Chocolate Chocolate Moons (16 page)

Trenton finishes the soup and barrels into his laboratory. We follow. He feeds his readings from Congress Labs into “Analysis” and punches several numeric codes. We hear grinding and whirling noises.

“What’s he doing, Jersey?” I whisper.

“Beats me, but he must have found something unusual. Grinding and whirling are serious sounds. Last time I heard them, he had spun gold into flax.”

“Can he reverse the process?”

“Are you serious? Would I be standing here if he could reverse the process?”

Finally Trenton turns around. “Hmm, this is very interesting. There is not one weight-loss discrepancy but four! Three were taken from the same batch of poisonous anti-flavonoids at three separate times, one on July 6, a second on July 10, and a third on July 12.”

“How can you be sure it was three different people?” I ask.

“I’m sure because each person had to put a check mark next to the sample to release a magnetic cover lock over the substance. Like handwriting, each check is different. All I know is that there are no signs of a break-in. They all had clearance and access, meaning they either worked there or were a guest.”

“What about the fourth sample?” I ask.

“The fourth sample was taken a week later, on July 19. It was very different. It looked similar but was harmless.”

“Harmless? Why would anyone go to all that trouble and take something that was harmless?”

“If the person taking it was in a hurry, they could easily mistake one white granular substance for another.” Trenton cracks his elbows and turns to me. “Have you made any progress with your hunch about an antidote to the poisoned Chocolate Moons? All you said was that you thought it had a French connection.”

“I still think it has a French connection. I even called the French Institute. But the operator who answered didn’t like how I pronounced
s’il vous plait
and
hors d’oeuvres,
and put me on hold. Finally I was connected to Dr. D. Gall, who transferred me to Dr. D. Gallstone, who transferred me to Dr. D. Gallbladder before I got disconnected and discouraged.”

“Well, keep trying,” Jersey says. “New clues, new insights.”

I check the time. “I wish I could stay and speculate on who took these substances, but I have to go pack. I finally got Cortland to agree to take me to the Nirgal Palace Hotel. Its way over our budget, but it’s our anniversary.”

Decibel Point lives alone in a large white loft in New Chicago. His living space is crammed into one corner; the rest is his laboratory. Decibel and his ex-wife, Pencil, divorced ten years ago. She now owns a chain of Freedom Plan ice cream parlors whose specialty is a kitchen sink filled with Freedom Plan ice cream, sauces, and toppings. The entire thing has sixty-two calories.

He is annoyed that she called. “I have better things to do than develop a fifteen-calorie ice cream sundae, Pencil. Besides, I think it would taste like flavored air.”

“You’re only saying that because even though you developed Freedom Plan foods, you never eat any yourself. You don’t care that you’ve grown so fat that people think you come from Earth. Even being divorced from you is embarrassing!”
Click!
End of conversation.

There’s another call.
Oh no,
Decibel thinks, seeing that it’s Rocket. “What?” he barks.

Decibel listens and then says, “Of course I know that off-planet labs with their loose regulations are working on edgy new products.” Long pause. “Yes, I probably could do the job.” Pause. “Pencil is fine. She just called. Wants me to cut the calories from a Freedom Plan ice cream sundae, but I told her it would taste like flavored air.” Pause. “What potential as a luxury item? I guess selling it wouldn’t be hard for a windbag like you.” Pause. “No, I didn’t know you bought Titan Drugs.” Pause. “Want me to develop another line of anti-flavonoids? We never finished testing the first batch. As you know people were poisoned from Chocolate Moons filled with the stuff.” Pause. “My own lab with state-of-the-art equipment? That’s tempting. I’ll think about it. But I haven’t forgotten we still have old business to settle.”

22

N
IRGAL
P
ALACE,
M
ARS’S
luxury hotel that circles the planet, is a bustling showplace of people who parade every hairstyle, cosmetic procedure and fashion. People from Earth are easy to spot because they are the heaviest, shortest and most overdressed.

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.”