Eros Descending: Book 3 of Tales of the Velvet Comet Read online

  “How did you come by these two?”

  “I gather their family owed a considerable debt to Vainmill—it had something to do with some trade concessions in the Alphard Cluster—and this was the solution. They're brother and sister, though they don't view the relationship quite the same way that we do.”

  “In other words,” said Gold coldly, “they've been forced to work here.”

  The Steel Butterfly looked amused. “You'd have to force them to stop—which is why I can't understand why we've had such difficulty recruiting others of their race.”

  “View it as a small triumph for morality,” said Gold. He continued staring as the petite aliens. “I've been fighting Vainmill over just this kind of exploitation for half my life. I know they still do it on the frontier worlds, but I never thought they'd have the unmitigated gall to think they could get away with this right here in the Deluros system!”

  “I assure you, Doctor Gold—they are hardly being exploited. Their wages are substantial, and are on deposit in the Comet's bank.”

  “Oh?” he said sharply. “What do they spend their money on?”

  “I've no idea,” she replied. “Almost all of their needs are provided for.”

  “Then I'll tell you,” he said. “They don't spend it on anything, because they have no more knowledge of human economics than they have of human morality. And when they leave, Vainmill will sit on their money for seven years and then take ten minutes getting a friendly judge to rule that the accounts are dead and that they are entitled to both the money and the accrued interest. I've seen them work this all across the Inner Frontier.”

  “And what if they get an unfriendly judge?” inquired the Steel Butterfly.

  “They know the difference,” said Gold wryly. “They own a goodly number of them.”

  “I'm afraid all of this is beyond my realm of experience,” said the Steel Butterfly, trying to end the discussion. “My job is running a brothel.”

  “With pubescent children who haven't any idea what they're doing!”

  “I repeat: they are adults.”

  “They certainly don't look it—and I've no doubt that Vainmill capitalizes on that fact.” He paused. “In retrospect, I don't know why I'm so surprised; it was perhaps the only sin Vainmill hadn't yet committed. I just wonder that any of your clientele has the lack of shame to request them.”

  “You'd be surprised at what some of our clientele have requested.”

  “I certainly hope I would.” He paused. “You said you hadn't had any luck obtaining more of them?”

  “I said we hadn't had much luck,” she corrected him. “There are six more at our training school.”

  “You have a training school?” he asked, surprised.

  She nodded. “I attended it myself before I came to work up here. It's run by a former madam named Suma. She must be, oh, in her eighties or nineties; the last time I saw her she was in rather poor health.”

  “And what kind of deal did Vainmill make to get six more of them?”

  “I really couldn't say.”

  “Couldn't, or won't?”

  “I meant what I said, Doctor Gold.”

  “Is there any prostitution on the faeries’ home planet?”

  “I've never heard any mention of it,” replied the Steel Butterfly.

  “I can't say that I'm surprised.”

  “I have a feeling that you're letting your religion color your viewpoint,” said the Steel Butterfly. “You remarked earlier that they were innocent. Might I suggest that the only thing they're innocent of is your particular notion of morality?”

  “I have never forced my morality upon an alien race that was incapable of comprehending it,” said Gold. “But by the same token, Vainmill has no right to force its immorality on them.”

  “Even if they enjoy it?” asked the Steel Butterfly.

  “We were speaking about free will a moment ago,” said Gold. “If, after leaving the Comet, these two aliens were willing to return to it, they'll have made their choice and will pay their penalty in the hereafter—but for Vainmill to preempt that choice by making it for them is unacceptable.”

  She sighed wearily but made no reply, and they rode the next fifty yards in silence.

  Then Gustave Plaga stepped out of the reception foyer and began approaching them, walking rapidly on the narrow strip of exposed parquet flooring to bypass the crowded, slower-moving sidewalk. Gold and the Steel Butterfly also stepped onto the floor to greet him, and Gold spotted a number of Vainmill executives riding the slidewalk in his direction.

  “I apologize for being gone so long, but it was unavoidable,” said Plaga, more to the madam than to Gold. “I trust you've been enjoying yourself, Doctor Gold?”

  “Enjoy is not exactly the word I would choose,” replied Gold. “Let us say that I've found it quite enlightening.”

  “The race is due to start in about twenty minutes,” said Plaga. “Why don't we take our seats now?”

  Gold nodded his agreement, and they rode the slidewalk to the grandstand, which was only five rows deep but almost one hundred yards long, and fit neatly into the area between the retaining wall and the slidewalk. A few moments later they were seated in a comfortable box overlooking the finish line, directly adjacent to the presentation platform, where an ornate golden cup topped by a platinum racehorse was on display.

  “I expected a larger crowd,” commented Gold, gesturing to the small groups of men and women who were slowly wending their way to the long, narrow, makeshift grandstand.

  “Oh, we'll draw about four thousand people,” answered the Steel Butterfly.

  “Where are they?”

  “I would say they were enjoying the facilities. You would say they were sinning.”

  “You would be wrong,” said Gold.

  “Is there anything you haven't seen yet that you'd like us to show you?” asked Plaga.

  “I think I've seen what I came to see.”

  “Oh?”

  “When I arrived here I wasn't quite sure of Vainmill's weakest link. Now, thanks to my little tour, I am.”

  “You think you've found it up here?” asked Plaga, trying to keep the curiosity from his voice.

  “No,” answered Gold. “I know I've found it up here.”

  “May I ask just what you think you've discovered?”

  “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.”r />
  “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.