Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (4 page)

They rode in silence past a pair of lingerie shops, (one expensive and tasteful, one expensive and wildly exotic), a hair styling salon, a very discreet shop that sold very discreet sexual aids, a florist with the too-cute sobriquet of The Blooming Idiot, a dealer in alien art objects, a store that seemed to deal exclusively in fur wraps and feathered boas, and a jeweler of galactic renown.

“I think I've seen enough,” remarked Redwine, stepping off the slidewalk and onto the polished parquet floor.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Leather Madonna.

“No,” he said. “But I'm supposed to be inspecting the premises, not window-shopping. I don't imagine the ambience changes much in the next mile.”

“No, it doesn't,” she agreed. “But there's something that I want you to see.”

“Oh?” he said, as she took his hand and gently pulled him back onto the slidewalk. “What is it?”

“That would be telling.”

“Well, what the hell,” he said. “I had planned to do a little shopping anyway.”

“I gather you have a little more to spend than you did yesterday,” she noted. “Or so the Duke tells me.”

“The Duke?".

“Our pit boss. He says that you have a very complicated wagering system.”

He chuckled.
"Very
complicated. I watch the roulette table until red comes up five times in a row, and then I bet on black.”

“Very
effective,"
she replied. “Or at least it was last night.”

“That's because I know enough to quit when I'm ahead.” He flashed her a grin. “The soul of an accountant.”

“What made you become an accountant?” she asked as they barely avoided colliding with an elderly woman who was emerging from a jewelry shop.

“It took less work than being a lawyer.”

“That hardly sounds like a man who is passionately dedicated to his work,” said the Madonna.

“I'm passionately dedicated to paying my bills. Accounting is the best way I know how.”

“Is there much challenge to it?”

“Some,” he replied. “Not much.” He paused. “I trust you're noticing the tact with which I have avoided asking you the very same questions.”

“It must be quite a strain.”

“It is,” he confessed.

She laughed. “Some evening we'll sit down with a couple of drinks and I'll tell you all about it.”

“I'm sure it'll make better listening than the story of my career.”

“We'll see,” she promised. Then she looked ahead of her. “Ah! We're almost there.”

They stepped off a moment later, and she led him to an elegant little antique shop that displayed an ancient spinet in its window.

“Another chess table?” he asked, following her inside.

“No. There's only one of those.”

“Then what?”

“Come along,” she said. “You'll see.”

They went to the back of the shop, and suddenly Redwine found himself confronting a huge bookcase, filled from top to bottom with leather-bound volumes from Earth itself.

He stepped forward and reached out gingerly. “May I?” he asked.

The Leather Madonna nodded. “Of course.

They're what I brought you here to see.”

He pulled out a copy of Shakespeare's
Sonnets
and began turning the pages very carefully.

“I got the impression from Suma that she'd never seen a book aboard the
Comet,"
he remarked.

“Suma has probably never made it past the dress shops,” said the Madonna. “But when she mentioned to me that you had brought some books along with you, I knew that I had to take you here.”

“Do you collect books too?” he asked her, replacing the volume and withdrawing another.

“Let's say that I
prefer
them.”

“I'm not quite sure of the difference,” said Redwine.

“I like the
feel
of a book in my hands,” explained the Madonna. “However, since books are very expensive and I can call up anything I need from the computer's library, I don't actually own very many. But I come here and borrow them quite frequently.”

“I'm surprised the owner allows them out of his sight,” said Redwine.

“The owner only gets up here once every two or three weeks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He's a very nice man,” she said. “I arrange for him to use our facilities on occasion, and he lets me borrow books and keeps an eye out for certain antiques that I want. It's one of the perks that go with the job. With
both
our jobs, for that matter.”

“Sounds like an equitable arrangement,” remarked Redwine. “Who's your favorite author?”

“Tanblixt.”

“I've never heard of him. Or is it a her?”

“I doubt that even Tanblixt knows,” she said, amused.

“An
alien?"

She nodded. “The poet laureate of Canphor VI.”

“What does he/she/it write?”

“The most passionate and lyrical poetry I've ever read.”

“Sexless love poems?” he said dubiously.

“Your provincialism is showing, Harry,” she said.

“Perhaps I'll loan you a copy.”

“I'd appreciate it. I don't suppose they have any here?” he said, indicating the rows of books.

She shook her head. “These are all human authors.”

He went back to examining the books, finally withdrew a copy of Dante's
Inferno
that contained replications of the Gustave Doré engravings, took it up to the front of the store, and had the computer withdraw the purchase price from his home account. He then laid it very gently on a wrapping machine, waited a few seconds for the mechanism to encase it in colorful plastic and affix a satin bow at one corner, and then joined the Leather Madonna, who was waiting at the door for him.

“Pleased with your purchase?” she asked him.

“Very. I've been after a copy for maybe six or seven years.”

“How many books do you have, Harry?”

“Oh, maybe five hundred,” he said. “But fine volumes in fine bindings? Very few. That store's a treasure chest.”

“I guess I know where you're going to be spending your spare time,” said the Madonna.

“Only as a browser. I think one of these every couple of weeks is about all my budget can stand.”

“I find it odd that an accountant should be so interested in the classics.”

“I find it equally odd that a madam should be so interested in love poems.”

“There's a lot of difference between sex and love.”

“I suppose there is at that,” he conceded.

She began walking across the parquet floor toward the return slidewalk, skirting two men and three women who were standing and talking midway between the slidewalks, and he fell into step behind her, studying the curve of her hips and the firmness of her buttocks and concluding that she probably still had what it took to entice a customer if the need arose.

“That large structure down toward the other end of the Mall—toward the Home,” he said, pointing.

“Is that where the most of the ships dock?”

She nodded. “That's the main airlock.”

“They really
do
have to exercise sales resistance on the way to the Resort, don't they?”

“And on their way back out,” she added.

“And what's on the other side of the airlock?”

“Storage rooms, food freezers, laundry facilities, a small hospital, things of that nature.”

“A hospital?” he repeated, surprised. “Just how many sick people
are
there around here?”

“Very few. But given the nature of our clientele, if they
should
become ill they require the finest medical care available until they can be moved.”

“By the way,” he said, as the Leather Madonna nodded a friendly greeting to a nearby couple, “I thought I saw a shuttlecraft leaving the
Comet
as I was approaching yesterday. I assume you use it to transport patrons from Charlemagne?”

“That's right—though Charlemagne provides us with no more than fifteen percent of our business these days. If we could install some form of FTL motive power in the
Comet
, so that we weren't stuck in orbit around Charlemagne, I think we could encourage a real bidding war for our services.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye for a reaction.

“Deluros to the contrary, most Republic worlds would pay through the nose if we'd agree to take up orbit around them.”

“It's a thought,” he said noncommittally.

“If the Syndicate would spring loose the money to take us away from Charlemagne, it would be
more
than a thought,” she persisted. “It would be a very profitable reality.”

He smiled. “I don't know how much clout you think I've got, but I have a feeling you're overestimating it.”

“I guess so,” she said. “Anyway, it
would
work,” she concluded stubbornly.

“Probably.” He stepped off the slidewalk.

“What's the matter?” she asked, following him.

“ I just want to stop here for a minute,” he said, entering a surprisingly crowded tobacco shop. “I'm running short of cigars.”

He made his purchase while she remained outside, then rejoined her.

“I may go broke before the tour is over,” he remarked, transferring the cigar box to the same hand that was holding the book.

“It's a nasty habit anyway,” she commented as they once again got on the sidewalk.

“It's nasty habits that keep most people in business.”

“Then how fortunate it is for me that there are so many people like you,” she said with a smile.

He laughed and they fell to discussing books again until he saw an elderly couple going into a furrier that specialized in the skins of alien animals.

“Which one of
them
is the prostitute?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Neither,” answered the Madonna. “They're a married couple from one of the Capellan colonies. I think they made their money in mining. Anyway, they come here once every three months, shop their way up to the reception foyer, part company for a week, and then shop their way back to their ship.” She looked fondly at them through the display window, and smiled when the man waved to her. “I think they're adorable.”

“Unusual, anyway,” said Redwine.

They rode the short distance to the ornate reception foyer, which was relatively uncrowded. Two men and five women, none of them employees, sat in large, comfortable leather chairs, reading the latest stock quotations from the main Republic markets on a number of small computer screens, and a handful of other patrons and prostitutes sat in pairs, conversing quietly.

“How do you spot gate-crashers when this place is packed?” asked Redwine.

“They never get this far,” replied the Leather Madonna.

“Except for the casino, all the financial arrangements are taken care of before our patrons arrive.

Once the payment has been transferred to our account, each patron is given a code number, and he can't get through the airlock until our security crew clears him.”

“Seems like a waste of manpower,” commented Redwine. “Couldn't a computer check them out just as easily?”

“Yes—but a computer couldn't stop them from entering without sealing off the entrance and causing serious inconvenience to any legitimate patrons who happen to be in the airlock at the same time. Why chance offending a good customer by forcing him to remain there against his will until the problem is solved?”

“Yeah, I can see where that might ruffle a few overanxious feathers.”

“Anyway, after a patron has been identified and approved, he or she comes to the reception area and is given a suite, just as you were, and if any arrangements were made in advance, a preselected companion is waiting in the bedroom.”

“Is that standard—reserving a companion before arriving?”

She shrugged. “It varies. Some of our more popular employees, such as Suma and the Gemini Twins and a few others, are frequently booked four and five months in advance.”

“The Gemini Twins?” he repeated. “I heard you refer to them yesterday. I keep picturing a pair of gorgeous young blondes decked out in very revealing togas.”

The Leather Madonna laughed. “The Gemini Twins are a pair of young men who have been surgically altered to appear identical. They work only as a team.”

“Are there many requests for multiple companions?”

“Quite a few. Our customers are very sophisticated people with very sophisticated tastes, and by and large they're here for a unique experience—which we do our best to provide.”

“I assume you charge proportionately more for extra bodies.”

“Extra
companions,
Harry,” she corrected him with obviously mock severity. “Yes, we do.”

“Do you get many requests for full-scale orgies?”

“Of course. In fact, we have a specialty group that we call the Demolition Team.”

He laughed. “That's a hell of a name for them.”

“They received it from the Governor of Belore's granddaughter—and I might add that she coined it with a
great
deal of respect.”

“I don't doubt it,” replied Redwine, amused. He paused to light a cigar. “Demolition Team, Gemini Twins, Duke, Madonna. Does anyone around here ever use their real name?”

“Very rarely. Our customers seem to prefer it. It lends a certain air of mystery, a little touch of the exotic.”

“And of course not knowing names makes it a lot harder for a patron to try to form a permanent relationship,” added Redwine.

“Harry, I think you're a secret romantic,” said the Leather Madonna. “People don't come to a brothel to form permanent relationships.”

“Nobody's ever tried to get one of your prostitutes to run off with him?” he persisted.

“I take it that you haven't read our employment contract?”

“I'll bet it's a beauty.”

“The best.”

“Getting back to your customers —”

"Patrons,"
she corrected him.

“Excuse me: patrons. What if they
haven't
made a prior arrangement?”

“Then they go to their suites, and at such time as they feel like selecting a companion they instruct the computer to produce holographic displays of all of our available employees as well as a list of their interests.”

“You mean their specialties?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You're still thinking of this as some kind of planetbound meat shop, Harry. People come up here to unwind and relax, and sooner or later—usually sooner—they will want a personable partner as well as a passionate one. All of our employees are sexual professionals; the holographs inform our patrons of their
other
qualities.”