Eros Descending: Book 3 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (4 page)

“I'll tell you when I'm ready to,” said Gold.

Plaga stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “As a matter of fact, Vainmill has just made arrangements to get rid of its weakest link.”

“And what do you think it is?”

Plaga grinned. “To borrow a phrase that is probably being uttered all over the Resort as we sit here, I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.”

“You know, Mr. Plaga,” said Gold, “I think I liked you better when you were disgustingly servile.”

“Servility's not my style,” said Plaga.

“I would never have guessed,” replied Gold.

He smiled confidently. “I don't know exactly what you think you accomplished at your meeting in the Ski Lodge”—Plaga shot the Steel Butterfly a furious look—“but it won't do you a bit of good.”

Gold paused. “Do try to catch my broadcast next week. I think you might find it interesting.”

“A lot might happen before then,” said Plaga with what he hoped was a mysterious smile.

“Perhaps,” said Gold. “But I think I can guarantee that a lot will happen
after
my broadcast.”

More people began moving toward the grandstand, and in another moment Gold was completely surrounded by Vainmill executives, each of whom spoke to him cordially. When the last of them was seated he turned to Plaga.

“Have your holograph operators gotten enough yet?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” said Plaga “I'm referring to the fact that the only people setting within thirty feet of me are Vainmill officers who seem determined to greet me like a long-lost brother, and a number of suggestively dressed prostitutes.”

“As a matter of fact, more than half of our prostitutes are males,” replied Plaga, making no attempt to dispute his charge.

“Ah—but they might look like customers if they got into the picture.”

“Possibly the women will look like patrons,” suggested Plaga.

“Unquestionably,” replied Gold ironically.

“Instead of studiously ignoring them, you might strike up a conversation or two. Who knows? You might make some converts.”

“I'll choose my own converts, thank you,” said Gold.

The two faeries joined the growing crowd in the grandstand, and Gold turned his attention back to them.

“Do they have wings?” he asked at last.

“Who?” asked the Steel Butterfly.

“The faeries.”

“No. Why?”

He shrugged. “They look like they should.”

Suddenly there was a brief commotion at the far end of the Mall, and then a trumpeted call to the post was piped in over the sound system.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said an unseen announcer, “if you will direct your attention toward the starting gate, you will see the first of the two contestants coming onto the track.”

Gold looked off to his right.

“I can't see a thing,” he said.

“Here,” said the Steel Butterfly, handing him a tiny pair of binoculars. “Use these.”

He held them up to his eyes and focused on the large, sleek chestnut colt which was just emerging from an unseen lift and stepping onto the dirt surface.

“Welcome to the first running of the
Velvet Comet
Challenge Cup,” continued the announcer.

A gray-haired woman suddenly approached the crowded grandstand, and a number of Vainmill executives immediately moved over to make room for her.

“Interesting,” commented Gold softly, as she climbed up into the grandstand.

“What is?” asked the Steel Butterfly.

“That's Fiona Bradley, the head of the Resource and Development Division.”

“What's so interesting about her?”

“She was late for the prayer breakfast this morning, and nobody even stood up when she entered the room,” said Gold. “Now they suddenly part before her like the Red Sea.”

“Do you draw some conclusion from this?” she asked him.

“No,” he replied. “But it
is
interesting.”

He put the binoculars back up to his eyes and looked down the track at the chestnut colt.

“This year's Challenge Cup, which will be presented to the winner by Doctor Thomas Gold,” said the announcer, emphasizing the name, “features two of the great horses of the late twentieth century. Currently on the track, wearing the blue-and-gold silks of the Quantos Corporation, is Secretariat. Like his rival, he will carry one hundred and twenty-six pounds today.”

He droned on and on, listing the accomplishments of the original Secretariat, the two previous laboratory-created duplicates, and the present version. “This Secretariat is currently three years and eight months old.”

“Isn't that awfully young?” asked Gold, curious in spite of himself.

“Actually, I gather that he's already nearing the end of his career,” said the Steel Butterfly. “Isn't he beautiful?”

“Very.” Gold paused. “Where's the other one?”

“I imagine he'll be along any moment,” she said.

He looked down the track and saw a dark, muscular colt prance onto the dirt, his powerful body lathered with sweat, his groom frantically holding on to his bridle in an attempt to stop him from running off.

“It's not going to be much of a race,” remarked Plaga. “That animal is having a nervous breakdown.”

The dark horse shook his head, failed to dislodge the groom, then spun in a tight circle, lifting the groom completely off the ground while the jockey clung helplessly to his neck.

The announcer spoke up again. “Stepping onto the track in the cerise and white diamonds of the Seballa Cartel is Seattle Slew.” He went on to recite the colt's record, pointing out that due to a record-keeping error he had merely been named Seattle during his two most recent incarnations. The current version, he informed the crowd, had just turned four years old the previous week. The experts, he concluded, still hadn't decided whether he was officially black or dark brown, the distinction having something to do with the color of the hairs on his nostrils.

Suddenly Gold was aware of Titania standing in front of him, whistling melodically and making a number of graceful but incomprehensible gestures with her hands.

The Steel Butterfly asked her to repeat what she had done, then nodded, and Titania headed back to her seat.

“What was
that
all about?” asked Gold.

“I
think
she just bet me two hundred credits that the black horse beats my red one,” said the Steel Butterfly. “I suppose I'll find out for sure once she picks up her translating device.”

Gold watched the little alien's retreating form.

“Prostitution
and
gambling? The
Comet
seems to specialize in corrupting innocence, be it mechanical or alien.”

“It's only fair,” replied the Steel Butterfly amiably.

“She's certainly corrupted enough of our patrons.”

“Disgusting,” muttered Gold.

“But pretty,” added the Steel Butterfly as Gold continued to watch the petite faerie.

Flustered, he self-consciously turned his attention back to the horses, which were cantering up and down the track as the announcer explained that this was not the race itself, but merely a brief warming-up process.

“Which one do you like, Doctor Gold?” asked Fiona Bradley, leaning forward from her position directly behind him.

“I have no opinion.”

“All for the best, I suppose,” she replied. “I've never been to a horserace, but I imagine the trophy presenter should be impartial.”

“Which one do
you
like?” asked Plaga.

“Oh, the red one,” said the gray-haired executive. “He's absolutely gorgeous.”

“They both look pretty much alike to me,” said Gold.

“Surely you can't mean that,” interjected Plaga. “The black one looks like he's going to start foaming at the mouth any second.”

“Perhaps he's just anxious to run,” said Gold.

“With that lather all over him?” said Plaga smugly.

“He's already burned up more energy than he'll use in the race.”

“If you say so.”

“You think otherwise?” persisted Plaga.

“I don't know anything about horseracing.”

“Then perhaps you'd like to make a small wager, so you'll have a rooting interest.”

“No, thank you,” said Gold. “And I already have a rooting interest.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“The one you're all rooting against, of course.”

“Would you care to put one hundred credits on that?”

“I don't believe in gambling.”

“Not even a small friendly bet?” urged Plaga.

“You are not my friend.”

Plaga glanced questioningly at Fiona Bradley, but her attention seemed focused on the two horses.

“Well,” he said condescendingly, “if you haven't the courage of your convictions...”

“I have always had the courage of my convictions,” said Gold. “That's why you invited me up here, in case it's slipped your mind.”

“Then why not just admit the red horse looks better to you?”

“He doesn't.”

“Of course not,” said Plaga with heavy sarcasm.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Certainly not,” said Plaga with false assurance. “If you don't want to bet with me, there's no law that says you have to.”

“Mr. Plaga, my religion doesn't allow me to wager,” said Gold coldly. “On the other hand, it also instructs me to puncture pomposity and hypocrisy wherever I may find it. You know no more about horseracing than I do, and you have been trying to goad me into entering a contract that is contrary to my convictions. Therefore, since I must either enter a transaction or back down before my enemy, I agree to invest one credit on the black horse.”

“Only one?” laughed Plaga.

“Is it the transaction that is important to you, or the amount?”

Plaga grinned. “Doctor Gold, you've got yourself a bet.”

“No,” said Gold. “Betting implies the element of chance. I have an investment.”

“You seem awfully confident,” interjected the Steel Butterfly.

“The Lord is my shepherd. He won't let me lose.”

“Not even one credit?” she asked with an amused smile.

“Not even one credit,” he replied with conviction.

“How comforting to know that God is on your side,” said Plaga.

“God isn't on
my
side; I'm on
His
.”

“A subtle distinction.”

“Not to Him, it isn't,” replied Gold.

“Shall we let the Steel Butterfly hold the stakes until the race is over?” suggested Plaga.

Gold looked directly into Plaga's eyes. “You'll forgive me if I refuse your offer, but I have no doubt that you still have a number of cameras trained on me, and I wouldn't want anyone to think that I was concluding one of the
Velvet Comet
's more mundane business transactions.”

The executive flashed him an unembarrassed smile, and turned his attention back to the track.

At last the two colts had begun approaching the starting gate, and the crowd quickly became silent, finally interested in the proceedings.

“I should have given you odds,” chuckled Plaga, as Seattle Slew reared up behind the gate.

Gold made no comment.

The announcer concluded his pre-race commentary by listing all the various mile-and-a-quarter records, qualifying them by world, gravity, oxygen content in the air, and weight carried by each horse.

The two colts walked into the gate. An instant later a bell rang, the doors flew open, and Seattle Slew quickly assumed a commanding lead.

“Possibly I should have given
you
odds,” remarked Gold.

“They've got a long way to run yet,” said Plaga confidently.

The black colt in the lead seemed to be continually demanding more rein from his jockey, as if there were nothing in his life that he cherished more than piercing a hole in the wind. The chestnut, after the initial few seconds, fell into stride behind the leader, loping along with no apparent effort.

“Exciting, isn't it?” asked the Steel Butterfly.

Gold made no reply.

As the two colts passed the halfway point in the race, Secretariat's jockey tapped him once with the whip, and the chestnut colt surged forward. His long strides quickly ate into the margin between himself and the free-running leader, and he pulled to within half a length of the burly black colt.

“Here he comes!” cried the Steel Butterfly, as the members of the crowd started screaming the names of the horses.

Seattle Slew's jockey asked his horse to respond, and the black colt shot forward, finally freed of all restraint, and opened the lead to a length once again, his flying hooves beating a rhythmic tattoo on the dirt flooring. Twice more during the final two hundred yards Secretariat pulled to within almost even terms; twice more Seattle Slew dug in and refused to let his rival go by. As they thundered past the grandstand and the finish line, necks extended, muscles straining, the lathered black colt still clung tenaciously to his narrow lead.

“Shit!” muttered Plaga disgustedly.

“Well, Doctor Gold, I guess Gustave owes you a credit,” said the Steel Butterfly, exhilarated by the contest she had just witnessed despite the defeat of her horse. She noticed that Gold was staring intently at a spot near the rail some forty yards before the finish line.

“Doctor Gold?” she repeated, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He straightened up abruptly. “Yes?”

“What did you think of it?”

“The race?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Very exciting,” he said unenthusiastically.

“Come along Doctor Gold,” said Fiona Bradley, starting to climb down from the grandstand.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have to present the trophy.”

He nodded absently and followed her up to the presentation platform where they were joined by the other division heads. The black horse was still a quarter of a mile away, jogging slowly back toward the grandstand, and Gold's attention wandered back to the same spot on the rail.

“You seem pensive, Doctor Gold,” said Fiona Bradley after a moment.

“You'd think they would have wings,” he murmured wistfully.

“Well, they certainly ran as if they did,” she replied.

He stared at her, surprised, for a moment, then quickly regained his composure.

“Didn't they, though?” he agreed at last.