"Shit," Tanabe said. It was all he needed to say. It included everything, from the indignity of being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, through the misery of his half-drunken state, to the fear that they had failed.
"What did they want the blood for?" Dekker asked.
"What the hell do you think? Drugs," Tanabe moaned. "If they find dope in your blood you're gone. Thank God all I had this weekend was booze; they don't count that. But shit."
"I think we probably passed," Dekker offered consolingly.
"How do you know that?" Tanabe demanded, anxious to believe but afraid.
"Because they didn't tell us we failed," Dekker said. "That's the way my father told me to look at it, and he's been right so far."
The whole class had had the same treatment. "Yes," Fez Mehdevi said sadly as they began to plumb the solid-state mysteries of their communications set, "they did it to me, too. It is not pleasant, this course."
"Well," Dekker said judiciously, the light of the morning illuminating the confusion of the night, "I guess it's not such a bad idea. Testing us like that, I mean. If we ever really had to do some kind of emergency repairs out in the field there'd be worse stresses than they gave us."
"I hope to my God I never have to," Mehdevi said prayerfully. "Now, what is one to do with this transponder?"
The week went well enough for Dekker, mostly. The only failing was Ven Kupferfeld. Dekker had no doubt that there had definitely been an invitation from the woman, in fact a promise. Yet every time he found a chance to come near her she seemed reasonably friendly though entirely busy with more important concerns.
It was probably, Dekker thought, just the way Earthie women were. It had no doubt been a mistake to think that she really had any interest in him. Because he was a Martian, perhaps? No, he decided, it wasn't that, at least not this time, anyway. Ven Kupferfeld didn't appear to have any prejudice against Martians. Whenever she did seem to have a private conversation with anyone else it was as likely as not to be that other Martian (though not very Martian, anymore), Jay-John Belster. The two of them spent what Dekker considered to be an excessive amount of time talking together, away from the rest of the class.
He took consolation in the fact that he was doing well otherwise. The communications sessions were as easy for him as he had expected, and, most important, he had survived Rosa McCune's pop psych test. Two members of the class had not. Whether it was drugs or simple failure to meet standards, they were gone.
Toro Tanabe did not seem consoled. He stayed in the dorm that Friday night, looking resentful and unhappy. He didn't spend his time studying, of course. That would have been too much of a change; but he retired to his room early. He stayed on campus all that day, too, but that night he approached Dekker gloomily. "I must ask a favor. I do not think I did well for myself this week," he announced.
"You didn't get washed out," Dekker pointed out.
"Yes, but there is a problem. I do not want to spend all of my weekend in this boring place, and I cannot afford to risk another—situation. I almost did not get back last Sunday, you know."
"I didn't know."
"Well, it is true. I had been drinking, and the taxi driver was not helpful in returning me to the dorm."
Dekker waited, aware that more was coming. It took Tanabe a moment to get to it. "What I would like," he said, sounding uncharacteristically apologetic, "is for you to accompany me to Danktown tomorrow. Just for the day. I did not think I should allow myself the entire weekend. Oh, do not worry about the money; I will pay the fare. I will even see that you get something to eat, even some drinks, if you wish. But I wish you to make certain that I am back by midnight at the latest. I may not wish to go, but you must insist. I think that what happened last Sunday night was a warning."
"What are you worried about? I thought with your grades you were in solid."
"Nothing," said Tanabe mournfully, "is 'solid' here. I sometimes wish I had listened to my father. Anyway, will you make sure I am on the last bus, if possible, or a taxi at least? Then let us get some sleep and make an early start."
Right after breakfast they took the bus down to the city, Tanabe paying both fares as promised, and Dekker discovered that Denver when you had money to spend—even someone else's money—was a whole other place than Denver when you didn't. Tanabe hailed a taxi, flashed his gold amulet, and gave the driver an address.
It was a church. Dekker stared up at the huge marble edifice as their taxi drew up before it. "I didn't know you were, well, a Christian," he said while Tanabe was paying the driver.
"Christian? Of course I am not a Christian," Tanabe said indignantly. "A church is an excellent place to meet women, and I have been told there are many attractive ones here." He checked his watch, then nodded in satisfaction. "The morning service will be ending now, and we will simply drink coffee and mingle."
Dekker had never been in a church before. He looked around curiously as they entered an anteroom banked with flowers. When he peered through the open double doors into the church itself he was fascinated to see nearly a hundred male and female Earthies, in their best clothes, standing around to drink coffee and chat with each other.
"Wait," Tanabe said. "Before we go in, we must conform to the mores of the community." He paused at a table in the hall and picked out plastic name badges. He handed one to Dekker. "Put 'Mars' after your name," he ordered, carefully lettering out his own.
"Why? They can see I'm a Martian, can't they?"
"Remind them," Tanabe advised. "I am told that people in churches like foreigners. If we are lucky we may have to beat the women off with a stick."
But it didn't happen that way. There were plenty of Earthie women in the church, but not many of them very young and none who seemed interested in anything beyond a comment on the weather. After his second polite rebuff, Tanabe had an idea. "Watch what I do," he ordered, and went up to a man in flowing robes. "I would like to make a contribution to your church," he said, Dekker interestedly close behind.
"That's very kind of you, Mr.—Tanabe," the minister said, peering at Toro's badge.
"Quite a large one, perhaps," Tanabe added, glancing around to be sure he was observed. Indeed, a good-looking woman standing near the minister was nodding approvingly.
"Wonderful," the minister said. "Elsie? Will you show Mr. Tanabe to the collections register?" And the woman came smiling forward to lead Tanabe—who gave Dekker a complacent wink as he departed—to donate his money. But he was back in five minutes, looking ruffled.
"That cost me twenty cues, and the woman is married to the priest!" he complained to Dekker. "That is scandalous, isn't it? I thought priests did not marry."
"Some do, I guess," Dekker said consolingly.
Tanabe scowled. "This is not a success. I think it may be because you are with me. Perhaps they do not like all foreigners equally, after all. Come, let us get out of this place. At least we can get something to eat."
So, sulkily, Tanabe took Dekker to a downtown hotel for what he called "brunch." That was a whole new experience for Dekker, too. The hotel lobby was more like a cathedral than the church they had just left, and the restaurant almost as ornate. And the food!—Dekker had never seen anything like the counters loaded with hot pots and trays of fruits, crisp salads, pastries, breads of all descriptions. The closest he had ever come was at breakfast on the Ngemba farm or in that dim childhood memory of Annetta Cauchy's party in Sunpoint City, when the first comet struck—but this was a hundred times more opulent than either.
Not, however, more successful for Toro Tanabe. Here, too, all the potentially interesting women seemed to be with men they found interesting. The few who were breakfasting alone or with other women did not respond to Tanabe's overtures.
He was scowling again when he returned to where Dekker was experimentally trying out his first eggs Benedict. "Tell me, DeWoe," he said, "have you had success with women here on Earth?"
"Some," Dekker said, thinking of Sheila i
n the Masai hut.
"No, that Cresti Amman does not count," Tanabe said, obviously having misread that situation. "After all, she was a Martian, too, wasn't she?" He peered at Dekker's plate, and added, "That looks good. Get me some."
If there was anything Dekker DeWoe had learned on Earth, it was that the person who paid out the cues was the person who gave the orders. He didn't particularly mind, but by the time he got back to the table with Tanabe's own order of eggs Benedict his were cold and Tanabe was staring at his pocket screen angrily.
"What's the matter?" Dekker asked.
Tanabe, with his mouth full of poached eggs and sauce, said, "I have lost on the lottery again. It is nothing."
Dekker laughed. "That's the point of a lottery, isn't it? So practically everybody loses?"
"Don't you gamble on Mars?"
"No. Not much, anyway, and not lotteries. Some of the old people play cards."
"No, no. Really gamble. So that if you hit a winner you get really rich."
Dekker tried not to laugh anymore. "If a Martian got rich," he explained, "what would he spend the money on?"
"Why—luxuries! Things from Earth!"
Dekker shook his head. It was too much trouble to explain that no Martian lottery was likely to pay off in Earth cues, and if it did no Martian really wanted to give Earth any more money than was essential to survival. "How do you do it?" he asked, more out of politeness than interest, and then regretted it. Because Toro Tanabe explained in great detail. There was a lottery every week, he informed Dekker; you picked ten numbers from zero to ninety-nine, and then there would be a drawing and if you got all ten right you would win billions.
"You mean really billions?" Dekker asked, impressed.
"Well—if you don't have to share it, anyway," the Japanese conceded. "Sometimes a lot of people get the same winning numbers, and then you have to divide the profits with them. But I have a system. See, all numbers have the same chance of winning, but the payoff is bigger on some than it is on others."
Dekker frowned. "Why?"
"Because," Tanabe explained, happy to show his superior insights, "a lot of people bet particular numbers. Their birthday. Or their girlfriend's birthday, or their anniversary. But very often the numbers they pick will be from dates, and so there's a heavy play on one through twelve for the months, and one through thirty-one, for the days. Then a lot of people like to bet on numbers with a seven in them—they think seven is a lucky number—and a lot who like double numbers, especially seventy-seven, and then you always get a big play on the sexy numbers, like sixty-nine." He paused to wipe some sauce off his pocketscreen and began chewing again.
"What's sexy about the number sixty-nine?" Dekker asked, curious.
The Japanese looked at him. Then he shook his head. "Never mind, DeWoe. But that's part of my system: I stay off the heavily played numbers. So my chances of winning are just as good with my numbers as anybody else's—you can sum up the chances—"
He hit keys, and the screen displayed a series of fractions:
1/16 x 1/11 x 4/49 x 7/97 x 1/16 x 1/19 x 2/47 x 1/31 x 1/46 x 1/91 = .000,000,000,000,057,142
"That's the chance of any random ten numbers winning—about six in a hundred trillion or so. But if you play the same numbers as other people do you have to split the prize too many ways." He fixed Dekker with a look. "I don't like to split," he said.
Dekker tried not to pass judgment. He only said, "I thought you were rich already, Tanabe."
"But I am, of course."
"Then why—?"
Tanabe was laughing at him now. "Oh, DeWoe," he wheezed, "you Martians are so quaint. There is no such thing as enough money, don't you know that?" And then, sobering, "In any case, nothing is sure. The market is fickle, DeWoe. Many people who were as rich as we are are now as poor as—as a Martian, even. Almost. It is true that my father has rid himself of most of his Oort securities, but who knows if even the farm habitats will succeed?"
"Unless they get a comet," Dekker suggested.
"Or even if they do get a comet. They are an untried technology, and who knows what might go wrong? But, Dekker, please, remember that what I said to you was indiscreet. It is a confidence."
"Who would I tell?"
"No one, I hope." Tanabe gazed sadly at the empty plates before him, then around the room. He brightened. "Ah, some new women have arrived. Let me see if luck is in."
But it wasn't, and when he came back he said, "This place is not useful, either, and if I am going to have female company I do not want to waste any more time. I am leaving."
"All right," Dekker said. "Where are we going next?"
Tanabe shook his head. "We aren't going anywhere. I am going alone. I do not have time to play these games with these annoying American women this weekend, so I guess I'll have to pay for it," he said sulkily, "and I'm not paying for you."
"Pay for what?" Dekker asked, who had never imagined that prostitution existed outside of a Masai village. He stared incredulously as Tanabe explained.
"So you find something to do for a few hours," Tanabe finished. "Go to a museum or something, if you like. Then meet me where I will be having dinner—it is called Turly's, down on the Strip; that's where some of the people from the base will be. It's a salaryman sort of place," he said, with a faint lip curl, "but the Americans like that kind of thing. And we'll have a few drinks, and then you can take me back."
So there was Dekker, alone again in Danktown.
He was under no obligations to follow Tanabe's orders, of course. Also of course, he had no more attractive ideas. He knew no one in Denver—not counting Marcus, that was. For a moment he thought of trying to find the tutor, if only to talk to the only other person anywhere near who had ever known his father. But there was nothing appealing about seeing Marcus.
There was also the question of money.
Dekker's slim savings from his stipend would not carry him very far in the big city. When, for lack of a better idea, he did as Tanabe had ordered, he found that even museums weren't free. Just to enter the art museum and the planetarium cost more than he wanted to spend from his slender credit line. Still, he comforted himself, he need not worry about buying meals. He still had a full stomach from the lavish brunch. And promised himself dinner would be even more lavish.
And tried not to think of the sexual adventures Tanabe would be having while he himself was gazing at centuries-old paintings.
The planetarium was nice, though the exhibits of Mars were sadly out of date, and the modern-art museums, if not attractive, were certainly curious. After the last display of interactive holo art Dekker had a severe case of museum feet. Or legs—or, actually, museum body, all of it, because everything from the midriff to his toes was complaining about the extra work he had given it.
He sat in a square, puzzling over a map of the city of Denver. He squinted at the sky, trying to decide which way was north, but there was not much there to help him. The sun was out of sight behind clouds. Under the clouds there was a steady procession of cargo-carrying heli-blimps, sliding down toward the port of Denver, dodging among the thickening clouds; that was some help, because he found the port on the map.
So to get to the place where he was to join Tanabe he would have to go north from here, he concluded; and, yes, there seemed to be a bus line that went in the right direction to find the "salaryman" place—whatever a salaryman place was—where he would meet Toro Tanabe.
It was early, of course. But it wasn't a lot of fun to be sitting there. He tried to interest himself in the nonhuman fauna of Earth, like the insects—there weren't any insects flying around on Mars, and who knew which ones were likely to bite?—and the pigeons. He tossed the pigeons some crumbs from the roll he had filched at the brunch, and then regretted it. He was definitely getting hungry.
Dekker stared at the traffic around the square. It was a weekend, wasn't it? So why were all these people driving these hydrocars around, with a plume of steam coming out of each exhaust? Didn'
t Earthies ever walk? Or stay home? The exhausts were saturating the air, he thought . . .
And then perceived that—oh, God yes, of course—the moisture that was dampening his clothing was no longer just the vehicle exhausts that justified Danktown's name. It had begun to rain again.
Earthie buses didn't ever seem to go just where they were pledged to go. It took a change, and a long ride in a second bus, and then the stop was blocks from Turly's, the rain still coming down. By the time Dekker finally reached the restaurant he was both drenched and late.
"Why couldn't you get here on time?" Tanabe grumbled, looking around irritably when Dekker touched his shoulder. "We've already eaten almost everything we ordered. I don't know if anything's left, but you can see what you can find." He started to turn back to the dark-skinned Earthie man he was talking to, then thought of another complaint to make to Dekker. He said accusingly, "Why are you so wet? You should have bought yourself a raincoat, or at least an umbrella."
"Sorry," Dekker said flatly, meaning to say that he had not really got used to a planet where sometimes it was blisteringly hot enough to make a Martian sweat, and often freezingly cold enough to make you wish for furred boots and gloves, and all too often wet. Whoever thought of supplying himself with so many different kinds of clothing?
Tanabe blinked at his tone, then shrugged. "Sit down somewhere," he said testily. "I suppose you know everybody here."
"No, I don't," Dekker said, but Tanabe had already returned his attention to the dark-skinned man. The man was from the class ahead of their own, and Dekker vaguely recalled that he came from somewhere in Africa—not Kenya, which at least would have given Dekker something to talk to him about, but from some other African place called something like Upper Volta. Anyway, it appeared that the two of them were busy comparing notes on their sexual adventures of the afternoon, in which Dekker could not compete.
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