There Goes the Galaxy Page 14

  “Though there isn’t,” input the manager.

  “No, there most certainly isn’t,” Mook exclaimed, as if horrified at the very accusation. “But if there were. Your organization offers its utmost privacy to all of its clients, assuring them the highest quality of service throughout their stay. Certainly, if you were hosting such a meeting where privacy was in order—”

  “As a hypothetical concept only,” emphasized Mr. Eeday.

  “And then you had parties such as myself and W.I. Tstyko here violating said privacy … Well, what would that say for the reputation of your establishment?”

  Mr. Eeday blinked the soulful eyes. Mook imagined he’d expected cajoling and then some serious leaning—possibly with weapons and personal injury. Agreement and empathy were not the most trendy RegForce approaches to problem solving. “Um, yes, well,” began Mr. Eeday primly, “customer privacy is, of course, always very important to us. It’s been stellar chatting with you. Thank you for stopping by, W.I. Mook.” He remained at the door with a now-hopeful gaze.

  Mook pressed on. “Now, if you were hosting the Universal Underworld Society meeting, and yet you did care to help the Hyphiz Deltan RegForce bring two intergalactic fugitives to justice— something sure to get quite a bit of positive PR for the Crater Club, too, I’d wager— well, you’d simply need to strike a careful balance.”

  “Oh, yes?” murmured Eeday. His tone held the mild curiosity of a man who’s seen something on his dinner plate he can’t quite recognize but might want to pursue its identity.

  “Certainly. You’d simply fulfill your obligation to your client, the Underworld Society, while simultaneously making it easy for us to get our men.” He offered another engaging smile. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Eeday. Mook could almost see him lingering on that idea of positive PR for the Crater Club. Heavy Meddler headlines, Vos Laegos commendations, the eye of new investors, and so much more. It was all practically written along Eeday’s whiskered face. “And how would one go about doing that?”

  “Well,” began Mook, looking ceilingward in thought, “not knowing where a super-secret event like that would be held, if it were being held here …”

  “We have no facilities of that kind,” Mr. Eeday said.

  “… I would suggest allowing us undercover access to any entrances to the festivities. Permission to scan the guests before they enter. All very subtle. Very tasteful. That way, the little matter would be taken care of prior to reaching the Society meeting. Or it could be shifted outside the building altogether. The Underworld need never be bothered.” Mainly, Mook didn’t want to take on half the Underworld just to root out Tsmorlood and the Tryfling. After so many years on the RegForce, he knew: sometimes the simplest way was best.

  Otar Eeday drummed his fingers together thoughtfully, his long clawlike nails clicking with a gentle rat-a-tat. He pursed his lips, causing the whiskers to spring out again. “If that sort of situation ever came up,” he began, “I can see the Crater Club being amenable to a procedure along those lines.”

  W.I. Mook gave a bow of his head.

  “I would ask that there be absolutely no uniforms.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And that any apprehension would be done keeping the complete safety of our guests in mind.”

  “Stunning can very easily be made to look like sudden illness, if it came to that. But ultimately our goal would be to identify the targets and extract them from the Crater Club altogether. The Hyphiz Deltan Regimental Enforcement Squad is nothing if not the very epitome of discretion.” Mook could feel Tstyko’s buggy gaze beating into him at this one. He didn’t dare look, or he would laugh. Instead, he settled on clearing his throat. “If we were to implement something like this, Mr. Eeday, where would we need to position ourselves?” queried Mook.

  “I would give you a facilities map. Like this one,” he pulled a floorplan of the Club from a drawer. “And I would mark it, like so.” He handed Mook the map with a key location circled.

  “Where,” Mook said, frowning at the map, “would the meeting room itself be? Hypothetically?”

  “For this hypothetical situation, that really isn’t pertinent to our discussions, W.I. Mook,” said Eeday. He gave another ice blue smile. “You know, the Crater Club is a lot like one of our charming Vos Laegos showbeings. They must retain a few secrets for themselves. It’s part of their allure. I hope you and your men will respect that.”

  It was not the answer he was hoping for, but it was the answer Mook expected. “Understood,” he said. “And respected. And one last thing, Mr. Eeday …”

  “Yes?”

  “When won’t the meeting begin?”

  “The meeting won’t start later today.”

  “So, there’s no hurry then.” Mook moved to the door himself now. Tstyko looked startled at the sudden conclusion of their discussion and rose from his chair.

  “Discretion,” Mr. Eeday called after them. “We never spoke of this.”

  “And it was absolutely stellar not talking to you,” Mook said with a parting wave.

  Rolliam Tsmorlood had it covered. Bertram knew this, because the Hyphiz Deltan just kept saying it. So when the man unveiled the box from the storeroom like it contained nothing less than the Crown Jewels, Bertram was braced for extra-terrestrial wonders.

  Then the box opened and …

  “Wristwatches.” Bertram unbraced. “That’s useful. We’ll know down to the second what time we’re arrested and being deloused.”

  “Holowatches,” Rollie corrected. “Here. Put this on and I’ll show you.”

  Bertram took the slim black device and snapped it around his wrist. It was somewhat heavier than a standard watch, but the weight felt solid and reassuring. “Okay?”

  “Press the silver button and scan yourself head to toe.”

  “Er … Scan … how do I—?”

  Rollie grumbled impatiently. “Watch me, then.” He’d grabbed the second watch, strapped it to his wrist, pushed the silver button and then waved his arm in a vertical motion from the top of his head to the metal tips of his boots. He then repeated the process from the feet up again. “There. Now go to it.”

  Bertram did so.

  “Excellent!” Rollie flashed a wicked grin. “Now, the fun part.” The Deltan pushed a blue button on his timepiece, and in an instant there stood a dark-skinned, humanoid male with three shining black eyes. The figure wore a long, brown hooded cloak that fell in waves over his short, stocky frame. His hands were thick and wide. His feet were thick and flat. And they were clad in heavy, rough-hewn sandals. He was anything but Deltan. “Your turn.”

  After this, Bertram couldn’t wait to see his own transformation. He pressed the blue button and then patted his arms, his face. It all felt exactly the same. He looked down at his legs, his filthy socked feet, but nothing seemed to be any different. The same toes poking through the fabric. The same old jaw in bad need of a shave. He felt a pang of disappointment. “It didn’t work.”

  “Are you so sure?” Rollie snatched up the crusty stew pot from the hotplate and held its shiny base before Bertram’s face.

  The face of a dark-skinned, three-eyed, cloaked, corpulent old woman reflected back. “Aw, hell.” There was a large mole on the side of the old woman’s nose. A sprig of fine black hair sprouted from it like hopeful flowers. Bertram touched the spot alongside his own nose expecting to feel its tickle.

  “Was a lady friend of mine’s who also had a spot of tricky business with the RegForce,” the dark figure explained with Rollie’s voice. “Keep meaning to return it to her with her other effects, but just haven’t got round to it.” The dark man beamed. “Lucky break for us, eh?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely. Swap me?” Bertram suggested.

  Rollie laughed in a “not-fragging-likely” way.

  “I’m going into the dragon’s den, looking like Grandma Ludlow forgot her waterpills. Not much of a confidence-booster,” Bertram
told him.

  “Sorry.” Rollie pressed his holowatch’s blue button a second time, and ZAP! The optical illusion slipped away.

  Bertram sighed, picked up the pot and took a last look at his new reflection. “I’m tapping into my inner fugitive from intergalactic justice, as a century-old granny with a weight problem.”

  Rollie tossed him an unconcerned glance. “No one ever said saving the world would be glamorous, Ludlow.

  Chapter 10

  They came in low over Vos Laegos City, capital of the planet Vos Laegos, giving Bertram an astounding view of the world below. Never had he seen such crazed combinations of architecture and color springing up in such a tangle of ideas. It made St. Peter’s Basilica look like Amish workmanship.

  One of the buildings below appeared to undulate and pulse, like some strange living tissue. Another looked almost transparent, the inhabitants inside seeming to stand on air alone. Yet another was shaped like the head of a giant creature, partially buried in the sand, life-forms entering and exiting through its nostrils. There was a building that appeared as a swirl of light and color, enveloping all who stepped into it. One construction looked like a giant nest of opalescent green hornets, burrowing into the land. Another appeared edible, like a great castle of some mad alien confectioner. There were colors so bright they teased and taunted the eyes with their glare, and colors so dark they didn’t even exist. There were metallic sheens in shades Bertram would have been hard-pressed to describe, and ethereal glows that radiated with an almost unnerving lifeforce. Things shone, glittered, flashed, and transformed before the eyes. They were hyper-realistic and gone in a wink.

  The Interplanetary Cruise Vessel passed over all of this and landed some distance away, at the edge of the city. Here was desolation, gray sand, and small scuttling animals that appeared with a pop, and disappeared the same way. It was like Vos Laegos had put all its energy into giving birth to the unhinged brilliance of its capital, and there was nothing left for the land itself.

  Vos Laegos City was the planet’s most glorious ungrateful child.

  “Why are we so far out?” Bertram asked, peering out the portal for another glimpse of those strange city spires.

  “Can’t very well park a cloaked ICV in the middle of a lot, can you? One poor slaggard thinks the space is free and tries to land, we’d be done for. It’ll be a hike, but believe me, we’re safer leaving it here.”

  “What if we have to make a quick escape?”

  Rollie fired up the holowatch. “We’ll just put faith in our three-eyed friends it won’t come to that, eh? Ready?”

  “Say hello to Grandma Ludlow.”

  They lowered the ship’s ramp and stepped out onto the surface. And soon, Bertram and Rollie wound through the narrow alleys, the broad boardwalks, and the teetering skywalks of the planet’s capital.

  Nothing was where it seemed it should be. The size of the buildings was misleading, so a structure that looked only a block away still took forever to reach. The path led them up moving staircases, across flying discs, through dim hotel lobbies, and on and off tiny bullet-trains. Life-forms of every size, color and type passed by—some singing or staggering, some bustling on through, some wrapped in the company of new companions, and some wandering without a care in the world.

  Vendors lined the way offering Bertram cocktails, genetic makeovers, all-you-could-digest buffets, and dealers’ tricks to win at games called “piggelties” and “Emperor’s G’napps.” There were do-it-yourself massage techniques which claimed to be illegal in 12 solar systems. And life-forms willing to share the ancient alchemists’ secret of transforming plain old rocks into fully-loaded yoonie cards.

  The tricky part, with all this buzz, was to keep pace with Rollie. The path was maze-like. The Hyphiz Deltan knew where he was going, and he walked quickly, with a long, purposeful stride. Even in decent shape, Bertram still found himself working to keep up.

  “You wanna slow it down a little?” Bertram asked.

  “You want to get something for that throat, old lady?” Rollie asked, giving him a warning look.

  Bertram forgot he was Grandma Ludlow. Of course, the real Grandma Ludlow had also been fond of cigarettes and Sidecars, so it wasn’t like she was that far from a tenor. “Terrible way to speak to your honored elders,” Bertram snapped, raising the Gran-o-meter a little.

  Rollie might have chuckled, but his tone was still firm. “Just remember who you’re supposed to be. No slip ups. We’re almost there. And there’s where it counts,” he said. And in a moment, Bertram saw he was right. They had arrived at the Crater Club.

  “This place is an absolute pit!” exclaimed Bertram. He peered into the gaping black abyss before them in wide-eyed marvel. The only part of their destination on surface-level was an ample flashing sign that, in regular increments, exploded with heat and color as a careening, holographic meteor struck it. The sign read:

  The Crater Club.

  Vos Laegos’ #1 Hole in the Ground

  “How do we even get in?” Bertram asked.

  But at that moment, a being with lavender skin and backwards knees brushed past him with a gruff, “Sorry, lady,” and jumped straight down into the cavern.

  The three-eyed man in the brown hood turned to Bertram and grinned in answer.

  “Oh, that can’t be right,” Bertram found himself saying as he peered into the void before them. “This is a business establishment, a tourist spot. We can’t be expected to just jump into—”

  But, still grinning, the three-eyed man gave a snappy salute and sprung neatly into the blackness below.

  “Of course,” Bertram muttered to himself, as Rollie vanished from view. “Well, I never was big on extreme sports. But—” And Bertram made the leap himself.

  The drop was like a lazy elevator, gently sinking into the Vos Laegos sands. A drinks server on a balcony to the side tucked some glowing alien beverage in Bertram’s hand. “Welcome to the Crater Club,” she said with an engaging alien smile.

  Another handed him a map of the facilities and winked. “Welcome to the Crater Club!”

  And a third put a cheap novelty spelunker hat, complete with light, on his head. “Welcome to the Crater Club!” she said warmly.

  It was like Alice down the rabbit hole, but the service was a whole lot better.

  When he finally came to the bottom of the passage, his feet touched down so gently, not a drop of his beverage was spilled. Bertram took a sip. “Mm. Weird!” It was weird, too—somehow wet and dry at the same time, yet cold, sweet and refreshing. He noticed his three-eyed companion was already there, stalking back and forth like a hungry tiger. Bertram held up his drink. “Hey, did you get one of these? I think those waitresses were flirting with me.”

  “Grandma,” Rollie began firmly. He relieved Bertram of first the hat and then the drink, tossing them into a passing disposal robot.

  “Aw.” Bertram was surprised at his own sinking disappointment. Also the fact that Rollie threw away a drink. “Right.”

  “This way, if you will?” Through reception and to the right of miles of roaring, plinking gaming tables was an area marked “Conference Center and Expo.” There the crowds were already thick.

  A dozen conferences were going on, each with large electronic registration kiosks. There was the Aeroponic Smorg Growers of Quad Four Conference; The Association for the Fraternal Order of Fraternia-12 Fraternities’ Assembly of Brotherhood; there was the Calderian Moon Polyp Education and Edibility League, PR Branch annual meeting; and the Forwardist LibLounge Future Bestseller Best Guesstimation Summit. There were professional meetings for professions Bertram had never heard of. And unprofessional meetings that were being really unprofessional right there in the conference hall.

  Some attendees carried armfuls of equipment, some handed out brochure pills, and many trundled along drawing levitating carts behind them—carts overflowing with informational gadgets and giveaway items as diverse as the life-forms in attendance. Bertram spied everything f
rom strange hats, electronics and clothing to something that looked a lot like a green camel. It chewed placidly as it floated along in its cart, being led from the exhibits to the next conference room.

  There were no signs anywhere mentioning an Intergalactic Underworld conference going on at this time, and Bertram thought that was odd. He wondered if the Society lacked the funds, or if a particularly zealous member, swept up in the spirit of the gathering, had simply walked off with the kiosk and kidnapped the staff.

  Bertram was about to ask Rollie about it but noticed how the Deltan’s borrowed eyes had been scanning the crowds, black, keen and constant.

  “You seem worried,” said Bertram conversationally, trying to keep pace.

  “Not worried, watchful,” said Rollie. “There’s a difference.”

  “I’m not worried, either,” volunteered Bertram. “I feel great.” And on further consideration and against all logic, Bertram realized this was true. He did feel great. Pretty much from the moment they’d left the ship, really, it was like he was a new man. Unafraid, unconcerned and even unfettered by his own obvious madness. He should have been concerned about his lack of concern. But he just couldn’t be bothered.

  “It’s the jubies,” Rollie explained.

  “The what?”

  “They call it the Vos Laegos jubies. A sort of euphoria. It’s the air here. Has an effect on those not used to it. This way.”

  Rollie led them down the hallway marked “Ballrooms.”

  “Jubies,” Bertram murmured to himself, liking the way the word felt on his lips. “Juuuu-beeeees.”

  Rollie’s glare cut through euphoria like an XJ-37.

  Bertram cleared his throat. “Xylith said the meeting was in The Core. Which way?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  They passed by the Impact Room. There, life-forms were heading into a session surrounding a giant 3-D pie chart in berry flavor. Next, they came to the Echo Room and the Cavern Room, both of which were empty. In the Collision Room, two speakers were involved in violent debate. In both the Meteorite Room and Volcano Rooms, it looked like the audiences were having a blast. And in the Quake Room, some being with large floppy ears was leading a session looking pale and wan, like he’d never spoken in public in his life.