The Jet Set

by Mack Reynolds

  The party was considerable larger than Larry Land had ever considered a private party being flown the better part of a thousand miles, to attend a fair, could be. It included Big Bill Daly, whose concession to more formal dress consisted of a sport jacket worn over his faded, tieless, khaki shirt. It included the Princess Barbara, she of the buck teeth whom Sándor Petöfe had pointed out at the party. It included Sándor Petöfe himself, and a dozen others Larry vaguely remembered seeing at Big Bill’s party. There were another ten or twelve he couldn’t remember having seen before, at least not in person. One of these was Clark Talmadge, currently Hollywood’s top muscleman, specializing in historical films dealing with such hairy brutes of history as Hercules, Horatius, Theseus, Samson and the like. To Larry’s shock, it turned out that Clark Talmadge in person affected an effeminate lisp and failed to show any interest whatsoever in the more pulchritudinous of the ladies present.

  It also included Loretta Alsace, trailed by the inevitable Dorry Malloy.

  Loretta, being Loretta — and it being no secret that the Cham’s decision to take in Pamplona was based on his infatuation with the American star and his hopes of her company — was late. The party began in the plane, Muley standing impatiently at the head of the ladder, waiting for her appearance. The party began with enormous champagne glasses, to which had been added one inch of Napoleon brandy, teeth-chilling cold, and then filled to the rim with vintage brut Reims. The sari-clad girls drifted about with golden trays of exotic-looking Indian hors d’oeuvres which were largely ignored.

  When Loretta finally arrived, it was with a flourish. Her car whirled up to the plane and she abandoned it to chauffeur and maids, who began disgorging a dozen or more bags. Loretta herself sped breathlessly up the landing stairs. She flashed her dazzling smile and called, “I’m not late, am I?”

  The Cham bent over her hand, “My dear, you are never late. The world waits for you.”

  Larry, drink in hand, had settled in a comfortable chair next to Big Bill. Half the interior of the plane was a large lounge, complete with bar at one end. Most of the party had assembled here and the wine was flowing like nothing since Omar had composed the Rubaiyat under its influence.

  At Muley Khalid’s response to the movie star, Big Bill gave an exaggerated wince. “Jesus,” he complained to Larry. “What is it that owning a couple of cojones does to a man? Can’t we even maintain basic dignity in front of a broad we get hot pants for? What’n the devil are you doing on this trip?” The big Irishman already had a keen edge on.

  Larry sipped at his champagne and cognac. “I’ve become one of those free-loaders you were talking about, like Sándor Petöfe,” he said.

  Big Bill looked at him owlishly. “Oh? You don’t look the type. I doubt if you make the grade.”

  The jet’s crew was making the preliminaries for takeoff, but most of the passengers weren’t bothering to notice. The party was well under steam.

  Loretta Alsace swept through, evidently on her way back to one of the private compartments to freshen up. She paused at Larry’s chair only for the briefest of seconds to say, “Larry! Are you along?” She sucked in her breath. “Wasn’t that a dahling evening?” Before he could come to his feet she had passed on.

  Larry shrugged and turned back to the writer. “I thought you said the Cham hated your guts.”

  “He does, mildly. Muley doesn’t have to hate anybody more than mildly. Can’t be bothered. He also can’t bear being indebted to anybody for anything. I’d invited him to my party, so he invited back. I don’t think he figured on my accepting.” Big Bill laughed. “That’s why I came.”

  One of the Hindu girls offered them fresh drinks. Big Bill took two, setting the extra one on the little table that sat between them. Larry waved this one by. He just couldn’t keep up the pace these people set. They were in the air now, the big plane gliding effortlessly, silently.

  He said, “I know you’re a writer, and this is probably going to make you hate me, but I can’t place anything you’ve done. Actually, I suppose I haven’t had much time for fiction. Too busy studying.”

  Big Bill grunted. “I don’t write the kind of books people care who the author was. How’s that sentence for lousy grammar? I used to try.” He shifted in his chair and made a bleak grimace. “Then about ten years ago, I was low on cash — I mean really low — and a publisher friend gave me an advance to do a suspense quickie. Somehow, I put a bit more work into it than the usual, got some character development in, that sort of thing. Anyway, it went over big. Movies took it. I was in. Maybe you saw the film, Playboy Cop.”

  “I’ll be darned. Did you write Playboy Cop? That’s possibly the best crime film I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yeah, I wrote it. Did the scenario, too. And since then I’ve been typed.” The big man finished off one of his drinks, took up the other.

  Something that Jack Grinney had said came back to Larry now — about the other being a frustrated writer who couldn’t break away from the big money he was making. He said, “Well, now that you’re all arrived, why not take another crack at more serious stuff? The financial pressure seems off you.”

  “Listen, Doc, the financial pressure is never off. First you got taxes, then you got king-size alimony, for two different wives. Then you’ve got to live on a scale high enough that everybody in the industry doesn’t go around whispering, Daly is on the skids, notice that cheap pad he lives in, and the fact he drives a Rambler instead of a Rolls? You’ve got to keep running just to stay where you are in this game.”

  Marcella Loraine had drifted down from where she had been standing with several others at the bar and took a chair across from them. On the table to her right was a small jade statuette of the Buddha.

  She slopped over part of her drink, setting it down, and took up the art object. “Allah! But isn’t this cute?”

  She hadn’t noticed that the Cham had come up behind her. He bowed now, his smile easy but sardonic. “My dear Marcella, an artisan carved it for you more than a thousand years ago.” He clapped his hands and one of the turbaned menservants scurried up. “Hassan, have this little trinket placed among the Contessa’s things.”

  Marcella, her voice now almost free of alcoholic blur, said, “Oh, now, Muley, I didn’t …”

  The Cham smiled brightly. “But nothing, Marcella. Ah, but I have a request to make in exchange.”

  She blinked at him. “Request?”

  “That you attempt to control your habit of calling upon the Deity’s name in vain.” His twist of lips took any barb off the words. He drifted on, to check further upon his guests.

  Marcella said, “The Deity, for crissakes?”

  Big Bill grunted. “Allah. You call on him every other sentence.”

  Marcella took up her drink and finished it. “Oh,” she said.

  To cover for her, Larry changed the subject. “Look, what’s this feria, or whatever you call it, we’re going to?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of the Pamplona Sanfermines?” Big Bill said. He fished in his jacket pocket and came out with a tourist office brochure. “I got this just before we left Torremolinos. I like the way they’ve worded it. Dig this.” He began to read:

  The tranquil rhythm of life in Pamplona quickens abruptly during the Sanfermines, which starts on the midday of July 6th, when a rocket is let off from the Town Hall. This is the signal for the loveliest and most vigorous festivities in the world to begin. Pamplona doubles its population and the jollities go on day and night, without a moment’s breaking-space, in a series of traditional ceremonies. On the 7th July, bullfights, which are unique in the world on account of the participation of the town lads known as penas, begin. Best of all are the encierros. From the 7th to the 13th July the bulls which are to be fought in the afternoons are let loose to rush through the streets, accompanied in their mad careers by the lads of the town. The crowds surge in front of them while the balconies and the bullring are thronged with spectators of this thrilling sight. At seven a.m. sh
arp a rocket goes off announcing the opening of the corrals. From that moment, life becomes so hectic that the average encierro lasts less than two minutes. If a bull runs amok, the excitement and agitation that fill the air reach the boiling point.”

  Big Bill shook his head in admiration. “I wish I could write like that,” he said.

  Larry and Marcella both laughed.

  However, she then looked about impatiently, located one of the hostesses and beckoned curtly. “Ummm, and I bet you wish you could run before the bulls like those kids, too.”

  Big Bill snorted. When the tray of drinks arrived, he selected two, as he had the last time. “Why not? Nothing to it.”

  It was Larry’s turn to snort. “Take it easy chum. I used to mess around in the rodeos in California and Nevada. A young bull is no joke.”

  • • •

  Pamplona, with its population of some 85,000, lies in the Basque country of northwestern Spain, some forty miles from the French border. Capital of the province of Navarre, it is built on a hill some fifteen hundred feet high, dominating the wide valley of the Rio Arga which skirts the city to the north and east. So much for statistics. It is also one of the dullest cities in Spain.

  Until the feria of San Fermin hits.

  It then becomes the liveliest town in Spain — in Europe — in the world. This is a festival such as the Mardi Gras of New Orleans, the Oktoberfest of Munich, the Carnival of Nice attempt to be and never quite make the grade. It’s a drunken brawl.

  • • •

  The finca of the Duque Urzáiz y Silva lay not far off the main road to Zaragoza, near the small town of Tafalla, which once boasted the ancient palaces of the kings of Navarre and which now boasts nothing whatsoever other than the finca of the Duque.

  However, the finca of the Duque Urzáiz y Silva was not to be minimized, being one of the most lavish ranches to be found on earth. Supposedly, there were two others that exceeded it, one in Texas, one in the Argentine. Lawrence Land didn’t believe it.

  As one of the guests who had arrived without personal servants, he was immediately assigned two, one of whom spoke excellent English, the other of whom seemingly spoke nothing at all and was the most self-effacing human being with whom Larry had ever come in contact.

  The quarters assigned him involved a small suite, consisting of bedroom, living room and a bath larger than any hotel room Larry had ever seen with the exception of Marcella’s living room at the Mirasierra. The living room opened out onto an extensive terrace and gave access to one of the estate’s six swimming pools. It It was furnished with Castilian antiques, and the two paintings were by Murillo and Zurbarán.

  The suite connected with that of Marcella Loraine. Evidently, Hamid, the Cham’s social secretary, had a quickness for discovering who, among his master’s guests, was currently pairing off with whom.

  The party took over the finca with a verve indicating that its membership, in their day, had taken over many another estate before. They were instantly at home. Of them all, only Bill Daly, Dorry Malloy and Larry Land felt any awe whatsoever. The first two, at least, disguised theirs.

  The feria in Pamplona, some fifteen miles away, was to begin in the morning at seven A.M. sharp, or at least the first running of the bulls was. Meanwhile, the party which had started at the airport in Malaga was still in full swing. Larry decided that the Cham, or rather his staff, must have arranged to have supplies sent up by truck a day or two in advance of the affair. Either that or the Duque had on constant hand a fabulous selection of the world’s food and drink specialties. He wondered, idly, just what it was that the Cham did to pay for having this fantastic estate turned over to him for the week of feria. Money? But the Duque certainly had no need of money, no need to rent one of his homes no matter how fabulous the amount offered. Larry decided it was probably a matter of you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. He could see the Cham turning over some equally fantastic estate in Kashmir, or wherever, to a party of the Duque’s. Larry had never dreamed of life on this scale.

  He decided that he’d had enough alcohol for a while and that he’d best soak some of it out of his system before the serious partying of the evening evolved. He got into swimming trunks, after winning the battle with his valet over who was going to undress him, and let himself out onto the terrace.

  From his suite he had been able to make out the fact that there were two others already at the pool, but not their identity. For that matter, although everyone had been introduced around, some of the names of the new faces he’d met today hadn’t stuck with him. Beyond a confused mess of contes and barons, contessas and a grand duchess, there were Señores and Señoras, Herrs and Signore, Sirs and Ladies and a half a dozen exotic types of title or address that Larry had never heard of before. In fact, he and Bill Daly were two of the very few misters in the crowd. Some group! he decided wryly.

  The two at the pool turned out to be Clark Talmadge, the muscleman star, and Sándor Petöfe, and evidently the two boys had let their hair down and were gossiping cattishly about mutual friends. They seemed to be trying to outdo each other on who could assume the most far-out lisp of speech. Larry Land considered reversing his engines and seeing if there might be a more normal crowd at one of the other pools.

  However, they hailed him with enthusiasm.

  He made some routine greeting and dove cleanly into the pool. He swam as hard as he could push it, back and forth the full length, as though pursued by barracuda. It came to him, even as he swam, that he felt clean, really clean, for the first time in the past week. He had to laugh to and at himself. Was it his Victorian ethical code coming out? Was he inwardly accusing himself of being a kept man, and hence unclean?

  When he had exhausted himself with the exercise, he pulled himself out, fairly near the other two.

  Clark Talmadge said archly, “My dear boy, you aren’t in films, are you?”

  Larry had been briefly introduced to the movie star on the jet. He shook his head now, combining negation with an attempt to clear water from his right ear. “No,” he said.

  “You should be. You have a lovely body. He certainly should consider it, shouldn’t he, Sándor?”

  But Sándor Petöfe was evidently in a pet, possibly thinking that Larry was attempting to cut in on his monopoly of the beautifully muscled Talmadge. He said, “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think his body is nearly as lovely as yours, Clark.”

  The movie star made a flutter with his hands as though to slap at the other’s wrist. “You’re always so sweet, Sándor.”

  Good Lord, Larry thought. Am I supposed to sit here without puking?

  He was saved by the appearance of Dorry Malloy, who approached the other end of the pool, dropped a monstrous beach towel to the tiles which surrounded it, and dropped gracefully to knees and then tummy.

  “Excuse me, boys,” Larry said, got to his feet and walked around to her. The pool was large enough that the girl was out of earshot of the two deviates.

  Larry said, “Do you mind if I join you! The conversation down there was a bit on the hairy side.”

  She looked up at him, mockingly. “Oh, I didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed. The three of you seemed to be having such a gay time.”

  “That’ll be enough,” he growled.

  She laughed. “Don’t get in the way of my sun,” she said. “Heavens, that feels good.”

  He looked down at her. In a bikini, the charms Dorry Malloy usually minimized in her dress were all too obvious. It occurred to Larry Land that Loretta Alsace’s social secretary had no basis for jealousy of her mistress as far as physical attributes were concerned. If anything, it went the other way. Loretta was a bit on the lush side, Dorry Malloy still firmly youthful. He felt a twinge of lust at the way her rounded buttocks flowed into long limbs, at the pink softness of her inner thigh. He suppressed it. Wasn’t there anything to think about, any more, besides sex, sex, sex? He was getting tired of the subject, tired of supplying it to women like Marcella Loraine.
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  She had been lying with her head on her right arm. Now, suddenly, she seemed to sense the direction of his eyes and looked quickly up at him. She flushed.

  “That’s the trouble with these suits,” she snapped. “Wonderful for sunbathing but — ”

  He dropped down next to her and said simply, “Sorry. You’re not exactly unattractive.”

  She switched subjects abruptly. “How do you like the party?”

  “Fascinating,” Larry told her. She had come up on her elbows now, in speaking to him, and from where he sat he could hardly avoid looking down into her bosom. Bikinis are not meant to totally hide that which they so inadequately cover. The cups which held her perfect breasts were such that from this angle he could even see the pinkness of her nipples.

  Her mouth tightened, and she lowered her body again. “Damn it!” she snapped.

  Larry had to laugh at her. “I’ll look the other way,” he said.

  “It’s my own confounded fault.” She sat up abruptly and faced him. “Somebody said you held a master’s degree in sociology. What in the world are you doing in this nest of do-nothing parasites?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “Perhaps studying sociology,” he said in deprecation. “What are you doing here? Working as Miss Alsace’s secretary, of course. But there are other secretarial jobs.”

  She twisted her mouth in a moue. “I guess I have that coming. Always bitching these people, but I’m still around. Well, to tell the truth, I have movie ambitions. The industry has always interested me.”

  “And?”

  “And, like various other fields, at the beginning you take whatever you can get. You have to make an in. Contacts. That sort of thing. Working for Loretta gives me chances to meet producers, directors, other actors. At least, that’s what I tell myself.”