Damia (7 page)

“A bull, by all that’s holy! A bull! Horns, snout, and . . .” With one long and surprisingly well-shaped finger, Reidinger prodded the bull to a side view, “. . . and balls!” He guffawed again. “That white-haired, bug-eyed Altairian loon suggest it?”

“She’s not bug-eyed,” Afra replied, indignant at such a description of the Rowan whom he considered rather beautiful in an unusual way. And when Reidinger regarded him in amused surprise, “and no loon either.” The Rowan had said he must stand up to Reidinger. He wouldn’t have done so for his own sake, but he certainly would for hers.

Reidinger smiled enigmatically, leaned back in his conformable chair, and steepled his fingers. Afra did not like the knowing way Reidinger eyed him and stiffened, tightening his shields—in case it would do him any good in the presence of this man.

“You were raised on Capella, Afra Lyon,” Reidinger said, his face suddenly expressionless, his hooded eyes inscrutable. “Which is noted for its adherence to the manners other worlds ignore. Manners which are not ignored in my Tower, I might add.”

Afra inclined his head at this tacit reassurance of his mental privacy.

“The Rowan did suggest a red bull,” he said then, with a slight smile, aware now that Reidinger certainly displayed bullish characteristics.

With index finger and thumb, Reidinger picked the bull up by one horn and examined it closely. “Origami!” he said suddenly. “I’ve heard of it but not actually seen examples. Show me how you did this!”

“Paper?”

Reidinger opened drawers, frowning more deeply as he discovered nothing but paper’s technological replacements.

“Paper!” Suddenly pads, flowered and pastel stationery,
and large sheets of transparent plastic, littered the pristine surface of Reidinger’s desk. “Pick.”

Testing the various weights, Afra found one that would crease well, thin enough to fold easily but not tear. He squared it off and folded one corner away from him to the top, running a finger to form the first crease. Reidinger’s eyes never left his hands until he deposited a small pale blue cow beside the horned bull.

“And an udder, by all that’s holy!” Reidinger slapped both hands down flat on his desk, the breeze blowing the little cow over and sending the bull backwards. Tenderly, Reidinger righted the blue cow and drew the bull back to its original position. “Where’d you learn how?”

“The chief on a freighter that regularly cradled at Capella. He’s retired now and lives in Kyoto, Japan, in the Pac . . .”

“I know where it is. Been there yet?” Reidinger cocked his head at Afra.

“No, sir.”

Reidinger widened his eyes. “Don’t you want to?”

“Yes, sir, when I . . . I . . .” Now Afra faltered. Not quite brash enough despite the apparent success of this interview to commit himself to future plans.

Reidinger leaned back again, eyeing him speculatively. Then he gave a bark of laughter, shifting his weight so that the chair assumed an upright position.

“If you’ve managed to endure five weeks with that white-haired,” and Reidinger grinned unrepentantly, “. . . gray-eyed . . . bird-like Altairian, I suspect you’ll stay the distance. In fact . . .” Then Reidinger caught himself up, canceling that start with a flick of his fingers. He stood, a massive figure, big-boned and muscular, his eyes on a level with Afra’s despite the Capellan’s unusual height. He extended his hand, palm upwards, across the desk to Afra in a clear command for tactile contact.

It was most unusual but Afra responded without hesitation, though he could not stifle his gasp at the shock of rippling power and how much Reidinger learned of him in that split second’s contact.

My little loon’s lonely in her Tower, Afra Lyon of Capella
 . . . And Reidinger’s tone was as gentle as the hint in the words.

Afra was overcome with confusion. None of the exhaustive homilies on etiquette from his family covered this contingency.

“Be her friend, too, Afra,” Reidinger added in a brisk, business-like tone as if he were recommending a particular brand of technology so that Afra almost wondered if he’d mistaken that quick mental message. “Now, get out of here and let me get back to work.” He settled back into his chair and swung it to the consoles that were ranked behind his desk. “Gren’s to take you into the city,” he added without looking around. “You won’t survive comfortably on Callisto with a bed, two sagging chairs, and a battered table. Spend some of the money FT&T’s paying you on yourself for a change.”

Respectfully, Afra bowed and, turning around, left the room. In the lobby, Gren sprang to his feet, his whole body expressing concern and interest. His face broke into a smile.

“You survived?”

“The bull did it!”

Gren’s smile broadened. “Clever that. Oops.”

In alarm, Afra watched as Gren’s eyes suddenly crossed and, as suddenly, refocused. Gren shook his head and swallowed. “I wish he wouldn’t do that to me,” but then he looked at Afra and his grin returned. “I’m
under orders
, no less, to take you anywhere in the city you want to go.” He winked and Afra caught a tinge of sheer sensuality from Gren which made him blink. Gren was his age but had obviously not had the strictures of Method to inhibit physical experiences. “You’ve got a two-day leave of absence. So,” and he gave an impudent bow, “what’s your pleasure, T-4 Afra?”

“Mercantile, I think,” Afra said, gratefully seizing that opportunity. “And something to eat.”

“Stomach’s settled, huh?” Gollee’s knowing look was sympathetic.

They retraced their way to the ground floor, Gollee informing Afra that his security clearance was valid for his lifetime. Gollee took him to the T-10 clerk, who stored such badges, and then down to the ground floor where he ordered transport for them.

Afra’s first contact with the metropolis remained a series of brilliant impressions: the staggering choice available in the furniture showrooms (he surprised himself by picking simple things, reminiscent of homely Capellan counterparts), linens in plain shades, rugs in geometric designs, rather plebeian lamps (from the look on Gollee’s face), and two lovely Asian vases filled with flowers held in stasis forever at their peak, book tapes by the gross (titles he’d only heard of), and two paintings, both antique but pleasing to him. (Gollee tried to steer him toward modern artists, but Afra found them too frantic in design, material, and color.)

In clothing, he allowed Gollee to guide him, for the youth’s own dress was quietly elegant and well made. For someone who had never had more than three Tower-jumpsuits and one good outfit, Afra enjoyed buying apparel that subtly diminished his alien complexion and accentuated his broad shoulders and erect carriage while imparting a stylish bulk to his lean frame. He liked the look of some of the trendy boots and had a pair fashioned, while he and Gollee watched, in the size, color, and style of his choice.

When Gollee realized that this was a major shopping effort, he called the FT&T Cargomaster and arranged for a pod and cradle number to which all Afra’s purchases could be sent, and transported back to Callisto on the next shipment, or whenever Afra came to the end of his credit.

Then, clad in a new outfit—dark green, soft leatherene boots, a fashionable tunic and trouser combination—Afra invited Gollee to take him to a mid-range eating place where they would replenish lost energy.

“I know just the place,” Gollee announced, with another of his reckless winks. Shortly, they were seated at a table in an eating house with a pleasant ambience. There was
soft music, subdued lighting, excellent appointments, and a discreet menu that appeared in the top of their table as soon as they were seated.

The selection was literally otherworldly, for it listed dishes from every one of the Central Worlds. Gollee appeared to be far more sophisticated than his years, for he rattled off a description of items that Afra had never heard of. Afra tried not to let his ignorance or confusion show. Then Gren held up a hand to beckon an attendant. As the man came in answer to the summons, Gren looked earnestly at Afra.

“I know some of the specialties of this restaurant that I think you might like.”

“We-ell.” Gren’s self-assurance and the good-natured way in which he had steered Afra throughout the day easily convinced Afra to accede. He gave a rueful smile. “I haven’t had much experience with off-world dining.”

The waiter regarded Afra in surprise while Gollee’s encouraging smile became very worldly indeed.

“One man’s homeworld is another’s tourist spot. My friend is in from Capella. How about serving us a platter of dainties that’d tempt him to appreciate Terran cuisine?” The attendant seemed reluctant. “Is Luciano on today?”

“Luciano?” That did impress the man.

“The very same.” Gollee nodded pleasantly, as if discussing menus with Luciano was a habit. “Would you tell him that the G-man is showing a friend of his boss about this aul’ sod and we need to consult.”

The waiter raised his eyebrows. “G-man? I’ve heard about you.” He gave a hitch to the white apron tied about his loins. “I’ll tell him you’re in again.”

Luciano himself appeared between the platter of dainties and the soup. He gave Afra a friendly nod as Gollee introduced him.

At that moment, Afra had a mouthful of an unexpectedly peppery savory and just caught himself resorting to telepathy to answer. He flapped his hands, first indicating his busy mouth and then giving the concerned chef the ok sign.

“Spicy? Not spicy enough? Too spicy?” Luciano asked with professional concern.

“Too spicy, I’d say,” Gollee suggested with a laugh. “I’m accustomed to your brand of seasoning, but Afra must think he’s being poisoned. Look at his face and how his eyes are watering.”

The arch look on Luciano’s face startled Afra so much that he ventured to splutter around his mouthful: “No! No! ’Sgreat. I like . . . spices.”

Luciano was instantly mollified. “Ah, a man with educated tastes.”

“Not only that, Luciano,” Gren said, grinning with sheer malice, “he got the ol’ man by the balls and had him laughing.” Gren shot the astounded Afra a conspiratorial wink. “And that’s no bull, my friend.”

“You did that?” and clearly Afra had ascended ranks in Luciano’s estimation. “To the great man?” and the fiery Italian gestured in the direction of the distant Blundell complex.

Afra washed the rest of his mouthful down with water so that he could remedy this slightly skewed version of the morning’s business.

“It was just a short interview . . .” he began.

“With Prime Reidinger which he survived unscathed,” Gren said, nodding his head up and down, his eyes wide with admiration. “Afra made him a gift and got him to laugh.”

“The great man laughed?” Luciano awarded Afra a respectful glance.

“And,” Gollee paused significantly, “Reidinger immediately gave him a two-day leave. I’m to see this tourist doesn’t get into trouble his first time on Earth.”

“Ah, how wise of you to bring him here to eat, Gollee,” Luciano said, beaming with approval. “And you have a formidable guide, Afra,” he said, meaning to reassure, “for this one knows the very best places to go for whatever pleasures you might desire.” Luciano winked, setting one thick index finger to the side of his nose. “You’re in the
best hands with this one. Have no fear. No worries. Gollee will see you truly enjoy your first visit to this ol’ Earth.”

Afra was startled, not only by the Italian’s remark but also by the underlying nuances which were exceedingly sensual.

“You bet,” Gollee responded, grinning with an anticipation that Afra sensed was as sensual as Luciano’s. “Best way ever devised by the kindly gods to relieve the pressures to which man,” and it didn’t take much Talent for Afra to guess that Gollee made regular use of that relief, “. . . is exposed. What with one thing and another, Afra’s had a tense and pressured day. Don’t you worry, Afra. I know just the place.”

“And you will need to eat properly to enjoy yourself to the fullest,” Luciano said, rubbing his hands together briskly. He extended one toward Afra politely in reassurance. “I will make sure that your energy level is sufficient to sustain you.”

In order to mask his agitation, Afra hastily bent over the appetizer platter, pretending to concentrate on his next selection. He certainly couldn’t let Gollee see how much the innuendoes had disturbed him. He knew that Terran customs concerning sexual relations were considerably more relaxed than Capella’s, but to discuss such a topic over a meal, a meal which was going to be designed to stimulate and support the activity, was a shock. Yet both Gollee and Luciano seemed to consider it the normal conclusion to a stressful day.

“And I have a very special wine . . .”

“We’re underage,” Afra protested feebly.

“Of course, I know,” and Luciano spread his arms in a gesture of complete understanding. “We have a very good stock of grape juice.” And he cocked a wink at Gollee, who grinned broadly back at him.

When the “grape juice” was presented—in ordinary water glasses—Afra realized that it was unlike any fruit juice he had ever tasted, filling his mouth with a rich tartness and expanding in the most pleasant way to the back of his throat and into his stomach. But as he had also never
tasted wine, he was unaware of what had actually been served.

Gradually, as the meal progressed and he and Gollee ate through the various delicious portions presented to them, he noticed that he was visibly relaxing. And, where at first the thought of losing his virginity had troubled his conscience, he began to see that if both Gollee, who was his age, and Luciano, who was quite mature, considered a visit to a pleasure house an appropriate part of the day’s conviviality, he ought not—out of courtesy—object to his host’s plans for him. Then, too, Reidinger had assigned Gollee as his guide, and Gollee had mentioned that he often did escort visitors. Surely it would be churlish of Afra to affect prudery. Afra flushed suddenly at the memory of Reidinger’s ’pathed comment. Surely. . . . He put that thought sternly from him. Perhaps it would be the better part of discretion to relieve his tensions here on Earth so that he could return to Callisto with no lingering stress.