Ungrammatically, she said, “I hope you have a good time on Mars.”

  “We’d better keep to the Common Speech.” He put his glass down with a thunk. His voice dropped half an octave under the weight of authority. “The Earth is an anarchy.”

  “Yes.”

  “No government. No laws. No army.”

  “That’s right. No taxes, either.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Paula rolled whiskey on her tongue. It was late; she was tired, and she had to call Jefferson. She said, “Well, it won’t be the last time.”

  His black eyes glinted. He folded his arms on the bar top. “Aren’t you supposed to be convincing me to trust you?”

  “You’d be a fool to trust anybody. You don’t look like a fool to me.”

  He stared at her a moment. Finally he slid off the stool and walked across the room. The back of his shirt was dark with sweat. His black hair was pulled down and knotted at the nape of his neck. She put her elbows on the bar. She did not want to talk much in this room before she had taken out any relics of Cam Savenia.

  He said, “I can understand Savenia. She’s ambitious. She’s just hauling her own freight. What’s yours? What do you want in this?”

  “It’s my job.”

  He spun around, his hands on his hips. “Where I come from, women don’t have jobs—they stay home with their families where they belong.” He walked back up to the bar and leaned on it, bending over her. “Savenia says I shouldn’t believe anything the Committee tells me—you’re all thieves and liars.”

  “Say flexible. It’s a nicer word.”

  “Are you? What do you want? Money?”

  She raised her head. “Are you offering me a bribe?”

  “Yes.”

  “To do what?”

  “As you’re told.”

  She burst out laughing. “How much did you pay the Nineveh not to interfere with you? I’ll bet it was too much. You should have come to the Committee. We’re good at negotiating bribes.”

  He sat down again on the stool and reached for the ice. She caught a whiff of the coppery heat. He said, “You’re saying no?”

  “That’s right.”

  He mashed an ice cube in his teeth, his eyes on her. Paula smiled broadly at him. He was embarrassed; he pulled on his mustaches, getting his face in order.

  “Are you married?”

  “No. Anarchists don’t usually get married.”

  “But you do breed.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  She shook her head. He was leaning forward across the bar, attacking. “Why not? What are you waiting for? You’re already past the best age.”

  “I’m too busy to have a baby.”

  “Too busy doing what?”

  “My job. My own life.”

  “That’s not much of a substitute.”

  She finished her drink and put the glass down. “Well, I like it.” His hands lay flat on the bar. His long fingers were tipped in heavy black claws.

  He said, “If somebody tried to bribe me, I wouldn’t laugh,” and the claws flexed.

  “Aren’t you glad I’m a pacifist?”

  He stood up. She raised her head to follow him. He was over six and a half feet tall. Short, for a Styth. She said pensively, “I guess it wouldn’t matter.”

  “You’re damned right it wouldn’t. I’m going. You come up to my place tomorrow. Five o’clock. What do I call you?”

  “Paula.”

  He was on his way to the door. “Will these—Martians sell me that whiskey?”

  “It’s expensive. Don’t let them give you the Martian version, it’s wholly other.”

  His big head bobbed once. “My name is Saba.” He sounded as if he were granting her a favor. The door opened for him, and he left.

  The small hinged window in the shower was unlocked. He was burly, a tight fit through the window. She turned off the light, locked the bathroom door, and went back to
the sitting room to call Jefferson.

  The old woman’s face was grooved with irritation. “How long have you been there?”

  “I’m sorry, Jefferson, I’ve been busy.” She swung out the stool and sat down in front of the camera. “I’ve met him.”

  “You have. What’s he like?”

  “Remember that list of ships? Saba is his name. He’s very defensive. I think he’s scared. He seems to have made up his mind that the best protection is to attack first. Cam Savenia is here, by the side.”

  “Dr. Savenia? The Senator?”

  “She and the Akellar have fallen in love.” She told Sybil how he had broken into her suite.

  Jefferson cackled with laughter. “Yes, that’s the trouble with law. What is she doing there?”

  “Trying to wreck the meeting. If he talked to her the way he talked to me, I can see why she’s angry.” She scratched her chin. “He tried to bribe me.”

  “He did. How much?”

  “He never said.”

  Jefferson’s mouth screwed up thoughtfully. “Do you get along with him?”

  “Better than Cam. He read me the sermon on woman’s place, and the way he told me his name I should use it sparingly. He’s all right. He ate half a drawer of ice the first ten minutes he was here.”

  There was a ripple of interference across the screen. Jefferson glanced away. Paula fiddled with the image focus.

  “Is he intelligent?”

  “He’s no genius. He speaks the language like a don.” Another wave rolled slowly over Sybil’s image. “You know someone is getting onto us.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’ll deal with it. You have a scanner, don’t you? You’d better look around your suite.”

  “I will.”

  In the morning, when she tried to call Cam, the computer told her Savenia had checked out. Paula sent down for breakfast. She carried the electronic scanner all over the suite and uncovered two small listening devices. She put them in her suitcase to take back to the technicians in New York. The page who brought her breakfast hovered around her, pouring her tea, and setting out butter and jelly and kefir.

  “If you expect a tip, Charley, you’re hanging around the wrong woman.” Her eggs were sprinkled with paprika. She reached for the fork.

  “Dr. Savenia gave me a fifty to make things easier for you.” The page set out a dish of sausage. He stepped back, his hands behind him, smiling. He wore a little round cap at an angle on his fair hair.

  “Do you see much of Mr. Black?”

  “Mr.—” His blank look went suddenly to a broad grin. “Mr. Black. Yes, ma’am. You mean the Styths. They broke up the club last night, up on the roof—did you hear about that?”

  “Which Styths?”

  His hand flew out toward her, palm up. “Ten dollars.”

  Paula ate a link of sausage. Her stomach was still queasy from the space flight. “Charley, I’ll pass.”

  The page stiffened. He tucked his arms behind him again. “Yes, ma’am.” He waited until she was finished and took the table away without a word.

  She went up to look at the club on the roof of the hotel. The floor was covered with broken glass, and the piany had sat down, its hind legs broken. Three men in aprons were sweeping up. Paula walked through to the back, where a bald, tired Martian sat eating a roll and drinking coffee.

  “Hello,” she said. “Did you see the performance?”

  The Martian raised his head. “One of them. Who are you?”

  “Paula Mendoza. I’m from the Committee.”

  “Forget it.” He took a bite out of the roll. “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “Do you work for the hotel?”

  The bald man chewed, silent. She said, “Last night a Styth broke into my bedroom and the hotel police didn’t see fit to ask him not to do it again.”

  His jaw moved steadily. She stood there while he ate the rest of the roll. He pushed the plate away.

  “Sit down.”

  She sat in the chair across the table from him. “You said you saw one fight. There was more than one?”

  “Three.” He held up three fingers. “The first two were nothing. Some regular person bumped into one of those big black bastards, or said something, you know, just funny, and got decked, I didn’t even call Security for the first.” He shrugged. His eyes were puffy with fatigue. “The late-night fight was the all-black wrecking crew. They had some of the cats with them, you know, the working women, and there was some competition, and—”

  “Who? Did you hear any names?”

  “The names all sound the same. One of them, he’s got a brush cut—” He ran one hand back and forth over the crown of his head. “He’s the high muck-muck’s son, he says, you know, loud. He was the loser. One with a scar—” he gestured at his cheek, “he was the champ.” The Martian’s pale eyes blinked at her. “One of them broke into your room. You know, honey, you’re in trouble.”

  She looked around at the rooftop. A sweeper tipped his dustpan over the trash barrel and broken glass rained down into it. “Do you think your troubles are over?”

  “That’s right. Because I’m closing. If Security won’t protect me, I’m going on vacation.” A sweeper brought the coffee pot and filled his cup again. “Give this young lady some coffee.”

  “No, thank you,” Paula said. “You said they had some of the whores with them?”

  “The braver ones.”

  “Who?”

  “Try Lilly M’ka. She’ll take anything on.” He stirred his coffee, his head turning. What he saw of his club made his face sag. “I wouldn’t go near one. That’s a mean pack. I’d like to see one matched up against something like a little more, you know, natural armament. A wolfdog. Or a leopard.”

  Jolted, she said nothing. She watched him drink his coffee down. When she left, she went down to the sportshop in the lobby and bought a hand torch with an intense beam.

  In the afternoon, she met Lilly M’ka in the lounge on the second-floor mezzanine. They sat near the windows. A steady parade of models sauntered through the tables, showing off fur clothes. The whore was dark, almost as dark as Paula, and several years younger, in her early twenties. She said, “Funny you should ask. Dr. Camit Savenia asked me the same question.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. How well do you know Cam?”

  “Not very. I thought you were interested in the Styths.”

  A tall model in mink pants strolled past their table, reversed, posed a moment, and went off. “Did you talk to her much?” Paula said.

  “Just once, since the Styths came.”

  On the far side of the room the Martian guests applauded in a patter of gloved hands. Paula took the straw out of her soda and licked cream off it. “How long was she here?”

  “Two or three days. She’s easy to get to know. She likes an audience.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Lilly’s eyes were dramatically painted, like a butterfly’s wing. With her dark skin, she was probably not Martian-born. Paula said, “Who’s your client with the Styths?”

  “The main one? Saba. The Akellar.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “He thinks he’s a rocket.”

  “Is he any good?”

  The whore made a little languid gesture. “Not as good as he thinks he is.”

  “Who is?”

  Lilly laughed. She put her forearms on the table and leaned forward, her voice softer. “Are you interested in the fact one of them is gone?”

  “Gone.” Paula glanced at the clock. It was four-thirty. “What do you mean?”

  “A real tall one with yellow eyes. I haven’t seen him since the first night they were here.”

  “Yellow eyes.”

  “That’s how I remembered. All the others have those big round black eyes.”

  Paula stuck her straw back into the soda glass. “I’m interested.”

  “I thought so.” Lilly gave her a broad wink and walked away.

  Paula went to her room a
nd put on her fancy black dress. She stood at the mirror combing out her kinky red-gold hair. Her chin was pointed, and her eyes tipped up at the outer corners. Cat-faced, Tony had called her. That reminded her of the clubman’s euphemism for the whores: working women. She got the package out of her satchel and unsnapped the lid.

  The short jeweled knife inside had come from Persepolis. There was a listening device in the handle, which would tune itself to the first voice it heard after the knife was drawn out of its brocaded sheath. She put it back in its satin bed and took it down the hall to the Styths’ suite.

  The man who answered her knock was short, his face broad across the cheekbones. A round of thin gold wire pierced his left nostril. He backed off a step and called, in his own language, “It’s not one of the whores, so it must be the anarchist.” He looked down at the box in her hand. “What is that?” To her he used the Common Speech.

  “It’s a present for the Akellar.”

  She went into a long room full of Styths. The lights were dimmed and the window drapery pulled. Half a dozen men sprawled in the chairs or stood along the walls, all watching her. They were dressed in identical long gray shirts, leggings, and soft boots. The bar was broken into two pieces, and the rug was stained. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the half-light. A young man came toward her, his homely face misshapen with bruises. The inch-long spikes of his mustaches ran straight across his upper lip, and his hair grew in a fur over his skull. He did not look like the Akellar, especially battered.

  “What’s that?”

  The man with the gold wire in his nose went to a door on the far side of the room and opened it. “In here,” he said to her.

  The boy said, “Wait—what if that’s a bomb?” and all the men laughed. She went into the next room.

  It was much smaller than the one she had just left, although the blank walls and the absence of furniture made it seem big. The outdoor light was pouring in the windows. The Akellar sat in front of them, so that to face him she had to look into the dazzling light. The only furniture was the desk in front of him and the chair he sat in. She put the package down on the desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a present from the Committee,” she said. “Kind of an earnest of our intentions.” With the light behind him she could not see his face. He turned the box over.