by Mike Resnick
“You will know,” he said. “I'm going to show you how to work the card. I'll turn over the pertinent priority codes to you and you can monitor everything I do. You can keep possession of the damned thing whenever I'm not working.”
“When?”
“Right now, if you like. I'll show you how to rig the books, and I'll show you how to un-rig them, too.”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow will be fine. I've already got too much to assimilate tonight.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
She stood up. “I think I'll have another drink—and I promise not to share this one with your wall. How about you?”
“I could use one.”
“Sit,” she said as he got up to join her. “I can do it.”
She walked to the wet bar, poured him a straight whiskey, and spent a moment fixing herself a Blue Polaris. Then she returned to the loveseat, handing him his drink on the way.
“You really don't like these things, do you?” she said, indicating the concoction within her long-stemmed glass.
“I never said that.”
“I thought we were starting a new era of honesty.”
He grinned. “They're pretty awful.”
“That's better,” she said. “Wrong, but better.” Suddenly her face became serious. “What are we going to do about Rasputin? He knows about you now.”
“That's right,” said Redwine, surprised the thought hadn't occurred to him already. He considered the Security chief for a moment. “I guess we're going to have to take him into our confidence, and hope he's not the plant.”
“And if he is?”
“Then we're in big trouble.” He shook his head. “He can't be. Why would he have mentioned Victor's name to me?”
“A friendly warning?”
“I don't think so.”
“Are you willing to bet your future on it?” she asked him seriously.
“No,” he said at last. “This is the first time I've ever liked my future. I don't think I feel like entrusting it to a stranger.”
“Then what do you want to do about him?” asked the Madonna, declining to point out that she, too, was a stranger.
He sighed. “I suppose I can have Victor call him off.”
“It won't work. Rasputin is the most loyal and incorruptible man I've ever met.”
“Wouldn't a loyal and incorruptible man follow a direct order from a superior?” asked Redwine.
“Not if he thought your friend was in collusion with us to breach the security of the Velvet Comet.”
“I suppose I could pull a couple of strings and get him transferred,” suggested Redwine. “He couldn't very well refuse to go.”
“He'd go—but he'd blow every whistle he could get his hands on first, and this place would be swarming with real troubleshooters. He'd make so much of a commotion that even your employer couldn't afford to ignore it.”
“Then I'll just have to play it by ear,” said Redwine “I'll talk to him tomorrow.”
The Madonna finished her drink. “Can I get you a refill?” she asked.
“I haven't touched this one yet,” he pointed out.
She smiled awkwardly. “I guess I'm still a little more tense than I thought.”
“It's been a long couple of days,” replied Redwine “By the way, there's a price for all this.”
“Oh?”
Redwine nodded. “Get rid of the guy in the loincloth.”
“His name is Adonis.”
“That figures.”
“And you think I'm sleeping with him?”
“Training him, maybe?” suggested Redwine.
She looked amused. “Harry, I'm the wrong sex for him.”
“He's a homosexual?” said Redwine, surprised.
She chuckled. “You think only heterosexuals frequent the Comet?”
“I never thought about it at all,” he admitted.
“I'd guess that almost a quarter of our patrons have only a passing interest in the opposite sex.”
“And you have homosexuals who service them?” he asked.
“We all service them,” she replied. “We just happen to have a few people who specialize in it.”
“You've...ah...?”
“Of course. With patrons, and with other prostitutes.”
“Other prostitutes?” he repeated.
“A lot of patrons like to watch. Especially men.”
“I think you get a cynical delight out of telling me these things,” he said wryly.
“No. But I'm not ashamed of them.”
“Well, whatever his sexual preferences, Adonis goes.”
“I like to have someone around to talk to,” she said, “and Adonis also likes poetry.” She paused. “As soon as I'm convinced that you've been telling me the truth, I'll have him move back into the Home.”
“I assume that means you don't want me to move in with you tonight.”
“Not yet, Harry. You'd better have your talk with Rasputin first ... and I want to monitor it. I think you owe me that much before we set up housekeeping together.”
“I guess I do, at that.”
He looked his disappointment for a moment. Then he noticed the chess set. “Are you ready for your present now?”
“What present?”
“The one in the box.”
She looked first at the box and then at Redwine.
“I don't think so, Harry. Not tonight.”
“I've done something wrong again, haven't I?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then I wish you'd let me give it to you. I think you'll like it. At least, I hope you will.”
“I'm sure I will, Harry. You're a very thoughtful man.”
“But not tonight?”
“No.”
“When?”
“After you show me how to work the skeleton card and give me its priority codes.”
“I suppose I deserve that.” He sighed deeply.
“Shall I shake your hand good-night?”
“I'm a prostitute, Harry. It's my affection and my confidence you have to win. If you want my body you can have it before I leave.”
He stared at her for a very long moment.
“I think I'll wait until I can have all three,” he said at last.
“Jesus, Harry!” she said, walking over and kissing him. “If your timing was any better I could put you to work here!”
Then she was out the door and into the corridor, while Redwine walked over to the wooden box and began examining the chess pieces once again.
It had been a good line; he had known it the instant he uttered it. The funny part, he thought with a rare feeling of serenity, was that it was also the truth.
Chapter 9
The gymnasium was almost empty when Redwine arrived there the next morning. The Gemini Twins were working out with weights, three of the female prostitutes were using the exercise machines, and eight off-duty chefs and technicians were playing a vigorous if sloppy game of volleyball. He passed the pool, where the Duke, his face still puffy and bruised, was mechanically swimming laps with grim determination rather than any enthusiasm, and finally he came to the enclosed handball courts. He looked in the first two, found them empty, and then commanded the door of third to open.
“Good morning, Harry,” said Rasputin, who was wearing nothing but gym shoes and a pair of shorts.
“They told me in Security that I could find you down here,” said Redwine, stepping into the enclosure and ordering the door to slide shut behind him.
“Yeah,” said Rasputin, grabbing a towel and mopping the sweat off his glistening body. “I try to get down here three or four times a week.”
“Am I interrupting a game?”
“Just with myself, if you'll pardon the connotation,” replied the Security chief. “I never could get interested in weights or running laps, so I was just hanging around here, warming up, until I could con someone into a match. Are you interested?”
“It's been a long
time since I've played,” said Redwine.
“I'll go easy on you,” answered Rasputin. He paused, then smiled. “What am I talking about? You didn't come down here to play handball.”
“No, I didn't.” Redwine looked around him. “Is this court secure?”
Rasputin shook his head. “No. If you want to speak in private, we'd better go to either your office or mine.”
“That's all right. I want this thing to be broadcast.”
The Security Chief looked puzzled. “To the whole ship?” he asked dubiously.
“No. Just to the Madonna.”
Rasputin walked over to a sweatsuit that was folded neatly in a corner and withdrew a small communicator.
“I'll tell my people to route it through.”
“Will they be able to see and hear us too?”
“Of course.”
“Is there any way you can bypass them, so nobody but the Madonna receives it?”
“I suppose so,” said Rasputin unenthusiastically. “I just don't know if I want to.”
“That's the only way I'll talk to you—and after what you learned yesterday, I have a feeling that you want to talk to me.”
Rasputin considered it for a moment. “Okay. It'll take about five minutes to set up.”
“Good.”
“Why don't you change into a gym suit while we're getting ready?” suggested Rasputin. “Who knows? You might want to play a little handball when we're done.”
“You're that anxious to make me look foolish?” asked Redwine with a smile.
“Harry, after what I told the Madonna yesterday, I figured you'd either try to have me fired or come looking for me with blood in your eye. Since you haven't done either one, I think it's pretty safe to say that I haven't made you look foolish yet. Why should this morning be any different?”
Redwine laughed. “All right. Where's the dressing room?”
Rasputin commanded the door to open, led Redwine out into the gym, and pointed to a door near the swimming pool. “Just find an empty locker,” he said. “You'll see how to set your own code into the lock.”
“And where do I get the gym suit?”
“There's a whole batch of different outfits in the locker room. You'll spot them the second you enter it. Just pick out something that fits, and toss it in the laundry tube when you're done with it.”
“Okay. I'll see you in a few minutes.”
Redwine crossed the gym and entered the locker room. Flaming Lorelei and two other women, both of whom he recognized from the computer's pornographic entertainments, were just coming out of the shower, wet, glistening, and nude.
“Excuse me,” muttered Redwine. “I must have come in the wrong door.”
“Hello, Harry,” said Lori, walking over to a pile of clean, folded towels that sat on a small counter.
“There's only one door.”
“I meant the door to the men's locker room,” he explained awkwardly.
“Your provincialism is showing, Harry,” said Lori, amused. “This is the only locker room we've got. After all, no one on the Comet is exactly ashamed of their bodies.”
“What about the technicians and the security crew?” he asked.
“They learn to adjust.” She began drying herself off as the other two women, huge smiles on their faces, walked to their lockers.
“Then I guess I'll have to learn, too,” he said resignedly.
“How can I tell which locker is empty?”
“If it's not locked, it's empty,” she said, facing him and drying her back with a vigorous motion that momentarily caused Redwine to forget exactly what he was doing in the locker room in the first place. Suddenly he became aware of the fact that he was staring at her, offered a brief and embarrassed apology, and went looking for an empty locker. He came upon one almost immediately, became uncomfortably aware of the presence of the three women, and decided to pick up some kind of gym suit before undressing. He walked over to the supply area, spent as long as he dared without feeling too foolish while choosing a pair of shorts, a jersey, and some rubber-soled shoes, and then returned to his locker.
Under other circumstances, and before he had met the Madonna, he'd have been happy to climb into bed with any of them; nudity in proximity didn't bother him in the least. But he was painfully aware of their youth and slimness, and his own rather slack muscles and excess poundage, and he hated the thought of undressing in front of them under the bright, artificial light of the locker room.
Finally he decided that he'd better get moving before Rasputin came looking for him, so he took a deep breath and began getting out of his clothes as quickly as he could. As he stepped into his white gym shorts he cast a furtive glance down the aisle and found, to his relief, that one of the women had left and that Lori and the other woman were engaged in an animated conversation, paying him no attention at all.
He slipped on his jersey, got into his shoes, set the code on his locker, and, forcing himself to nod pleasantly to Lori, walked back out to join Rasputin.
“Harry,” said the Security chief, staring at him as he reentered the handball court, “you're going to have to spot me five points.”
“I told you—I haven't played in years.”
Rasputin grinned. “Anyone who can play handball without a jockstrap is too goddamned sure of himself not to give me a spot.”
Redwine turned bright red. “I was in a hurry,” he stammered.
“I hope you feel it was worth it by the time we're through,” chuckled Rasputin.
Redwine struggled to regain his composure. “Has the connection been made?”
“About two minutes ago.”
“How do I know you're telling the truth?”
“Because, unlike some Vainmill employees I could name, I don't lie,” replied Rasputin pointedly.
Redwine stared at him for a moment, then nodded.
’”All right, Harry,” said Rasputin, lobbing the hard rubber ball against the far wall. “What's it all about?”
“I can't tell you,” replied Redwine, slapping the ball back.
Rasputin caught the ball as it came to him and held it.
“I thought we were going to talk,” he said.
“We are.”
“Sounds to me like we're avoiding talking,” said Rasputin, slamming the ball against the wall.
Redwine raced across the court and barely got his fingers on the ball. It fluttered back toward the wall and struck the floor first.
“We'll talk,” said Redwine, surprised that he was already starting to sweat. “But why don't you let me begin?”
“Go ahead,” said Rasputin, lobbing the ball once again.
Redwine raced forward and slammed his hand against the ball. It took off, hit the wall with a sharp angle, and sped toward the far side of the room. He stood back and relaxed, only to see the Security chief dive through the air and send the ball back toward the wall. Caught flat-footed, he merely stood and watched as it went by him.
“Two to nothing,” grinned Rasputin. “You were saying?”
“Everything you found out about me is true, at least on the surface of it,” said Redwine.
“Just the surface?”
“I'm on your side.”
“I find that just a little hard to believe, Harry,” replied Rasputin. He lobbed the ball up to the wall again.
“It's true,” said Redwine, taking two quick steps to his left and hitting the ball back.
“Harry, you do to Vainmill companies what predators do to prey!” said Rasputin, taking a vigorous whack at the ball.
It came off the wall with surprising force and Redwine tried to hit it back with equal strength. He misjudged its height and yelled in pain and surprise an instant later as it caromed off the tips of his fingers.
“Are you all right?” asked Rasputin, walking over and looking at Redwine's hand. The fingers were already starting to change color.
“I'll be fine,” he grated. “But I think I've just retired from the ranks of the
ship's handball players.”
“I can get you some ice,” offered Rasputin.
“I'm all right,” responded Redwine irritably, trying to shake some life back into the fingers.
“I guess I should have believed you when you said you hadn't played in a while.”
“It's my own fault,” said Redwine, finally spotting the security camera and staring straight at it. “I was trying to impress my audience.”
He leaned his back against a wall, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor, still tenderly massaging his fingers. “Well, let's get on with it,” he said.
“I'm still listening,” replied Rasputin, sitting down cross-legged a few feet away.
“Last night I had a long talk with the Madonna. I told her what my orders are, I gave her a way to check out my story and my actions, and I gave her enough information about my past to cause me a great deal of trouble should she decide at any time in the future that I'm trying to deceive you. That's why she's monitoring this conversation—so that she can confirm that I'm telling you the truth.”
“And just what are your orders?” persisted Rasputin.
“I've told your superior, and she's satisfied with my answers,” said Redwine. “That should be enough for you.”
“Harry, you've got to be kidding,” said the Security chief. “First of all, you're a proven liar and a demonstrable saboteur. Second, if I don't know how she's checking out what you do, I don't know whether you gave her the means to do it properly. And third—and I'm sorry, Madonna—I can't be sure of anyone's loyalty to the Velvet Comet except my own. Maybe you've bribed her; there's certainly enough money behind you to afford it. Maybe you've scared or threatened her off. Or maybe you've taken her into partnership.”
He looked up at the camera. “I apologize, Madonna, but it's my job to consider these things.”
“All right,” said Redwine wearily. “What do you think I'm doing?”
“Based on what I've learned about you, my guess is at you're tampering with the books to defraud the Comet.”
“Then why don't you report me?”
“Harry, I'd be reporting you to the guys who authorized you to do the tampering.”
“Look,” said Redwine. “If I allow Flaming Lorelei and your other accountants complete access to all the ship's financial records, dating back to its inception, will that satisfy you?”
