“Did you tell him we were married?”
“Not necessary. The idiom I used in speaking of you implied it.”
I wanted to ask her when and how she had learned Japanese but did not—Gwen would tell me when it suited her. (How many marriages are ruined by that itch to know “all about” a spouse? As a veteran of countless true confession stories I can assure you that unbridled curiosity about your wife’s/husband’s past is a sure formula for domestic tragedy.)
Instead I spoke to Bill. “Bill, this is your last chance. If you want to stay in Golden Rule, now is the time to leave. After you have had dinner, I mean. But after dinner we are going down to the Moon. You can come with us, or stay here.”
Bill looked startled. “Did she say I got a choice?”
Gwen said sharply, “Of course you do! You can come with us…in which case I shall require you to behave like a civilized human being at all times. Or you can remain in Golden Rule and go back to your turf—and tell Fingers you botched the job he got you.”
“I didn’t botch it! He did.”
Meaning me—I said, “That does it, Gwen. He resents me. I don’t want him around—much less have to support him. He’ll slip poison into my soup some night.”
“Oh, Bill wouldn’t do that. Would you. Bill?”
I said, “Oh, wouldn’t he? Notice how quick he is to answer? Gwen, earlier today he tried to shoot me. Why should I put up with his surly behavior?”
“Richard, please! You can’t expect him to get well all at once.”
This feckless discussion was cut short by Mr. Kondo returning to the table to arrange it for dinner…including hold-down clips for our little tree. One tenth of Earth-normal gravity is enough to hold food on a plate, hold feet against the floor—but just barely. The chairs here were fastened to the floor; there were seat belts on them if you wished to use them—I didn’t but a belt does have its points if you have to cut tough steak. Tumblers and cups had lids and sidesippers. The last was perhaps the most needed adaptation; you can easily scald yourself picking up a cup of hot coffee in a tenth gee—the weight is nothing but the inertia is undiminished…and so it slops, all over you.
As Mr. Kondo was placing flatware and sticks at my place he said quietly into my ear, “Senator, is it possible that you were present at the Solis Lacus drop?”
I answered heartily, “I certainly was, mate! You were there, too?”
He bowed. “I had that honor.”
“What outfit?”
“Go for Broke, Oahu.”
“Old ‘Go for Broke,’” I said reverently. “The most decorated outfit in all history. Proud, man, proud!”
“On behalf of my comrades I thank you. And you, sir?”
“I dropped with… Campbell’s Killers.”
Mr. Kondo drew air through his teeth. “Ah, so! Proud indeed.” He bowed again and went quickly into the kitchen.
I stared glumly at my plate. Caught out—Kondo had recognized me. But when the day comes that, asked point blank, I deny my comrades, don’t bother to check my pulse, don’t even bother to cremate me—just haul me out with the swill.
“Richard?”
“Huh? Yes, dear?”
“May I be excused?”
“Certainly. Do you feel all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you, but I have something to take care of.” She left, headed for the passage leading to the lounges and the exit, moving in that feather-light motion that is dancing rather than walking—at a tenth gee real walking can be accomplished only by wearing grips, magnetic or otherwise—or very long practice; Mr. Kondo was not wearing grips—he glided like a cat.
“Senator?”
“Yes, Bill?”
“Is she mad at me?”
“I don’t think so.” I was about to add that I would be displeased with him if he persisted in—then shut up in my mind. Threatening to leave Bill behind was too much like beating a baby; he had no armor. “She simply wants you to stand tall and not blame other people for your acts. Not make excuses.”
Having delivered myself of my favorite duck-billed platitude I went back to glum self-assessment. I make excuses. Yes, but not out loud, just to myself. That’s an excuse in itself, chum—whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve been, is all, totally, one hundred percent, your own fault. All.
Or to my credit. Yes, but damned little. Come on, be truthful.
But look where I started…and still got all the way up to colonel.
In the most whoreson, chancre-ridden, thieving, looting gang of thugs since the Crusades.
Don’t talk that way about the Regiment!
Very well. But they aren’t the Coldstream Guards, are they?
Those dudes! Why, just one platoon of Campbell’s—
Dreck.
Gwen returned, having been gone—oh, quite a time. I hadn’t checked the time when she left but it was now, I saw, almost eighteen. I tried to stand—not practical with both table and chair bolted down. She asked, “Have I held up dinner?”
“Not a bit. We ate, and threw the leavings to me pigs.”
“All right. Mama-San won’t let me go hungry.”
“And Papa-San won’t serve without you.”
“Richard. I did something without consulting you.”
“I don’t see anything in the book that says that you have to. Can we square it with the cops?”
“Nothing like that. You’ve noticed the fezzes around town all day—excursionists up from the Shriners convention in Luna City.”
“So that’s what they are. I thought Turkey had invaded us.”
“If you like. But you’ve seen them today, wandering up and down the Lane and the Camino, buying anything that doesn’t bite. I suspect that most of them are not staying overnight; they have a full program in Luna City and have hotel rooms there already paid for. The late shuttles are sure to be crowded—”
“With drunk Turks, woofing into their fezzes. And onto the cushions.”
“No doubt. It occurred to me that even the twenty o’clock schedule is likely to be fully booked rather early. So I bought tickets for us and reserved couches.”
“And now you’re expecting me to pay you back? Submit a claim and I’ll pass it along to my legal department.”
“Richard, I was afraid we would not get away from here at all tonight.”
“Mistress Hardesty, you continue to impress me. What was the total?”
“We can straighten out finances another time. I just felt that I could eat dinner in a happier frame of mind if I was sure that we could get away promptly after dinner. And, uh—” She paused, looked at Bill. “Bill.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“We are about to eat dinner. Go wash your hands.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t grunt. Do as I tell you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bill got up docilely, went out.
Gwen turned back to me. “I was antsy. Fidgety. Because of the Limburger.”
“What Limburger?”
“Your Limburger, dear. It was part of what I salvaged from your larder, then I put it out on the cheese and fruit tray when we had lunch. There was a little hundred-gram wedge, untouched, still in its wrapping, when we finished. Rather than throw it away, I put it in my purse. I thought it might make a nice snack—”
“Gwen.”
“All right, all right! I saved it on purpose…because I’ve used it in looking-glass warfare before this. It’s much nicer than some of the things on the list. Why, you wouldn’t believe what nasty—”
“Gwen. I wrote the list. Stick to your muttons.”
“In Mr. Sethos’s office, you will remember that I was seated almost against the bulkhead—and right by the main ventilation discharge. Quite a draft against my legs and uncomfortably warm. I got to thinking—”
“Gwen.”
“They’re all alike, all through the habitat—local control, both on heat and volume. And the louvre just snaps on. While Accounting was working up our fin
al statement, the Manager was studiously ignoring us. I turned the volume down and the heat to neutral, and snapped off the cover. I rubbed Limburger cheese all over the vanes of the heat exchanger, and tossed the rest of the package as far back into the duct as I could manage, and put the louvre back on. Then, just before we left, I turned the heat control to ‘cold’ and turned the volume up.” She looked worried. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“No. But I’m glad you’re on my side. Uh…you are—aren’t you?”
“Richard!”
“But I’m even gladder that we have reservations on the next shuttle. I wonder how long it will be until Sethos feels chilly and turns up the heat?”
What we had for dinner was delicious and I don’t know the names of any of it, so I’ll let it go at that. We had just reached the burping stage when Mr. Kondo came out, leaned close to my ear, and said, “Sir, come, please.”
I followed him into the kitchen. Mama-San looked up from her work, paid no more attention. The Reverend Doctor Schultz was there, looking worried. “Trouble?” I asked.
“Just a moment. Here’s your pie of Enrico; I’ve copied it. Here are the papers for Bill; please look them over.”
They were in a worn envelope, and the papers were creased and worn and somewhat yellowed and more than somewhat soiled in places. Hercules Manpower, Inc., had hired William No-Middle-Name Johnson, of New Orleans, Duchy of Mississippi, Lone Star Republic, and had in turn sold his indenture to Bechtel High Construction Corp. (bond endorsed for space, free fall, and vacuum)—who had in turn sold the indenture to Dr. Richard Ames, Golden Rule habitat, circum Luna. Etc., etc.—lawyer talk. Stapled to the indenture was a very sincere birth certificate showing that Bill was a foundling, abandoned in Metairie Parish, with an assigned date of birth three days earlier than the date he was found.
“Much of that is true,” Dr. Schultz told me. “I was able to wheedle some old records out of the master computer.”
“Does it matter whether or not it’s true?”
“Not really. As long as it is sincere enough to get Bill out of here.”
Gwen had followed me in. She took the papers from me, read them. “I’m convinced. Father Schultz, you’re an artist.”
“A lady of my acquaintance is an artist. I will convey your compliment. Friends, now the bad news. Tetsu, will you show them?”
Mr. Kondo moved back in the kitchen; Mama-San (Mrs. Kondo, I mean) stepped aside. Mr. Kondo switched on a terminal. He punched up the Herald, cycled it for something—spot news I assume. I found myself staring at myself.
With me, in split screen, was Gwen—a poor likeness of her. I would not have recognized her but for the sound repeating:
“—Ames. Mistress Gwendolyn Novak. The female is a notorious confidence woman who has fleeced many victims, mostly male, around the bars and restaurants of Petticoat Lane. The self-styled ‘Doctor’ Richard Ames, no visible means of support, has disappeared from his address at ring sixty-five, radius fifteen, at point four gee. The shooting took place at sixteen-twenty this afternoon in Golden Rule Partner Tolliver’s office—”
I said, “Hey! That time is wrong. We were—”
“Yes, you were with me, at the Farm. Hear the rest.”
“—according to eyewitnesses both killers fired shots. They are believed armed and dangerous; use extreme caution in apprehending them. The Manager is grief stricken at the loss of his old friend and has offered a reward of ten thousand crowns for—”
Dr. Schultz reached over and shut it off. “It just repeats now; it’s on a loop. But it appears as a spot announcement on all channels. By now, most habitants must have seen and heard it.”
“Thanks for warning us. Gwen, don’t you know better than to shoot people? You’re a naughty girl.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I fell into bad company.”
“Excuses again. Reverend, what in hell are we going to do? That bastich will space us before bedtime.”
“That thought occurred to me. Here, try this on for size.” From somewhere about his ample person he produced a fez.
I tried it on. “Fits well enough.”
“And now this.”
It was a black velvet eyepatch on elastic. I slipped it on, decided that I did not like having one eye covered, but did not say so. Papa Schultz had obviously put effort and imagination into trying to keep me from breathing vacuum.
Gwen exclaimed, “Oh, goodness! That does it!”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Schultz. “An eyepatch draws the attention of most observers so strongly that it takes a conscious effort of will to see the features. I always keep one on hand. That fez and the presence of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine was a happy coincidence.”
“You had a fez on hand?”
“Not exactly. It does have a former owner. When he wakes up, he may miss it…but I do not think he will wake up soon. Uh, my friend Mickey Finn is taking care of him. But you might avoid any Shriners from Temple Al Mizar. Their accents may help; they are from Alabama.”
“Doctor, I’ll avoid all Shriners as much as I can; I think I should board at the last minute. But what about Gwen?”
The Reverend Doctor produced another fez. “Try it, dear lady.”
Gwen tried it on. It tended to fit down over her like a candle snuffer. She lifted it off. “I don’t think it does a thing for me; it’s not right for my complexion. What do you think?”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
I said, “Doctor, Shriners are twice as big as Gwen in all directions and they bulge in different places. It will have to be something else. Grease paint?”
Schultz shook his head. “Grease paint always looks like grease paint.”
“That’s a very bad likeness of her on the terminal. Nobody could recognize her from that.”
“Thank you, my love. Unfortunately there are a good many people in Golden Rule who do know what I look like…and just one of them at the boarding lock tonight could lower my life expectancy drastically. Hmm. With just a little effort and no grease paint I could look my right age. Papa Schultz?”
“What is your right age, dear lady?”
She glanced at me, then stood on tiptoes and whispered in Dr. Schultz’s ear. He looked surprised. “I don’t believe it. And, no, it won’t work. We need something better.”
Mrs. Kondo spoke quickly to her husband; he looked suddenly alert; they exchanged some fast chatter in what had to be Japanese. He shifted to English. “May I, please? My wife has pointed out that Mistress Gwen is the same size, very nearly, as our daughter Naomi—and, in any case, kimonos are quite flexible.”
Gwen stopped smiling. “It’s an idea—and I thank you both. But I don’t look Nipponese. My nose. My eyes. My skin.”
There was some more batting around of that fast but long-winded language, three-cornered this time. Then Gwen said, “This could extend my life. So please excuse me.” She left with Mama-San.
Kondo went back into his main room—there had been lights asking for service for several minutes; he had ignored them. I said to the good Doctor, “You have already extended our lives, simply by enabling us to take refuge with Tiger Kondo. But do you think we can carry this off long enough to board the shuttle?”
“I hope so. What more can I say?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
Papa Schultz dug into a pocket. “I found opportunity to get you a tourist card from the gentleman who lent you that fez…and I have removed his name. What name should go on it? It can’t be ‘Ames’ of course—but what?”
“Oh. Gwen reserved space for us. Bought tickets.”
“By your right names?”
“I’m not certain.”
“I do hope not. If she used ‘Ames’ and ‘Novak’ the best you can hope for is to try to be first in line for no-shows. But I had better hurry to the ticket counter and get reservations for you as ‘Johnson’ and—”
“Doc.”
“Please? On the next shuttle if this one is booked solid.”
“You can’t. You make reservations for us and—phtt! You’re spaced. It may take them till tomorrow to figure it out. But they will.”
“But—”
“Let’s wait and see just what Gwen did. If they aren’t back in five minutes, I’ll ask Mr. Kondo to dig them out.”
A few minutes later a lady came in. Father Schultz bowed and said, “You’re Naomi. Or are you Yumiko? Good to see you again, anyhow.”
The little thing giggled and sucked air and bowed from the waist. She looked like a doll—fancy kimono, little silk slippers, flat white makeup, an incredible Japanese hairdo. She answered, “Ichiban geisha girr is awr. My Ingris are serdom.”
“Gwen!” I said.
“Prease?”
“Gwen, it’s wonderful! But tell us, fast, the names you used in making our reservations.”
“Ames and Novak. To match our passports.”
“That tears it. What’ll we do. Doc?”
Gwen looked back and forth between us. “Pray tell me the difficulty?”
I explained. “So we go to the gate, each of us well disguised—and show reservations for Ames and Novak. Curtain. No flowers.”
“Richard, I didn’t quite tell you everything.”
“Gwendolyn, you never do quite tell everything. More Limburger?”
“No, dear. I saw that it might turn out this way. Well, I suppose you could say that I wasted quite a lot of money. But I—Uh, after I bought our tickets—tickets we can’t use now and are wasted—I went to Rental Row and put a deposit on a U-Pushit. A Volvo Flyabout.”
Schultz said, “Under what name?”
I said, “How much?”
“I used my right name—”
Schultz said, “God help us!”
“Just a moment, sir. My right name is Sadie Lipschitz…and only Richard knows it. And now you. Please keep it to yourself, as I don’t like it. As Sadie Lipschitz I reserved the Volvo for my employer. Senator Richard Johnson, and placed a deposit. Six thousand crowns.”
I whistled. “For a Volvo? Sounds like you bought it.”
“I did buy it, dear; I had to. Both rental and deposit had to be cash because I didn’t have a credit card. Oh, I do have; I have enough cards to play solitaire. But Sadie Lipschitz has no credit. So I had to pay six thousand down simply to reserve it—to rent it but on a purchase contract. I tried to get him down a bit but with all the Shriners in town he was sure he could move it.”
The Cat Who Walks Through Walls Page 10