As a line of conversation this one didn’t seem promising. Alex, after a few dead seconds, said, “I didn’t have a father in the usual sense. My mother preferred an in vitro development. The genetic material on the paternal side came from a combination of nine different males that she selected, providing a variety of different potentials.”
Lucy-Maria raised iridescent eyebrows and stared at him. He finally read an expression — “What went wrong, if you’re the result?” — in her dark eyes. She finally said, “You mother looks real good. Is she a Commensal?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what? I’d be one, too, if they’d let me. But it’s supposed to make you sterile, and I’m the Mobarak prize cow. Breed if you want to feed. You, too?”
“I suppose so.”
She examined him from head to toe. Finally she said, “Do you usually dress like that?”
“No. I never dress like this. My family put pressure on me to wear these clothes, because they’re supposed to show our family tradition.”
“You look like a Husvik whore-master.” She leaned forward confidentially. “I had to meet with you, or get chopped. But I didn’t want to. I’ll bet you were the same.”
“I was.” It might not be polite, but it was the truth.
“So we’re supposed to sit here and imitate armchairs, and bore each other to death. But we don’t have to. They said get to know each other. They didn’t say we have to stay here.”
“I’m not sure that my mother—”
“I saw the way my father looked at her, and she looked at him. They’re probably climbing all over each other. Talk about a family merger. I’ll bet there’s one going on right now.”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“I do.” She stood up, in a fluid swirl of movement and a flash of long leg. She was taller than he had realized, eye to eye with him. “Come on. You just follow me, there’s a way out of here that the security Faxes monitor but don’t record.”
She was off, toward a wall panel that swiveled as they approached. Alex — had he gone crazy? — followed Lucy-Maria through into a darkening corridor. Twenty paces. He counted them. He was ready to stop and ask her where they were going when his next step found nothing and he fell face-forward.
It was a drop chute. They riddled Ganymede’s interior, and Alex was used to them. The difference was that this one had no trace of lighting and he was falling through blackness and accelerating at a steady sixth of a gee. That was fine — until you reached the bottom.
“Lucy-Maria?”
He heard her laugh from below him. “Relax, I’ve done this a hundred times and I’m navigating for both of us. We have to pass through seventeen branch points. Ten minutes free-fall, then we reach the arrest phase. Lie back and enjoy. And call me Lucy. I’m only Lucy-Maria for official family business.”
But this teas family business — or supposed to be. And enjoying was one thing that Alex couldn’t do. What would his mother do and say when she found that he and Lucy had disappeared together?
The descent chute went on forever. Ten minutes! That would take them down hundreds of kilometers, far below all residential levels, far below the government office levels, below the agricultural levels, closing in on the deep interior where the blue-green prokaryotes produced the oxygen for all of Ganymede.
Where could she be taking him?
They had long ago reached terminal velocity. The wind whistled past Alex’s ears and tousled his hair. His hat, that silly conical family-tradition white hat with its stiff peak, had vanished long since into the darkness. And now, finally, Alex felt the arrest field. He was no longer falling at constant speed. A gentle hand, the same one that had held him clear of the walls of the chute, turned him upright. Now he was falling feet-first, and far below him he saw a small circle of light.
As he slowed, his surroundings became steadily brighter. The walls of the tunnel carried a faint green luminescence. By that light he caught his first sight of Lucy since they had left Mobarak headquarters. She was maybe thirty meters below him. On the way down she had somehow transformed her long green skirt into a rainbow version that ended at mid-thigh.
She landed lightly, and was waiting for him barefoot when he arrived. She held her shoes and skirt in one hand, but dropped them to the floor as she came close to Alex.
“All right, let’s take another look at you. Stand up straighter.”
Alex stood up straight and stared around him, wondering where his hat had landed. He was on a level he did not recognize and had surely never been before. The lower end of the chute formed a chamber with walls so luridly painted that he suspected that the finishing Von Neumanns had never been brought in. Three openings big enough to admit a human stood equally spaced around the walls, each one shimmering with the Moire patterns that indicated the presence of metal detectors and sonic inhibitors.
“These have to go.” Lucy was stooped at his feet, loosening the buckles on his two-toned yellow-and-white shoes.
“Because they contain metal?”
“Because they’re extremely hideous.” As Alex stepped out of his shoes to reveal canary-yellow socks, she felt the fabric of his jacket. “This, too. It feels like it’s made of hardboard and the style is pure geeker. It has to go. I have a reputation to protect.”
“What is this place?”
“Holy Rollers. The place to be. I knew you’d led a sheltered life, just from one look at you. What do you do when you’re not taking orders from Mummy?”
“I build predictive computer models for solar system simulation. I don’t take orders from my mother.” But he did. Alex glanced at the despised jacket, which had joined the crumpled mess of clothes on the floor. “I should be running my predictive model now.”
“Computer models. Boring. Boring beyond death.” Lucy rubbed at the ruby studs on his shirt. “These, on the other hand, are pretty damned fine. Rubies are right in this season, and bright yellow is daring.” She surveyed him again. “You’ll do, especially those socks. When we get inside and meet my friends, tell them that you’re Alex Ligon, of Ligon Industries. Nothing about models, and for God’s sake nothing about computers. I don’t want to have to disown you. Let’s see, where shall we go?”
She glanced at the three shimmering openings. “Not Hispano-Suizas, because apparently it’s doing virtuals tonight. And it’s a bit early for Bugattis, they do a slow first few laps. So it has to be Lagondas. You’re not certified, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Of course you’re not. Hold tight to my hand, or it won’t pass you.”
She grabbed Alex’s hand in her own — it was warm and surprisingly strong — and pulled him toward one of the openings. There was a tingle over his whole body, then he stepped through into a roar of sound and a flicker of colored lights.
“You wait right here,” Lucy shouted in his ear. “If someone asks you to dance, don’t accept. Don’t speak. Just shake your head.”
She eeled away to the left. Alex stood rigid, wondering how he had ever been so stupid as to come with her in the first place. Lagondas — if that was the right name — was packed with people, some slowly moving together in couples and trios and quartets, some leaning against counters along the sides of the big octagonal room, others sitting on isolated round objects like giant mushrooms. In four of the corners stood square columns about two meters high, from which long hoses protruded ending in some kind of shiny guns. The columns were labeled: 87, 89, 91, 93. A dozen people clustered around each one. Judging from the elaborate dress and jewelry, everyone was rich. The wall paintings showed ancient forms of personal transportation that had dominated Earth in previous centuries.
The level of noise was astonishing. Everyone seemed to be talking against a background of recorded sound, rhythmic dance music overlain with the whine and roar of high-revving engines and the scream of over-stressed tires. Alex smelled fumes, like incompletely-burned hydrocarbons. He wondered why Lucy Mobarak
had worried about someone asking him to dance. Unless they screamed right into his ear, he would never hear the invitation.
And then someone was at his side, and shouting at him. It was a short blonde girl. He felt a touch on his foot, and looked down. She was wearing a scanty halter top, long pants of faded blue, and what seemed to be heavy boots. But those boots had to be fake, because the touch on the top of his own stockinged foot was soft and light.
“Hot socks!” She had to stand on tiptoe to get her mouth close to his ear. “I saw you arrive at the same time as Lucy Mondeo. Does she have your starting handle?”
Don’t speak. Just shake your head. Alex could have used more guidance.
He leaned down and shouted, “I came here with Lucy Mobarak.”
“Lucky Lucy.” She took his hand in both of hers and put her mouth so close to his left ear that her lips brushed it as she spoke. “What’s your name?”
“Alex Ligon.”
“Ligon?” She frowned. “I don’t know that one. Are you one of the custom-builts?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, “I’m Suky Studebaker, except outside when I’m Suky Sylva. Wait and see how the Mondeo works out. If it doesn’t, look me up.”
She plunged into a knot of people in front of Alex, but he didn’t have much time to ponder what that had been all about, because Lucy was at his side again.
“Didn’t I tell you not to talk to anyone while I was gone? Especially Suky Stu. She’s Lagondas’ hottest tailpipe, and she claims she’s done more laps than anyone. What did she say to you?”
“She asked me my name, and I said Alex Ligon.”
“That’s all right, but you’ll need another one. Let me think. You can be Alex Lotus, I don’t think that’s in use. And here, take this.”
Lucy was holding two tall glasses shaped like vertical trumpet horns with round balls at the lower end. She thrust one into Alex’s hand. It was filled with a pale pink liquid. Alex sniffed at it suspiciously. Bubbles rose lazily through the drink in response to Ganymede’s low gravity and burst to tickle his nose.
She laughed at him. “You don’t need to worry, I wouldn’t start us on high octane. Perfectly safe. Here’s to Ligons and Mobaraks.”
She raised her glass and took a long drink. Alex, more cautiously, did the same. The flavor was pleasant and he tasted no intoxicants or fizzes.
“What’s in this?”
Lucy shrugged. “Who bothers to ask? It’s called a Sebring Special, and it tastes right. That’s all I need to know. Like it?”
“It’s very good.” Alex took a second gulp, and bubbles tickled his mouth and throat. “Really good.”
“One of these, and maybe a Daytona Swizzle, then I’ll introduce you to a couple of friends. Do you dance?”
“I can.” One of the miseries of Alex’s youth had been dance lessons. For formal occasions, Alex, any Ligon must be able to give an adequate account of himself on a dance floor. “I’m not very good.”
“Nor am I. You don’t have to be.” Lucy gestured to the swaying groups of people. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“I guess I can.” Alex wouldn’t have called it dancing. There was everything from close body contact to couples gesturing to each other from two or three meters apart.
He followed Lucy’s lead and tilted his glass up again. This time the level was low enough for liquid to flow from the round ball at the lower end. He felt a tingle start on his tongue and follow the drink all the way down to his stomach. And suddenly the glass was empty.
Lucy was laughing at him. “Afterburner.” She drained her own glass. “Time to fill the tank. That’s Deirdre de Soto and her brother over by the ninety-one octane. We’ll go there, I’ll show you how to work a pump, then if you like we can all dance.”
Alex followed her around the perimeter of the octagonal room. He was becoming used to the noise, but the lurid colors of clothes and walls seemed to be brightening. He stood beside Lucy, waiting their turn at the pump. The shouted introductions to Deirdre and Dafyd de Soto were unintelligible, but Deirdre touched his foot with hers, which seemed to be some sort of custom in this place, and Lucy shouted at her, “Go easy. This is his first circuit, and he’s not ready for the pole position,” which made even less sense.
Deirdre, like Lucy, was barefoot. It seemed to Alex that she was close to bare-everything. She wore a thin halter and a miniskirt, and had a ruby set in her navel. She touched that stone, put her finger on one of the studs of Alex’s shirt, and said, “Snap!” Everyone around the pump except Alex burst out laughing.
The front of the square column contained a complex menu of options. Dafyd de Soto pressed a series of commands that charged his glass with fluid that changed color as the ball was filled, then showed Alex how to do the same thing. Apparently Alex did not get the combination exactly right, because the other three laughed again and Deirdre called out, “Hi-test already! Lucy, are you sure it’s his first circuit?”
Alex tasted what he had produced. It was different from the Sebring Special, slightly less sweet and with a subtle, bitter aftertaste. He preferred it. He moved along the room with the other three, listening but not saying anything. If they noticed that he was quiet, no one commented on it.
They came to the edge of the dance area. No one mentioned dancing, but Deirdre de Soto stood in front of Alex and began to sway in time to the music. He looked, fascinated, because no matter how she moved her body the level of the drink in her glass remained exactly level. He tried to match her movements, and slopped liquid onto his own hand. Before he could do anything Deirdre had dipped her head forward and licked it off.
Lucy said, “You did that on purpose!” But whether she was accusing him or Deirdre, he could not tell. Now Lucy and Dafyd were also moving, following the pulse of the background music. He felt an increasing urge to do the same, but that would spill the drink that he was holding.
There was an obvious solution to that problem. Alex drained the remaining three-quarters of the drink in one long gulp, then walked across to one of the counters to set down the glass. He stared up at the mural beyond the counter. Four brightly-colored race cars hurtled along a straight track toward a tight corner. He heard the whine of engines as the drivers changed down to lower gears and accelerated into the banked curve. He could actually see the cars moving, jockeying for position. In the foreground, a car that had spun out of control on the curve was facing the wrong way and lying on its side. Black smoke rose from its engine. Alex could see that it was about to burst into flames. The driver was already out of his cramped seat and rolling clear on the grass.
Hands took Alex and turned him. Lucy was on his right, Deirdre de Soto on his left. “A couple of dances here, then over to Bugattis where we can sit down,” one of them said. Which one? Alex was not sure. He was back on the dance floor, and either he was dancing or doing some close enough equivalent. He looked around, but everything more than three meters away was a blur. Lucy, two meters away, was dancing with Dafyd de Soto and so close to him that she might as well be surgically attached.
Deirdre moved to stand and sway right in front of Alex, blocking his view of Lucy and Dafyd. As he watched, Deirdre magically grew taller and taller, until the ruby in her navel glimmered hypnotically at eye-level. After a few moments Alex realized that he was somehow on his knees, his hands grasping Deirdre’s bare thighs.
She reached down and helped him to stand up. Alex wanted to apologize, but before he could do it she draped his arms around her neck and then grabbed him at the waist. “Makes it easier to stand up.” She was nuzzling his neck. “Are you going to be all right?”
It sounded to Alex like a rhetorical question, and he decided not to answer. He danced with Deirdre, and then he danced with Lucy, and when someone put another drink into his hand, he drank it. When Deirdre tugged at Lucy, and said, “Bugattis?” he drifted along with them, out through one shimmering door and into another. It was cooler here, quiet and darkness and private rooms instead of bright lights,
public drinks, and a crowded dance floor.
Was this Bugattis? It must be. Alex found himself sitting on a long, wide couch. He was chewing on a square of something sweet and tangy. A soft thigh pressed against his. He liked Bugattis. He liked it even better than Lagondas.
Alex closed his eyes. He felt great.
Alex opened his eyes. He felt great, but instead of sitting on a couch he was lying in bed. Judging from the ceiling and the piece of the wall that he could see, it was his own bed.
A voice from a few feet away said, “Good evening, Alex. Welcome to the real world.”
It was Kate. She was sitting on a chair by the far wall of his cramped bedroom, staring at him intently.
He sat up. “What happened?”
“I was rather hoping you might tell me that.” Her voice would freeze methane. “I’ll take it from where I became involved. At three o’clock this morning I was called by Wholeworld Services to take delivery of a package. They tried the office, using an ID in the pocket of your pants, and fortunately for you I was still there. The package was you. You were unconscious. When I saw you, I became worried. I ran a medical scan, and found that you had imbibed at least twenty units of tanadril.”
“That’s a lot.” Alex by this time had noticed his bare chest. “Are you sure? That much tanadril ought to make me feel terrible, and I don’t.”
“Because we put you under and flushed your whole system, then kept you under.”
“What time is it now?”
“After six.”
“You let me sleep all day?”
“I did. And I won’t tell you how much self-control that took. You told me you were going to a family meeting.”
“That’s where I went.”
“Right. A family meeting way down on Level two-twenty, at the Holy Rollers Club. That’s where Wholeworld Services picked you up. A family meeting where you have sex with people.”
“I don’t think I did.” But Alex had a hazy memory of fumblings and the intimate touch of warm, bare bodies.
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