Well that was fine with Arnal. They fitted perfectly with his preconceptions. And that meant his job would be that much easier - and that much quicker. And the less time he had to spend on this stinking brothel-ship the better. He liked mixing with nice people, not the sort of creeps who went on a bloody Lollipop cruise.
And that reminded him. Where was that nice person, that nice lady with the fixed smile? He returned his eyes to nil magnification and his view to the cabin. And there she was, fiddling with her buttons.
'Hey lady,' he shouted. 'This trip's been fucking shit. Just make sure I'm the first off. Otherwise there'll be trouble.'
Yes, nice people were so much nicer to mix with - even if you did have to keep them in line now and again - or more often than that if you fancied…
5.
Renton was in contemplative mood and black underpants. He was sitting against the headboard of his cabin bed, a glass of gin and tonic in one hand and a small cigarillo in the other. And he was thinking. In fact, he was list-thinking.
Normally, he resorted to this sort of mental list making as a way of bringing order to his mind. It was like a little pause button, a little brake on his life, which allowed him to catch his breath and to take stock of things. But on this occasion, it would be used for something else; it would be used as a planning tool - to work out how he might discharge the daunting demands of his detectorial directive. In short, how the hell he might track down the blonde with the branded boob. So the list would be of what he knew about his quarry - and of what he didn't know about his quarry - in the hope that something would emerge, anything that might just point to “what to do next”.
He started. And it would be the negatives first. What did he not know about his mystery blonde? Well, that was easy. For there were three unknowns in particular, three areas of outstanding ignorance:
1. He didn't know her name - nor, for that matter, her postcode, nor even her home planet. And he'd already established that there was no “Ms Toothbrush” on board this ship. So, all in all, a bit of a blank on the old identity front.
2. He didn't know why he was looking for her. A little bit odd, this gap in his knowledge. But Boz had insisted he didn't need to know. That was Boz's department apparently. And Renton had accepted this arrangement without question. After all, Renton was the novice and Boz was the real professional. And, on top of that, Renton trusted Boz - implicitly. There would be a good reason for this organised ignorance. And in due course, when the time was right, Renton would no doubt learn what it was. Probably when he reported to Boz that he'd found her. He was to do this as soon as he had - but he was not to contact Boz before then. Again, all part of Boz's master plan - and again, all entirely OK with Renton.
3. He didn't know exactly what she looked like. He hadn't a holo-image of her face - or even a crappy old wanted poster like they used to have in pre-history. Heck, he hadn't even an aerial shot of the back of her head. And in the circumstances, this lack of a visual likeness of his target was the greatest drawback to his finding her, to his picking her out from the hordes on this ship. It was a bit of a bugger.
It was, however, also the lead into what he did know about her. Because the little he did know about her was all to do with the visual, albeit the inadequate visual:
1. Renton knew she was blonde. And he'd rather assumed this meant she had long blonde hair - and on a young woman's head. He'd reasoned Boz wouldn't have used this term if it were otherwise. If, for example, the woman were in her sixties and had cropped blonde hair. And anyway, the assumption that it was a young blonde woman simply suited him more…
2. She had blue eyes. Well great. But there were such things as blue contact lenses and… oh well, come to think of it, there were blonde wigs as well. And for that matter black, brunette and ginger wigs. What if she was in disguise? Crikey, must be time to move on, to move on to the intimate feature…
3. Yes, the mark of the toothbrush, the tiny tattoo engraved on her tit - of unknown colour and of unknown design. But no matter. What woman in her right mind would have a piece of dental hygiene equipment inscribed on one of her erogenous promontories? There could be only one such weirdo in the whole universe. And finding - on said sticky out bit - any design of toothbrush in any colour or combination of colours, would be fairly conclusive evidence. But that was the problem: finding it. Even on this floating fleshpot, an examination of every blonde's mammary mantelpiece would take forever. The toothbrush test was both the most conclusive and the most impractical. No, it wasn't the way to conduct the campaign.
4. That just left the tall bit, the fact that the sought after blue-eyed blonde was on the high side. But, as already observed, most of the Lollipop's blue-eyed blondes were on the high side. The fashion for short blue-eyed blondes was, it appeared, a thing of the past. But wait a minute - Boz hadn't said tall, he'd said six-foot threeish. That was Renton's height, and that was very tall for a woman. That nice lady in Brady's bar had been that tall; Renton remembered. And Carla had looked that tall as well. But not all the blondes on board this ship could be that tall. Only a few of them could have grown that far from the ground. And that could be the filter. That could be the way of narrowing down the field. Ignore the normal-tall blondes and go for the “poles”, the giant-tall blondes, the ones that touched six-foot 'n three. But how? Heights were deceptive. And as often as not, the women on this ship were on their backs not on their feet - and then it was even more difficult. There had to be a way, a way of pre-selecting…
And wow! Here he was, still in his list, and he was into solving his problem. Because he now had an idea. It was the height thing and it was one of the “don't haves” on that first part of his list. He could bring the two together and that would be it. Yes, “wanted posters”! He would create his own little pack of wanted posters. And he knew just how to do it.
He smiled, took a beer-sized swig of his gin and tonic and then a corona-sized puff of his cigarillo. He was back on the trail, back on the case. And God, it was all so… well, how else could one say it? All so elementary. All so damn well elementary…
6.
Baggage reclaim! Sentient beings had conquered just about the whole damn universe, and still there was this damn-baggage-damn-bloody-reclaim, still as slow and still as infuriating as it ever had been - and still as mysterious. Even Arnal's superior intellect couldn't work out how an inanimate piece of luggage, one that didn't have to gather its belongings, put its shoes back on, retrieve its jacket, check the contents of its seat-back pocket at least three times, stand in silent homage to the gods of space-flight while some half-wits got the umbilical sorted out, walk half a mile through a maze of corridors, get itself processed through some automatic or idiotic immigration procedure, and then conduct an extended search for a working baggage hover - could take five times as long to get to the baggage reclaim as any passenger who did have to do all this. It was a nonsense and an outrage, and just the sort of thing to knock Arnal out of the mild-mannered mellowness he'd cultivated on his trip in the launch.
Matters hadn't been helped by his fellow reclaimers. In the first place, they were all jolly. They seemed oblivious of the indignity of having to wait for their luggage, the out-and-out gross indignity of having to stand around wasting a chunk of their invaluable life-time while a totally moronic plastex container took all the time in the worlds to turn up to do its little number on the catwalk carousel. And then the morons were pleased to see it! Ecstatic when they should have been resentful, joyful at the return of the prodigal bag when all it deserved was a good kick in the goolies. And in the second place, they were all a bunch of perverts…
Although, there again, what could you expect? This lot were trash - sex junkies, slappers and scrubbers and wankers and wazzers. Probably already more concerned with thoughts of bondage than with baggage. And what could they have in their baggage anyway? From everything Arnal had heard about this ship, the only thing most of them ever wore here was a look of dazed delight as they soaked up the
sights. Why, even now some of them looked as though they were heading for a spontaneous orgasm.
'I mean, look at him,' muttered Arnal to himself. 'He's into something already. He has to be. Nobody wears an expression on his face like that without something going on in his balls.'
Arnal was looking at a pale, slightly built man, wearing a vest and an aesthetically challenged pair of Bermuda shorts; they were nothing short of grotesque. But not as grotesque as the look of imbecilic ecstasy plastered across the man's pallid and pimply face. It really was as though the very act of setting foot aboard the Lollipop had set off something in his gonads, as though the proximity of so much promiscuity had already got him going - and there was no way he was going to stop. Or maybe he just had some little device down there, something he could switch on when waiting for a bus, or for an egg to boil - or for his baggage to arrive. Arnal knew they existed. He'd even seen an advert for one once - on a hotel holo-channel. Not that he'd ever felt the need himself. In fact, if the truth were known, he'd never felt the need for sex of any sort at all; it just wasn't his bag. He was more into all sorts of macho stuff - like aggression and intimidation. And physical stuff, like… well, like violence and brutality, that sort of thing. And here was proof, if proof were ever needed, of the wisdom of his abstinence from all things sexual, from all the temptations of the bits between the legs. If he ended up looking like that bloke over there, you could forget it. He wasn't interested in the slightest, and he never would be - ever. He was absolutely sure of it.
'And then just look at her!'
Arnal had seen another punter to bolster his beliefs. In particular, that chapter of his beliefs that dealt with the insanity of ever doing anything intimate with a member of the opposite sex, of actually letting a bit of your own body get drawn into one of those 'orrible openings they had. It just wasn't right - and certainly not with a specimen like this!
The object of Arnal's attention was a lady facing him across the baggage carousel. She wouldn't have been out of place, thought Arnal, if she'd been on the carousel itself. She had so much of a luggage look about her.
Arnal was right. It was in her shape - or rather her lack of shape. She was a sort of block on legs, with square shoulders, square hips and pretty much a square bosom. And there was a lot of that - but in the singular. It was a shelf, a one-piece overhang - with not even an echo of the separateness - and the attractiveness - of a pair of discreet little knockers. And her clothing didn't help either. It was all Crimplene and brass buttons. And it was chickenpox red, the same colour red as her latticework sandals, the ones with all those bulges between the latticework…
But there was worse up top: her face and her hair.
Her face was as square as her body - and just as sexless. Above two heavy-lidded eyes were two heavy-duty eyebrows - threatening to become just one eyebrow… And between the eyes, masquerading as a nose, was what could only have been a genetically modified root vegetable. It just looked so unnatural. And then below this synthetic projection, a mouth, which in contrast, was clearly entirely natural. Yes, it was a genuine, organically grown monstrosity - with not even a hint of intelligent design.
And then there was the complexion of the face and its tonsorial topping. Both were on the florid side of grey, a colour difficult to describe but easy to forget. And there was a similarity in their texture as well; both were dry and crinkly looking. The hair, in particular, looked as though it had enjoyed an extended affair with something corrosive, something you might have cleared the drains with.
And on top of all this absolute ugly in her visage, there was menace as well, the sort of menace with which Arnal could easily associate. It wasn't in her eyes or in her mouth or anywhere in particular; it was just everywhere. Pervasive, as though there was a power behind that ghastly mask. Or was it anger or deep down rage, a terrible resentment that this woman, whoever she was, had been obliged to resort to this Lollipop thing to stand any chance of a sexual encounter? Because sure enough, she didn't stand much of a chance under any normal conditions. She was enough to make a stallion lose his steel - in an instant.
Well, it just confirmed again what a sad bunch of bastards came to a shit-hole like this. Total inadequates the lot of them. Not fit to lick his lallies. They were just so revolting…
And then there it was. At last: his bag! His bag had finally arrived. It was on the carousel, and getting nearer. And now it was in his reach.
He grabbed it. He just wanted to get away. Away from all those pimply little weirdoes - and away from that not so little frump - that oversized harridan who wasn't just ugly but scary as well. And now he was making for the exit - at double-quick pace. And so fast that he nearly bumped into two Lagooners, two straw-coloured shadows with their straw-coloured hair…
'The bastards,' he mumbled to himself. 'The filthy little bastards! Running a ship like this. A filthy ship with shit-filthy habits. And stacked to the gunnels with shit-filthy gits. Well, they've got it coming to them, and make no mistake. Just you wait. Just you wait and see what lill' ole Arnal's got in store for them. And how he can screw them all up and piss on their lives!'
He was really upset now. Baggage reclaim never improved his mood at the best of times. But when it was pervert-pervaded as well, there was bound to be trouble. Better to forget it as soon as he could. And especially that woman, the one with the face. Discard her like a wrapper and be done with her for good.
And soon he had. He'd put her from his mind completely.
Even though she hadn't put him from hers….
7.
Renton stood at the counter. An attractive young girl with a blueish complexion was facing him. Her crisp white tunic positively gleamed under the pharmacy's bright lights.
'How may I help you, sir?' she enquired smiling. 'What would you like?'
This was not a pair of trick questions. It was merely a standard opener to a little bit of pharmaceutical commerce, the sort that was transacted about a zillion times a day. But Renton was a bit edgy. And therefore easily confused.
'Ah… yes, errh yes, erhh yes, what would I like?'
The girl continued to smile.
'I'd like, I'd like…' Renton's edginess was now ballooning into panic. If he told her what he wanted, there was no way she'd not be suspicious. And if she challenged him, what the hell could he say?
'Tell you what,' offered the girl, 'let me try and guess. And when I'm there, you just nod your head.'
And without stopping to think, that's exactly what he did. He nodded his acceptance of this offer and the girl began to guess.
'Something for piles?'
Renton's eyes widened, but he didn't nod.
'Something for herpes?'
They widened a little more, but still he didn't nod.
'Something for a sore foreskin? We get a lot of that in here.'
This time, he actually shook his head from side to side - and his mouth opened slightly.
'Is it something colonic?'
Oh God, this was dreadful. He would have to re-engage - and he'd have to admit what he wanted - and just hope for the best.
'No, it's nothing like that. It's, it's… it's cameras. I want six cameras, six programmable cameras!'
There wasn't a flicker of surprise on the girl's face. Instead she just smiled again, albeit this time it was with a knowing smile.
'Of course, sir. And for how long would you like to hire them?'
'Hire them?'
'Yes sir, you don't have to buy them. I assume you only want them for while you're here.'
'Well yes, but…'
'And if you hire them for five nights, we do this special offer. And, of course, there's the full-exposure special offer as well.'
'What!'
'Yes, sir. For six cameras, it'd be 900 geedees - for the five-night deal. But if you choose the full-exposure deal, it'd be just half of that, just 450. And all you have to do is to let us have the pick of the snaps. And then, of course, let us publish them - just fo
r inboard circulation, you understand. And there's always a few worth publishing - even if you're not very good with a camera…'
'What, errh what,' ventured Renton, 'do you think I'm going to be doing with these cameras? What do you expect to see in the… errh, in the… errh, snaps?'
The assistant narrowed her eyes. She looked puzzled.
'Well, if you're anything like all the other people who hire our programmables, there'll be a lot of holo-pics of you doing it with any number of your fellow passengers - in every position you can think of, taken from every angle you can imagine… And there'll be lots of close ups. There's always lots of close ups.'
Renton gulped in more air than he needed and he nearly belched. But eventually he assembled an acknowledgement of the attentive attendant's revealing response.
'Ah,' he said, 'I see.'
'So, sir, will it be the full-exposure offer or just the normal offer?'
'Ah well…' he said, half laughing, 'I don't think I'd be quite up to publishing standards, ha, ha. So if it's OK with you, I think I'll just go with the normal deal. Then I won't feel quite so pressured.'
'Yes,' sparkled the girl, 'I completely understand. We have had a few let-downs, if you know what I mean. It's just the way it affects some people. And no point in spoiling the action, is there? After all, it's not what you're here for, is it?'
'No,' thought Renton, 'it's not what I'm here for at all. I'm here to find a woman with a tattooed tit - for which I need six cameras. And I thought that asking for six cameras might be a bit awkward. It might be seen as a bit strange, and it might raise some suspicion. But I should have known, shouldn't I? This is the Lollipop, isn't it? Where stocking up with any number of cameras raises not the slightest suspicion. No, all it does is lead to conversations with fresh-faced assistants about the put-down potential of publicised pics. How, by recording and then publicising what you get up to in a bedroom, you stand a very good chance of not getting up at all.'
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