CC and Craig enter the lobby. Craig stops transfixed by the illusion of the “sky.”
“Say something,” CC says touching his elbow and edging him to the side while others walk around them.
He points to the pulsating chandelier in the middle that looks like a radiating sun. “It’s hard to believe that’s an artificial construction.”
CC pats his arm. She lowers her eyes. Waves of colors flow into the corridors, creating the illusion of everyone walking on water. She points to a billboard ahead that lists restaurants, bars, ice skating rinks, pools, gyms, a ski slope, theaters, a children’s center, library, and levels of duty-free shops.
“This is going to be fun,” Craig says.
“Wait till you see the room,” CC counters running her hand up and down his arm.
A tall blond man approaches wearing clothes inspired by the costume books depicting the ringmasters at Cirque du Soleil. He smiles, tips his black top hat, and hands CC a lilac-smelling blue rose. She inhales deeply and smiles.
“Welcome to Nirgal Palace. My name is Trapeze. Your reservation is for one of our best rooms, on Outer Ring 3. Your luggage is there, the refrigerator stocked with delicious treats like lobster caviar, the wet and dry saunas with a double-ice mint-splash pool are waiting and keyed to what our medical scan indicated would bring the most relaxing benefits.”
Trapeze leads them through a thickly carpeted emerald hallway and pauses in front of a shiny black rectangle set into the wall. His hand passes in front of it. It disappears. He steps through into a moss-green room. CC and Craig follow. The black rectangle reappears. Craig turns and taps it. “Feels solid,” he says.
“It is,” Trapeze answers.
The room appears to have three sides. A king-size bed supported by nothing visible floats where the room ends and space begins. CC gasps and death-grips Craig’s arm. “I don’t remember the illusion so convincing the last time I was here.”
“We just updated our technologies. Most people are so excited when they see it they immediately go to the bed and lie down. I see you are not one of them.” Trapeze walks to a translucent bar tucked into a corner, reaches underneath, and brings up two glass flutes and a pink bottle of Nirgal Palace’s private champagne. “Maybe this will help.” He opens the bottle, pours, and hands them a glass. CC gulps two large swallows.
“I need to scan your palms.” Craig and CC hold out their hands but feel nothing. “I remotely imprinted your right palms with a map of the hotel. Everyone gets lost without it. It fades when you leave. Your left has a key to your room. Just wave your hand in front of the door and it will open and close.”
He walks to the door and waves his hand in front of it. The door disappears. When he walks into the hallway and waves his hand toward the empty doorframe, the solid black door reappears.
“That alone is worth the price of admission,” Craig says. “Do you really think the bed is in a scary place? Last month when I took you to the New Paris Hilton, you said that you never felt as secure as you did with me.” He puts his arms around CC.
“Well, I…”
“Well what?” Craig holds her tighter.
CC pulls back. “This new technology makes it hyper-real. In the past you could see little shadows. Can’t we move the bed?”
Craig looks deep into CC’s eyes then says the words men have seductively said to women to lower their guard and change their minds, words that go back to the moment pantomime became spoken language, words uttered a microsecond after help and fire. Craig says, “Trust me.”
A few hours later, Drew and Kandy arrive. Drew suspects that Rocket’s gift of a weekend at Nirgal Palace was meant as an inducement for getting him another sample of the anti-flavonoid. But he also feared if he didn’t play along, he would never get his Giacometti back.
Their room is on Outer Ring 2: first class but not a suite. Drew is disappointed, but Kandy is thrilled to be there. A bottle of champagne chills on the small bar with a card that reads: “To the sweetest sweetheart, Kandy Kane. From Rocket Packarod.”
Drew frowns and studies the orange label, knowing it’s good but not the hotel’s private stock.
Kandy pushes a pad on the side of the closet, selects a perfume from its interior, unpacks her Louie Voo Voo luggage, and places her clothes on the warm silver hangers.
“I love it here, Drew. Do I have time to explore? I want to see the lobby again?”
“I need to make some calls, sweet thing. Come back in an hour.” Drew turns and waves over his shoulder.
Kandy wastes no time. She’s learned that when she’s with Drew, she has time to do half the things on her list or all the things but only halfway.
She enters the lobby and walks toward puffy lime lounge chairs, but all are taken. A man rises and offers her a seat. She thinks nothing of convenient coincidences, like men getting up and giving her a seat just when she needs one. After all, they have been happening since she was six months old and on the cover of Solar Infant magazine. She smiles and sinks into the buttery cushions, crosses her long legs, and gazes at the jewel-like comets darting from one end to another of what appears to be the real sky.
“Did you see the look that guy just gave you?” Drew would always ask. “How can you not notice?”
“What look?” Kandy would answer. “Maybe he’s reading a sign near me or looking at someone else. I’m not the only person here.” It was a charming, disarming, and totally honest answer, and he groaned every time she said it.
Kandy rises and strolls to the gift shop. As she pays for her postcards, Craig and CC enter. Craig’s head turns. Kandy doesn’t notice.
Cortland and I enter the lobby of Nirgal Palace just as Kandy is leaving.
“Beautiful girl,” Cortland says watching Kandy stride past. “Must be a model or a media star.”
“You know, she looks a lot like the woman I’ve seen with Drew on the society channel. Could she be here with him?”
“She’s probably some old rich guy’s trophy wife. He looks up. Now if you really want to see something spectacular, look up.”
When I look up my jaw drops. I think there is no ceiling, only infinite black sky. I think it’s more convincing than the real black sky that I saw when I first came to the Moon with Drew. My sweaty hand grabs Cortland’s sweaty hand.
A robotic porter approaches. “Happy anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. Summers. Welcome to Nirgal Palace.” It hands me a small bouquet of artificial daisies. “I see you prefer a quiet inner room on Ring think, prefer? It’s what we can barely afford. “Please give me your palms so I can imprint a map of the hotel on it.” Cortland and I extend our hands. We hear a lot of clicking sounds. “Sorry, it must be out of order again.” He hands us two keys. “Here, you can let yourselves in. If you need anything, press ‘Robotic Services’ on the back of the key.”
Nirgal Palace—Nirgal, the Babylonian word for Mars—is shaped like a doughnut. Our small, clean room has a tiny window that views levels of machinery. If we crane our necks almost to the point of dislocating our spines, we can see the stars.
“Bed’s comfortable,” Cortland says, plopping down. “Good thing we won’t be spending much time in here. And most of the time our eyes will be closed.”
“I hope,” I say, peering into the gray metal bathroom. “Bathroom’s efficient but not enough towels. I’ll call Robotic Services.”
“If the twins win the Mars Malt contest, they will help attract other talents to the music agency I want to start. I promise when we come back here we’ll have a room with a floating bed on Outer Ring 3.” Pause. “Molly, did you hear what I said? What’s the problem?”
“I wanted more towels. Listen.” I hold the card to Cortland’s ear. He hears: “For towels, press one three times followed by the pound sign followed by the symbol of Saturn above the symbol of a washcloth. For soap, press the square root of…click. Thank you for calling Robotic Services. Your call is important to us. Please hang up and try again.”
Cortland shakes h
is head. “You would have thought voice-message hell would be eliminated by the twenty-fourth century.” He peers into a mirror and runs his hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “Let’s freshen up and go to the Starbright Lounge for a drink. We can stop at the front desk and ask for towels on our way back.”
23
THE NOISY, CROWDED Starbright Lounge feels as it always does, like the moment before midnight on New Year’s Eve. Rocket sits at a favorite table in the center near the bar. He faces the door so he can see everyone who enters. His fluorescent green suit stands out in a sea of conservative grays. Rocket believes there’s no point dressing up if no one notices what you wear.
Kandy and Drew enter. Rocket stands and waves his hands over his head. “Over here, Drew,” he shouts. “Over here.” Drew touches a blue-and-yellow paisley scarf wrapped artfully around his neck, a small nervous gesture stemming from his insecurities about once being fat.
Rocket takes Kandy’s hand bends toward her face and gives her an air-kiss. She wears a crisp pink blouse with a navy blue pleated skirt that ends just above her ankles, showing off black gladiator heels and pink polished toes. Her long dark hair falls straight down her back. A blue-ice sapphire necklace adorns her neck. Perfect.
Rocket pulls out her chair and zeros in on her necklace. “Beautiful blue-ice sapphires.” He leans closer and recognizes the expensive smell of Springtime on Venus perfume. “Business must be good, Drew.”
Kandy moves her hand to her throat and beams.
“This calls for a Red Spot of Jupiter on the rocks. You’ve put me in a good mood.”
Rocket holds up three fingers, catches a waiter’s eye, and points to the table. He gives him the order, picks up the empty dish of macadamia nuts, and waves it in front of the waiter’s face. Drew looks away.
Kandy and Drew sip their drinks. Yum. Delicious. Elegant. Hints of ripe raspberry and soft jasmine float on their tongues. Everyone relaxes. Suddenly Rocket, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the door except for the few seconds he looked at Kandy, jumps up from his seat, waves his hands over his head again, and shouts, “Craig! Craig Cashew, over here!” Before Drew or Kandy can say anything, Rocket jumps up from the table and starts threading his way through the crowd toward Craig. He waves at a number of people and pretends to ignore their lack of reciprocal smiles but he makes mental notes.
Cortland and I arrive and stand in the doorway of the Starbright Lounge and wait. We watch the head waiter air-kiss his regulars and ignore us. Cortland reaches into his pocket and palms him fifty solars. “Ah, follow me,” he says without smiling.
We make our way past clinking glasses, waving scarves, and trays held high to an empty table near the bar. I grab Cortland’s arm and pull back. “They’re here!”
“Who, sweetheart, Jersey and Trenton?”
“No, not Jersey and Trenton.” I turn and hide behind Cortland. “Do you have another table?” I ask the head waiter as he starts to walk away.
Cortland gives me a strange look. “This is one of their best tables and it cost me fifty solars to get it.” He nods to the head waiter and palms him another twenty-five. “This is fine. We’ll take it.”
I move quickly toward a chair where my back faces the other table.
“Well, sweetheart,” Cortland says, eyeing Kandy over my shoulder. “Here we are. What’s this all about?”
“Don’t you recognize him?”
“Who?”
“It’s Drew Barron with the woman we saw in the lobby. They’re behind me at the next table.”
Cortland peers at Kandy over my shoulder again. I put my finger to my lips. “Stop looking. You’ll draw attention to us.”
A waiter approaches. He gives me the “Flo frown.” I pull my long black tunic top over my flabby arms and glare at him. “Greetings,” he says changing his frown to a company smile. “I’m your waiter, Bermuda Triangle, but those who are superstitious call me Bernie. You’re from Earth or Earth’s moon. Right?”
“Is it that obvious?” Cortland asks.
He gives a knowing wink. “You guys look like you could use a light beer. We have over a hundred on tap.”
“Two double Kir Royals,” Cortland orders.
I finger a small dish of salted peanuts and take out my handkerchief to cover part of my face. I pretend to blow my nose and sneak another peek at Drew whom I have never seen so impeccably groomed and Hollywood handsome.
Craig and CC stand in the doorway to the Starbright Lounge. They look quickly around then enter. Craig sees a fluorescent green jacket zooming toward him. He sucks in his breath. He recognizes Rocket, older than he remembered but nonetheless definitely Rocket. CC senses tension. “Who is that?” she asks. Do you know him?”
“His name is Rocket Packarod, and frankly I haven’t seen him since college. Not someone I wanted to meet again.”
“You know, I know that name,” says CC. Craig’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding. Where from? A gambling casino or a police blotter?”
“No, really. I did a special for Carbon Copies Media on a community for people with developmental disabilities in Utopia Plantia. I remember there was a Rocket Packarod listed in their highest category, Big Bang Patrons. His son, Zeus Packarod, lives there. Their director told me that Rocket never comes to any of their events or ever visits Zeus but sends a weekly holographic cube with a message and gifts.”
Rocket closes in.
“Well, well, Craig Cashew, now big shot and CEO of the Culinary Institute. Long time no see,” says Rocket pounding Craig on the back.
Rocket turns and extends a hand to CC. “Rocket Packarod,” he says. “And I know who you are. You’re Colorful Copies of Carbon Copies Media. Saw your interview with Nova Scotia. Nice work.”
CC shakes Rocket’s hand.
Craig feels the romance of his weekend melt like an ice sculpture on a hot buffet. Rocket says to CC, “Did you know that Craig and I were classmates at Why U?” He grabs her hand before she can answer and gently pulls till she takes a step. “Come sit at my table. There’s someone both of you should meet.”
Craig and CC follow Rocket to his table. Rocket waves at more people whose response is suddenly more animated seeing him with Craig and CC.
“Oh my God!” I say to Cortland, drink in hand frozen in midair.
“What now?” he says in a low, dark voice reserved for bad news.
“It’s Craig Cashew, my boss at the Culinary, with CC and I think Rocket Packarod. They’re headed this way. I wonder why they’re all here together. Craig won’t recognize me. I’m too low in the Culinary’s pecking order for him to pay attention. Rocket and I have never met. And there’s a good chance CC won’t remember me. You have to help me keep out of Drew’s sight, Cortland.”
“Relax. No problem. Your back is toward them. Stop being so paranoid. No one is looking at you, not when they have Drew’s beautiful girlfriend to look at.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, you’re beautiful too, sweetheart. But, in a different way.”
Yeah, I think. Like the difference between the sun and an asteroid. Drew stands, seeing Rocket, Craig Cashew, and CC.
“Drew Barron and Kandy Kane, meet Colorful Copies and Craig Cashew. Craig Cashew is the CEO of the Culinary Institute.” Drew looks at Craig and CC. They shake hands. Drew knows who Craig Cashew is and that he outbid him for the Giacometti at Park Bengay. He also knows that CC is his hysterical, jilted former girlfriend.
“Kandy,” says Kandy, who does not get up but extends her hand across the drinks and flowers on the table.
“Weren’t you in the gift shop this afternoon?” Craig asks. “I thought I recognized you.”
“Guess I wasn’t paying attention,” Kandy says smiling.
Drew stares at her and says nothing. Everyone sits. A waiter replaces the nuts with a better selection in a much larger dish and a plate of mushrooms marinated in aquavit from Ganymede and tri-colored sweet olives the size of small plums.
Drew looks at CC.
“You look wonderful, CC. Strange meeting here after all this time.”
With a smile on her face but a grudge in her heart, CC extends her hand to Drew, who takes it.
“You two know each other?” Rocket asks.
“Drew and I both went to Armstrong U on Earth’s moon a lifetime ago,” CC explains.
“College? That’s where Craig and I know each other from.” Rocket extends his arms. “Hey, this must be old-home week!” He snaps his fingers at a passing waiter. “Get us a large tray of shrimps wrapped in wonton skins and a round of frozen Cassini Huygens cocktails.”
CC leans toward Kandy and says, “What a beautiful necklace, Kandy. Those are blue-ice sapphires, aren’t they? They’re very rare.”
Kandy nods.
The shrimps in wonton skins arrive. They are deep-fried and crunchy. “Compliments of the chef,” says the waiter. They each crackle a small piece in their mouth and leave the rest on a plate.
Except Rocket, who brings out a small yellow bottle. “A little extra vitamin C with a hint of ginkgo biloba.” He gives his shrimp a spritz. “Any takers?” He waves the bottle back and forth. “Last chance. Going, going…” He opens his mouth wide, inserts the whole shrimp, makes some noisy chews, and swallows. Rocket puts the bottle back in his breast pocket, gives it a few pats, and turns to Craig. “Drew is executive vice president of sales and marketing for Congress Drugs. He also collects art.”
“I know all about Drew and his art collection,” Craig replies. “Drew was the one who outbid me for the Giacometti at Park Bengay. Didn’t you, Drew?”
Drew lowers his eyes.
“You don’t say,” Rocket exclaims.
A waiter clears glasses and hands each a Cassini Huygens cocktail. Each has a silver swizzle stick in the shape of a space probe.
Rocket takes the swizzle stick from his glass. “Looks like a listening device. I don’t like listening devices.” He snaps it, drops it on the floor and crushes it with the heel of his shoe.
Craig gives Drew a serious look and continues, “You must know, that Mars is a haven for stolen art and fakes. I’m sure you got the real thing at Park Bengay. But—and I’m not just saying this because I missed out on the Giacometti—you should have it appraised by an independent appraiser.”
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