Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  Laughter and raucous music assaulted their ears. They stepped out into the middle of a party for the usual assortment of portly patrons and what had to be the only slender inhabitants of Falstaff. The svelte shapeliness was real, too, obviously—since they were wearing as little as possible.

  “Must be later than I thought,” Sam observed.

  “No, it's always like this,” Father Marco answered. “Come now, let's see if we can't find a quiet place to meditate.”

  Personally, Dar had all he wanted to meditate on right there; but Father Marco was slipping quietly along the wall toward the stairway, and Whitey was pushing from behind, so he followed suit.

  “Marco!”

  The priest turned just as a bosomy beldam smacked into him, lips first. She leaned back, holding him by the shoulders and laughing. “You old scoundrel, what brings you here? Interested in our services, for a change?”

  “In a way, Tessie, in a way.” Father Marco gave the madam an affectionate squeeze—on the hand. “Just looking for a place to relax and chat with a few friends, where there's a little less noise than the average tavern.”

  Tessie sighed and shook her head. “What a waste of a good man! And here I was getting my hopes up. I really ought to be angry with you, y'know.” She gave him a coquettish flicker of eyelashes.

  “Because of Rosamund, eh?” Father Marco spread his arms. “There's no help for it, Tessie. I have to do my job, even as you have to do yours.”

  “Yes, and usually it's all well and good—the girls get remorseful for a few days, and when they get back to work, they've got a certain freshness about them. But getting one of them to kick the trade completely? Now, don't you think that's going a bit too far?” She emphasized the point with a few strokes on his arm.

  Father Marco gently disengaged her hand. “No, from my point of few, it's just enough. Where is she now, do you know?”

  Tessie shrugged. “Hopped an outbound liner, that's all I can say. None of us are natives, Father.”

  “Father?”

  “It's Father Marco!”

  In a second, they were surrounded by a bevy of shapely no-longer-maidens with very long fingers. Dar thought of checking his wallet, but he was having too much fun being frisked.

  The hands were all over the priest, coming on faster than he could take them off.

  “Oh, Father, I'm so glad to see you!”

  “Have I got a lot to tell you!”

  “Oh, Father, it's so horrible. I tried and I tried to resist, but . . .”

  “Yes, girls, I understand. Patience, patience; if I can't talk with each of you today, I'll come back another time.”

  “You aren't a priest's apprentice, are you?” A beautiful redhead straightened Dar's tunic with a lingering touch.

  “Well, no, not really. I am interested in virtue, though.”

  “So am I,” she cooed, “it's such a wonderful conversation topic.”

  Dar felt a stroke along his buttocks, and just barely managed to keep from jumping. A blond head poked over his shoulder and murmured, “Any friend of Father's is a friend of mine.”

  “Well, I am the friendly type. . . .”

  There were at least five of them, all very good with innuendo, verbal and otherwise. It would've been great if they'd come one at a time; as it was, Dar was beginning to feel a little like a pound of ground sirloin at a hamburger sale.

  Not that he was complaining . . .

  A rippling chord filled the room. Everyone looked up, startled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Whitey was standing on a chair, with Lona beside him, perched on a table. “For your entertainment and delectation—the ‘Ballad of Gresham's Law'!”

  An incredulous mutter ran through the room—especially from the zoftig patrons, who were all in the bracket that knows some economics.

  The rippling chord stilled them again, and Whitey and Lona began to sing:

  “When the upright ladies come to town.

  Right away they gather 'round

  To form a club, and then decide

  Who is out, and who's inside.”

  There was a tap on Dar's shoulder, and Father Marco murmured, “I hate to distract you from what looks to be a rare event, but we do have other matters to consider.”

  With a jolt, Dar remembered an electroclub swinging down at him. “Uh, yeah. We are in kind of a rush, aren't we?” He sidled through his circle of admirers. “Excuse me, ladies. I'm on call.”

  They made politely distressed noises, and turned back to Whitey and Lona eagerly. Whatever the song was, it seemed to strike a chord with them.

  It seemed to be making an analogy between economics and sexual relations, but reversing what was usually understood to be a “good” woman versus a “bad.”

  “Look at the coin in which you pay,

  The wages of a working day.

  Compare it to the ‘honest' bill

  Of lifelong toil and thwarted will.”

  The patrons cheered, and the girls' faces turned very thoughtful. It occurred to Dar that Whitey might be accomplishing the same task Father Marco was trying, though by very different methods.

  “. . . but it is pretty urgent,” Father Marco was explaining to Tessie.

  She held up a palm and shook her head. “Don't explain, Father; I might be pegged for an accomplice. Besides, I've had to leave a place in something of a hurry myself, on occasion. Bring your people here.” She beckoned.

  They followed her around through a darkened salon. There was a squeal and a muffled curse. “As you were,” Tessie ordered crisply, eyes resolutely fixed straight forward. Dar followed her example, though he was burning to look over his shoulder and make sure Sam was safely following. He felt like Orpheus on the return trip.

  They turned left into what was either a small room or a very large closet—probably the latter; the walls were lined with racks of evening clothes, cut for small elephants.

  “Sometimes our, ah, clients, find it advisable to leave in a different set of clothes than the one they wore on the way in,” Tessie explained. “We've gathered quite a stock, over the years. Of course, you'll all need some padding, but we're not exactly short on pillows here. Let's see, now—this one ought to fit you, Father, and this one'll do for your young friend, here. . . .”

  Half an hour later, swathed in evening clothes and padded out to the equator, they filed out of Madam Tessie's like a flock of pregnant penguins.

  “Well, you can't deny they were hospitable,” Dar said through a dazed but happy smile.

  “I don't particularly care for that sort of hospitality.” Sam was fuming.

  Dar glanced at her, and couldn't help feeling gratified. Yesterday he would've felt downright hopeful. Today, though, he was primarily concerned with Lona, who was, unfortunately, taking it all in stride.

  “They even offered me a job,” she noted.

  Sam hadn't been asked. “Is that's what's bothering you?” Dar could at least make it sound as though she had.

  “No,” Sam snapped. “What bothered me was that whole scene in the tavern.”

  Whitey shrugged. “A brawl is a brawl—and you can't blame the cops; squelching that kind of thing is their job.”

  “Yeah, but they don't have to gang up three-on-one.” Dar frowned, remembering. “Especially since I was losing.”

  “No, that isn't standard.” Whitey frowned, too. Then he shrugged. “Anyway, I had a good time.”

  “I didn't,” Sam said stiffly. “I recognized the chock who led the cops in—and he wasn't in uniform.”

  “Oh?” Dar looked up. “Anyone I know?”

  “You might say that. He had a face like a rat.”

  “A rat! What's he doing here . . . ? Oh.” Dar pursed his lips. “We never did see who was piloting our courier ship, did we?”

  “We didn't,” Sam confirmed. “I wondered why he took off and left us to the pirates, remember?”

  “If you don't mind my asking,” Father Marco put in, “What's this all abou
t?”

  “Our nemesis, at a guess,” Sam said slowly. “We thought we'd left him back on Wolmar, with the rest of Governor Bhelabher's staff. At least, Terra sent Bhelabher out to take over the governorship; but he, ah, wound up resigning. We got the assignment of taking his resignation back to Terra.”

  “And we thought we were the only ones who left,” Dar explained. “But apparently Bhelabher had a change of heart, and sent his right-hand man along to stop us.”

  “No, it wasn't Bhelabher.” Sam shook her head. “If he'd changed his mind, all his sidekick would've had to do is order us to hand back that resignation form—or even to hand in a counter-letter from Bhelabher.”

  “You mean Rat-Face is doing this all on his own?”

  “I wouldn't say that,” Sam said slowly. “He is a career bureaucrat in the Bureau of Otherworldly Activities, remember. Chances are he's doing what his superiors in BOA want done.”

  “A man with a face like a rat, in the BOA bureaucracy?” Father Marco asked. He was frowning.

  Dar nodded. “That's him. But why would he be trying to kill us?”

  “Kill you?”

  Sam shook her head. “There were two cops after me, but the worst thing they had was a hypodermic bulb.”

  “A hypo?” Dar looked up sharply. “They were trying to put you out and take you in?”

  Sam nodded. “That's the way it looked. But it doesn't make sense. There were two of them, and they were a lot bigger than I was. Why'd they have needed a hypo?”

  “And why'd their buddies be trying to put me out completely? I could swear their intentions weren't toward prolonging my life.”

  “Could be you're paranoid,” Lona suggested.

  “No doubt; but in this case, I think it doesn't matter. And I don't quite agree with your reading of it, Sam—one of them was trying a blade on you.” He touched the bandage that Tessie had thoughtfully taped over his wound.

  “No, I'm afraid you're both right.” Father Marco was definitely brooding. “After all, if you think someone's a threat, and you can't capture them, what's the logical thing to do?”

  “But why would they think I'm dangerous?” Sam wailed. “I don't have the papers!”

  Lona was looking very interested.

  “A fascinating episode,” Whitey mused, “especially since I do believe I see some uniforms approaching.”

  All heads snapped up, and noticed the strolling pair who had just turned the corner.

  “Just keep walking,” Father Marco's iron tone advised, and Dar soothed his body's impulse to jump into flight.

  “ ’Course, it's been a while since I did this . . .” Whitey offered, and Lona coughed, “. . . but I do notice there's some sort of arcade just a few feet down, on our left. Might make a handy bolthole.”

  “Ideal,” Father Marco breathed. “Shall we, gentlefolk?”

  They nonchalantly turned into the cavelike coolness of the arcade. Its long concourse stretched away before them, lined with shops on both sides.

  “Last time you did this, Grandfather, you split us up into small groups,” Lona reminded.

  “A good point,” Father Marco agreed. “No doubt they counted noses after that tavern brawl, and came to the conclusion we'd all gone off together.”

  “Well . . .” Dar caught a door-handle and swung it open. “. . . see ya 'round, folks.”

  Sam stepped through the door before he could close it; the rest went on their way, and his team was back to its original components.

  They moved down a short aisle, surrounded by skeins of yarn, squares of stiff netting, and racks of patterns. “What is all this stuff?” Dar whispered.

  “Knitting, crocheting, things like that—age-old hobbies,” Sam whispered back. “Ever try needlepoint?”

  Dar was about to answer with a pointed remark of his own, when the proprietor popped up behind the counter at the end of the aisle, grossly fat, with the face of an aging cherub and a fringe of puffy white hair around a bald dome. “Something you'd . . . like, gentlefolk?”

  “Just browsing,” Dar said quickly. “Interesting collection you've got here.”

  “Oh yes, I try to keep it up-to-date. Had some fascinating patterns come in last week, from Samia.”

  “Samia?” Dar wondered, but another customer approached before the storekeeper could answer. “Ah there, Kontak! Is my order in?”

  “Just an hour ago,” Kontak grinned. He laid a slender parcel in plain brown wrap on the counter. “Sixty spikes, five brads, Grazh Danko.”

  “Samia?” Dar whispered to Sam. “Isn't that the pleasure-planet? You know, ‘wrap up all your cares and clothes, and do whatever's legal'?”

  Sam nodded, her eyes on the brown parcel. “And there isn't much that's illegal, except murder. I understand they don't even look too closely at that, provided the victim isn't a tourist. I think I'd like a look at the next shop.”

  “But this is just getting interesting,” Dar protested as Sam hustled him toward the door.

  “Maybe too interesting.” She kept her voice low as the door closed behind them. “That was a porno shop. And did you catch the prices? For a pack of sleazy pictures? I have a sneaking suspicion we're in the middle of what they euphemistically call an ‘organic market.’ ”

  “One that charges whatever the traffic will bear?” Dar looked around him. “These innocent little shops? Illegal goods?”

  “And services,” Sam reminded. They went into a confectionary. The patron at the end of the counter was thumbing through a menu that seemed to be mostly bodies, while the proprietor was helping an obese, surly patron strike up an acquaintance with a slender sweet young thing. They turned around and went back out.

  So it went, for the length of the arcade. Finally, in the office of the Legal Aid Society, which kept a neat list of judges, cases, and the aid the judges required to help them make up their minds about the cases, Dar exploded. “Is there anything that isn't for sale?”

  “Haven't found anything, myself,” a customer answered cheerfully, not noticing Sam's frantic shushing motions. “Of course, some commodities can't be had for cash just yet; but I understand they're working on them.”

  “I suppose I'm naive,” Dar said slowly, “but I thought the law was supposed to help make people equal, not uphold the one who can pay the most.”

  The customer winced. “Please, young man! We must be patient with the follies of youth—but that remark was so distinctly political that I can't ignore it!”

  “Don't offend the gentleman,” the proprietor growled, an ugly glint in his piggy little eye.

  “That was political?” Dar stared. While he was staring, Sam grabbed his arm and hustled him out the door. By the time he recovered enough to resist, he was in the street. Then he managed to get his mouth moving again. “Political? Speculating about the purpose of law is political?”

  “Of course, when you say things such as ‘equal,’ ” Sam explained. “You really must do something about that death wish of yours.”

  “Why?” Dar shrugged her hand off. “It puts me in phase with this whole planet!”

  “Just because people don't talk politics, doesn't mean they're moribund,” Sam hissed.

  “No, but it means their society is! They don't even care about the law any more! Don't they realize that's what keeps a society from falling apart?”

  “Oh. You're one of these people who believes that law prevents revolutions, huh?”

  “Sure, by making sure no one's too badly oppressed.”

  “Sin?”

  Dar looked up, startled; but it was just a portly passerby, chatting with a waddling clergyman. “Sin? Come now, Reverend! What a medieval idea!”

  “It'll always be current, I'm afraid,” the minister rejoined, “and even fashionable—though rarely as a conversational topic.”

  “It does lend a certain sauce to pleasure,” the passerby admitted. “And, after all, the really important element in life is getting what you want—the things that make you happy.”


  “Of course, of course,” the clergyman agreed. “Take heaven, for example. . . .”

  The passerby was laughing as they passed out of hearing.

  Dar shook his head. “I don't think the revolution'll wait a hundred years.”

  “You think this is bad?” Sam scoffed. “Just wait till you get to Terra!”

  “I can wait, thank you. I'm beginning to see why you liked Wolmar so much. You know, this pretty little market couldn't be here unless the police were helping it a lot.”

  “Of course,” Sam said brightly. “But be fair—they might not have enough officers to cover everything.”

  “Yeah, but which is it?” Dar muttered. He glanced up and saw a blimp of a shopkeeper leaning against his storefront. Dar stepped up to him, pointing an accusing finger and snapping, “Which is it, citizen? How can you get away with this? Don't you have any police here?”

  “Sir!” The shopkeeper drew himself up, offended. “I'll thank you not to discuss such disgusting issues!” And he wheeled about majestically, slamming his door behind him.

  “I'm not so squeamish,” said an oily voice.

  Dar and Sam looked up and saw a hunched old man with a lascivious grin, peering out from the shop next door. He was obscenely slender. “What's your perversion, younglings? Plato? Descartes? Machiavelli? I've got 'em all in here, all the banned books! Come in and read anything—just fifty BTUs an hour!”

  “Let's go,” Sam hissed. “I don't like the way your jaw is setting!”

  “All right, all right,” Dar growled. He turned away toward the end of the arcade, and bumped into someone. “Oh, excuse me . . .” He broke off, staring into a face like a rat's above a short, lean body.

  The little man stared back at him, eyes widening in shock and horror. Then his mouth opened in a moan that turned into a scream, and he slumped to the ground, clutching his chest.

  “What happened?” Dar bleated, staring at the bright redness spreading over the man's tunic from under his hands.

  “Murder, I'd say.”