The Jet Set

by Mack Reynolds

  Well, from what he’d seen so far tonight, he probably would be meeting at least one film world personality, not to speak of other celebrities. He let his eyes go about the room. The Latin-American politician he’d recognized in Pogo’s earlier was present. Half a dozen of the other guests seemed vaguely familiar. Undoubtedly he’d seen their photographs in Time or Life or somewhere; right now, their identities didn’t come through. He was no celebrity chaser.

  A voice next to him said, “An unlikely crew, eh?”

  Larry turned. The other was a slim, dapper man probably in his thirties. He was dressed a bit overcolorfully, even for a resort, and his mustache was so fine as to be almost nonexistent. His eyes blinked two or three times as often as was normal, approaching a nervous tic.

  Larry said, “How do you mean?”

  The other fluttered a hand. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Sándor Petöfe.” He clicked his heels and bowed slightly from the waist.

  “Larry Land,” Larry said. He shifted his glass to his left hand, offered his right for a shake. Sándor Petöfe’s fingers were long and soft, the nails manicured beautifully. “I’m new in town, yes,” Larry told him. “Not well enough acquainted with my fellow guests to know if they’re unlikely or not. I’d never heard the term Jet Set until Jack Grinney used it this afternoon.”

  Petöfe’s chuckle was more nearly a giggle. “The term is appropriate. We utilize speed in attempt to avoid the reality of our existence. Speed in living, speed in transportation, speed even in our entertainment.”

  This was getting awfully philosophical. “And what is the reality?” Larry asked him.

  “Disaster.” The other blinked rapidly.

  Larry had to laugh. He gestured with his glass at the party as a whole. “Frankly, I’ve never seen such a prosperous group in my life. Put their wealth together, and they could buy Spain.” He indicated the Cham, who was at the far side of the room, talking earnestly to Loretta Alsace, who, from this distance, looked to Larry exactly as she did on the screen: the ultimate sex symbol. “Take the Cham there, Muley Khalid. I read somewhere that he’s the richest man in the world.”

  “As good an example as any,” Petöfe said. “And have you noticed his bodyguards?”

  “Bodyguards?”

  “There’s one over there in the hallway. And that one, near the drapes. I don’t know where the other two are. But their eyes never leave the Cham. Inconspicuous, but always there. Did you know that by Ismailian Shiah tenet, no man save his father must ever touch the Cham? What a burden to carry through life, eh? And have you ever wondered why it is that the Cham spends so much of his time jetting about the world? Switzerland, France, Monaco, the Argentine, Bermuda, Tahiti — every place but the Moslem lands. Why? Because if he lived in Pakistan or Persia, his chances of assassination would be such that no gambler would give him one-to-ten odds.”

  The Hungarian — Larry had decided he must be Hungarian — made with his light chuckle again. “The Jet Set prosperous, eh? Happy, perhaps, eh? Secure, eh? Take Princess Meg, of royal family and one of the wealthiest in Europe, but who could blame her for living it up to the extent possible so long as she could get away with it? Certainly, she married that nincompoop — ” Petöfe looked at Larry strangely — “Ha! You know the rumors that he likes the boys as well as the girls, eh? Did you hear the joke about their wedding night? They say poor Meg was so confused she didn’t know which way to turn. Hee, hee, eh?”

  One of the maids came by with a tray, and Larry left his empty on it and snagged another. “Well, so far as security is concerned there can be darn few families in the world any more secure than Princess Meg and hers.”

  Sándor Petöfe snorted contempt of the opinion. “You think so, eh?” He indicated with a flutter of his hand an elderly man who stood to one side talking to an extremely striking young woman whom Larry seemed to recognize from someplace or other. “That is Count Deniken, who commanded the last forces of His Imperial Majesty the Czar of all the Russias. He escaped the Bolsheviks by a hair, which was at least better than the Czar did, eh? But who, in 1914 would have thought Czar Nicholas, on his throne, was any less secure than, say, his British royal cousins? Or take myself. I am related to the Habsburgs. But where is the Kaiser of Austria-Hungary today, and where is his empire? Or where are the Hohenzollerns? Or even the kingdom of our fellow member of the Jet Set, Farouk?”

  He touched Larry’s arm, as thought for emphasis, but somehow the touch seemed a caress, so that the American shifted his position to avoid the contact. “I tell you, Mr. Land-”

  “Larry,” Larry said.

  “Eh, good? And you must call me Sándor. We are destined to be intimate friends, eh? But I tell you, Larry, there is no security in the world for the members of the Jet Set.” He finished his drink, a martini by the looks of it, and set the glass down on the window ledge near which they stood.

  Larry was getting tired of both the subject and his companion. He wanted to circulate a bit. He said, “Well, actually, that applies to us all. H-bombs, Cold Wars, threats of recession and unemployment due to automation. Threats of the Commies taking over. Who is secure?”

  “Ah, ha! You are correct. But this group is on the outer edges of all. See Señor Morales, over there? He escaped the Batista debacle and the coming of Castro by the narrowest margins. Happily, he managed to bring a considerable portion of the nation’s treasury with him. However, how would you like to be in his shoes? How long before some Cuban, ah, patriot, takes it into his head to avenge the looting? Or see that husky chap over in the corner talking to your Jack Grinney? The one who laughs so big, so friendly? He is a compatriot of yours, a Mr. Warburton, formerly of Wall Street. He now travels with a Costa Rican passport and the New York authorities wish him very much — eh? — for questioning but haven’t got sufficient evidence to extradite him.”

  Larry laughed. “The way you talk, half these people are on the lam, one way or the other.”

  The Hungarian shook his head. “Oh, no. Ha! Do not misunderstand, eh? There are others. The Princess Barbara, there, our Scandinavian. Very pretty, eh, except for the little bit buck teeth you Americans say. Personally, I am not so interested in the girls, eh, but she is very pretty. Why does she live so fast now? Because soon she must marry some — you say jerk? — and live in the public eye of her people. She will have to lead the square life, eh? I like your American idiom.”

  Big Bill Daly came up, tacking slightly to leeward, periodically spilling driblets of his drink. “Hey, Larry — hey, whatya doing with this phony Fascist, huh?”

  Sándor Petöfe giggled his amusement, but there was an unhappy wariness about his eyes. He blinked as though apprehensive.

  Larry said, “Sándor was giving me a rundown on my fellow guests.”

  “Sándor? Balls. You wanta watch out for this guy, Larry old boy. Haven’t you ever heard about these Hungarians? Old saying in Hollywood, about Hungarians. If you got a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need any enemies.”

  “Oh, now, see here, Big Bill …”

  Their host seized Larry by the arm and growled, “Come on, Larry, I’ll introduce you to a girl. Nice girl.” He leered at the Hungarian, then pulled Larry along.

  Larry said, “Moses! You can’t talk to people that way.”

  Big Bill Daly, who somehow seemed to get so drunk and then no drunker, growled, “Don’t worry about it. Petöfe’s not people. He’s a free-loader. Half the characters in Torremolinos are. Got a title or something, and figure they can live the rest of their lives out sponging on others.” He came to a halt. “Hey, Dorry! Here you are. The only other non-phony man at the party. Everybody else, parasites.”

  Dorry turned. She had been looking out the window at a passing group consisting of three wood-laden burros and two aged and bent Spaniards.

  “Dorothy Malloy, Lawrence Land. Dorry, Larry. Okay, now I’ve got you together, have fun.” He veered away.

  Dorry looked at Larry coolly. “Don’t tell me you work
for a living.”

  She must have been approximately his own age and looked something like Debbie Reynolds, Larry decided. Her hair was worn long, to the shoulders, a style seen only among the Spanish in style-conscious Torremolinos, and her dress was so simple as to stand out in this press of the devotees to the haute couture of Paris and Rome. On her it looked fine, Larry decided. Her jewelry consisted of one simple piece of silver, a unique depiction of one of the prehistoric Cro-Magnon cave bison.

  “Either that or starve,” Larry told her gravely.

  “Then what in the world are you doing here?”

  Larry began to laugh. Her words had come as though an accusation.

  Finally she pursed her lips and smiled. Then she laughed.

  “I must sound like an old sour-puss,” she said.

  “Sour-puss? I don’t think I’ve heard that term in fifteen years.”

  “I can’t bear this beatnik slang these days. I suppose it’s a sign of age. Intolerance of the new generation, I mean.”

  By way of making conversation, Larry said, “What’s all this grim bit? Everybody I’ve talked to this evening seems to think that the world is about to go to the dogs. The Cham, that Hungarian Petöfe, Big Bill — they all seem to think the Jet Set in particular will probably wind up in front of a firing squad or something.”

  “It couldn’t happen to nicer people,” she muttered.

  “I accepted an offhand invitation from Big Bill down at Pogo’s and came up just to see what a upper-upper bohemian party looked like,” Larry told her. “But what in the world are you doing here? You seem to already have an idea what they look like, and aren’t particularly happy about it.”

  “I’m working,” she said bitterly. “I stooge for Loretta, and she doesn’t like me out of the sound of her voice. At any given split second she’ll give a yell and I have to materialize, like a jinni.”

  “Loretta?”

  Dorry Malloy nodded with her head in the direction of the fireplace. “Hollywood’s gift to mankind. Over there smiting the Cham with her charm.”

  Larry looked. In fact, Muley Khalid did look as though he were about to swoon. He was nervously jiggling from one leg to the other. Larry was astonished. The Moslem leader had seemed the coolest and most collected of men when they had talked on the terrace earlier.

  Dorry laughed sourly. “If he only knew it, he hasn’t got the chance of a Chinaman in Moscow with her. She hails from South Carolina.”

  “South Carolina?”

  “Right this moment she’s being her most winning, because of his name and his bankroll. But I know how her mind is working underneath. So far as she’s concerned, our illustrious Cham of the Ismailian Shiahs is colored.”

  Larry snorted. “One of the most charming men I think I’ve ever met.”

  “He’s still colored, given Loretta’s viewpoint.”

  Larry Land couldn’t decide if he liked this girl or not. She seemed on the wry and bitters side, sort of a stiff drink to take. If she was this fed up with the life she led, why didn’t she get some other job?

  Dorry said, “Oh, oh! Here’s where I go on call. She can’t bear to see me talking to some man who isn’t under her thumb.”

  In fact, the screen sex symbol was looking in their direction. Now Loretta Alsace called, “Dorry, dahling, you aren’t busy, are you?”

  Dorry muttered something to him which he didn’t catch and made her way through the throng to her employer.

  Larry turned to find another drink. He was rapidly becoming a bit tight himself, but then it was a party, wasn’t it? And quite an interesting one at that. He imagined it would be a long time before he, Larry Land, was invited to another party that boasted as fellow guests a Scandinavian Princess, a Cham, various movie stars, a former commander-in-chief of the Russian Imperial Armies, and who else, God only knew. There was a buffet at the far end of the room, presided over by a mozo in white jacket who wasn’t getting too much of a play for his hot and cold dishes. Evidently, this crowd wasn’t interested in dulling the fine edge of their drink-induced euphoria. Larry began making his way toward the food.

  A voice, pitched low, slurred, “Why, it’s Larry, the free-lance photographer. So here’s where you disappeared to.” She put a hand on his sleeve.

  Larry came to a halt. It was Marcella Loraine. Fully made up, fully dressed in the absolute pinnacle of Parisian style, it was hard for him to believe that it couldn’t have been more than ten hours since he had tumbled her in bed. She radiated wealth, composure, the hereditary aristocratic characteristics of those to the manor born. But she was still the Marcella he had known, in that her right hand held an abnormally large highball which she promptly finished off.

  Still detaining him, had that been necessary, with her fingers, she peered about, nearsightedly. “Where in the name of Allah is one of those clods with the drinks? I’ll be damned if these spicks were ever meant to be servants.”

  Larry said, “I’ll find you another drink, if you want.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You stick right with me, honey. I have something special I want to tell you. If I can just remember.” She located one of Big Bill’s maids. “You there, damn it. Let me have one of those.”

  The girl approached in her calm dignity. Inwardly, Larry Land couldn’t help contrasting the two. The girl’s name was Concha, or Carmen, or something like that. Marcella di Loraine, heiress of the largest chain of department stores in North America, with more wealth than she probably knew of, and Concha. Her last name was probably Gonzales, or some such, and probably not even Big Bill had ever bothered to find out. Just Concha. Somehow, though, Larry thought, it was a question just who the lady of the two might be.

  Marcella looked over the tray of drinks. They were obviously martinis, French seventy-fives, champagne and frozen daiquiris. She snapped in irritation, “Fer crissakes, don’t you have any damn Scotch?”

  “Un momenta, Señora, por favor,” the girl murmured, and turned to go for the requested drink.

  “Clod,” Marcella muttered.

  Larry looked at her and laughed.

  “What’s so damn funny?” But then she ran her drink-sloe eyes up and down him. “My God, I think you’re the only man here.”

  “Don’t tell our host that,” Larry said wryly. “I’ve got a sneaking suspicion if he slugged me one, I’d land halfway down to Torremolinos.”

  “That drunken bum,” Marcella sneered. “I remember Big Bill back when he had muscles. Come along, honey, I want to show you off to somebody. Where’s that damn girl with my drink?”

  He looked wistfully at the table of food, but obeyed her command and trailed along behind. On the way, Concha came up with a tray bearing highball glasses. Marcella took one up, without bothering to thank her. Larry was ready for another, too, having given up the idea of eating. Hell, he might as well be drunk as the way he was. He winked at the girl, but although the side of her mouth turned down infinitesimally, her calm eyes remained impassive.

  Marcella Loraine’s goal was evidently the huge fireplace before which stood Loretta Alsace, Muley Khalid and two or three others. All seemed fairly high, save the Cham, who was eying the movie star much as would her most ardent fan, waiting outside some preview hoping for a glimpse and perhaps an autograph.

  “Dahling!” Loretta shrilled at Marcella. They kissed each other on the mouth. “But I thought you were in Tangier — ” she pronounced it tawn-jay in an inadequate attempt at French accent — “or some such horrible place.”

  “Just arrived, darling. I’m staying at the Mirasierra. Terrible dump. Staffed by clods. Hello, Muley, haven’t seen you for — damn it. My memory is simply blotto. Where was it?”

  The Cham, once his eyes were off the object of his worship, returned to his charm of voice and bearing. He bowed over Marcella’s hand, kissed it. “Truly, donkey’s years. At Raul’s estate on the pampas, I believe. The wonderful barbeques, and the demonstrations the gauchos put on. Raul’s affairs are always so well done.”r />
  “Were always well done,” one of the others growled.

  Muley Khalid turned to him, his eyebrows raised in polite question.

  The other growled, “That last Argentine army revolt. Raúl and his brother were both shot.”

  “Good heavens,” the Cham said. “I didn’t know. How terribly unfortunate. I was thinking in terms of flying down in a month or so. Raúl had a few ponies that interested me.”

  “Oh, really,” Loretta protested. “This conversation is so grim.”

  Larry had been taking her in. Actually, she wasn’t nearly so tall as he had expected. On screen she seemed a moderately tall woman. In truth, she was tiny. Sex symbols these days seemed to run to the Italian-French tradition and Loretta Alsace was no exception. Had you taken Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren, stirred them together and added possibly just a touch of Brigitte Bardot, you might well have wound up with Loretta Alsace. Her figure, of course, was unbelievably superb, her critics having been known to contend that it was her one contribution to Hollywood — and that she had contributed it, in her time, to every male in the industry.

  She looked at Larry. “Well,” she murmured. “A man. Where did you ever find him in Torremolinos, dahling?”

  Muley Khalid’s face went empty.

  Marcella said, only half in humor, “Keep your cotton pickers to yourself, darling.” She turned back to the Moslem religious leader. “Muley, have you met Larry, that is, Lawrence Land? Muley Khalid, Larry. And, of course, everyone knows Loretta Alsace.”

  “Just how do you mean that, dahling?”

  Ali didn’t offer to shake hands, and Larry remembered what Petöfe had said about it being a religious tenet that he never be touched by a man, but his easy smile had returned. He said, “Mr. Land and I have already had the pleasure.” He turned back to the movie star.