She approached him now, grinning mockingly. “So,” she said. “At long last. I don’t know what there is about you, Cutey, possibly the romantic aspects of you being from over-space.”
Her smile turned more mocking still and she put her right hand on his shoulder.
“I thee take,” she said softly.
IX
Even under the influence of the powerful drugs, there must have been something in his eyes. Minythyia laughed at him. But in the laughter there was a wry element.
“Of course,” she told him, “It’s not really finalized until we go before Artimis during the summer solstice, with all the others, to gain her blessing. But unless you wish to throw yourself on the mercies of some other warrior—if she’ll take you—you’re mine. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to get in touch with some other warrior?”
His mind was free to race, in spite of its enslavement. Here, for the moment, he was moderately safe. Safe, he could hope, until the drugs wore off and he would be free to operate. If he contacted someone else—and who was there to contact?—his location would become known. Even here, when she learned the true nature of his conflict with the authorities, he doubted if her infatuation would stand up against patriotism. He was astonished that she had gone this far.
“No,” he said, in answer to her question.
Her eyes were mocking once more. “Then you’re willing to remain here with me…Cutey?”
“Yes.”
She laughed enjoyment.
“All right, here is the arrangement. This is not my apartment. It belongs to a friend. She is away and isn’t due back for almost a month. I don’t believe Clete or Lysippe or any of the others know I have access. We’re safe, especially if we never allow you to be seen on the streets. I’ll bring in what supplies we can’t get over the auto. In a month’s time, things will settle down. Things always settle down, given time. By then, we’ll be able to size up the situation and plan what to do. Married to me, you have the rights of a male Amazonian citizen. You’ll be under the protection of my genos and through it my phratra and ultimately phylon. Like I said, I don’t know what kind of romp you tried to pull off, but there’ll be some way to fix it.” She twisted her pert face. “I’ve got some high connections.”
She looked at him calculatingly for a moment. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“If you get hungry, or thirsty, you can dial on the auto. It’s tuned to my hour account. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Make yourself at home, here. Don’t leave the apartment, understand? Don’t leave the apartment under any circumstances.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got several things to do. I’ve got to look up Lysippe and Clete and establish an alibi. I’ve got to ditch that car. It could be traced.” She winked at him. “Besides, it’s not mine. I borrowed it. When I come back, I’ll explain a lot of things to you.
“Good heavens, sit down. Don’t wait for me to tell you everything. No, just a moment. Kiss me. The way they do on the occasional Tri-Di show tapes we get from Earth.”
He kissed her, neither the Scop nor the Come-Along influenced that.
She stood back, her eyes shining. “Well,” she said. “What would I call you on the Tri-Di? A cad? But then, we’re married, aren’t we?” Her lips were mocking again. “Amazonian style, that is.”
She was suddenly gone from the apartment.
Ronny Bronston sat down. Except for her direct order to remain in the apartment, he was free to act.
His eyes went about the room desperately. There must be something he could do. Surely she would be gone for at least an hour. Perhaps not. Perhaps within that time she would discover the magnitude of his troubles and be back on the double with Clete and Lysippe, or some other Amazonian warriors, to apprehend him and return him to the questioning.
He went from one room to another. A bedroom, a refresher, an eating alcove with an auto in it. Back to the livingroom.
His eyes hit upon the small bar. By the looks of the whole apartment, Minythyia’s friend must be quiet a hedonist. The bar, the decor, some of the murals, all pointed in that direction. He wondered what the equivalent of an orgy, here on Amazonia, might be.
His eyes swung quickly back to the bar and something came to him.
Come-Along. It didn’t react favorably with alcohol. You couldn’t give it to a drunk. It did no more than to make him terribly ill. It was even comparatively ineffective if you dosed someone who had just a couple of belts. To give it to someone in an alcoholic state, was just wasting your time, which was quite a deterent to both espionage agents and Romeos.
He made his way to the bar. It was a bar all right. Two shelves below held bottles, glasses, ice tongs, swizzle sticks, all the universal paraphernalia of the home bar, be it on Earth, Avalon, New Delos…or Amazonia.
Ronny Bronston picked up the handiest bottle and scowled at the label. It meant nothing to him. He wrenched the top off and applied it to his lips. Sickeningly sweet! He couldn’t put away much of that. He took up another bottle. Another damned cordial!
He grasped a third bottle. It contained a colorless fluid, something resembling gin or vodka. He tried it and sputtered, shooting a fine spray from his mouth. He looked at the label in respectful wonder. It told him nothing.
Ronny Bronston, though not habitually a heavy drinker, had done his share of nipping in his time. But never on anything as potent as this. He couldn’t take it straight. He poured a hefty belt into a tall glass and went into the refresher room for water.
There was a faint taste of anis in the far background of the spirit, not too unpleasant. He got the first glass down, feeling the stuff already beginning to warm his belly, and quickly poured another.
He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. How long ago was that? It seemed ages. The drink was getting to him quickly. He put down still more and the room began to go hazy. He shook his head, bear-like, and decided to make his try.
His orders had been quite definite: Don’t leave the apartment under any circumstances.
Ronny shook his head again in attempt to achieve temporary clarity and walked with deliberation toward the door. He took the knob in his hand. And couldn’t twist it. He stared down, his eyes bleary. Was it locked? No, it wasn’t that. He simply couldn’t turn it.
Don’t leave the apartment under any circumstances.
He shook his head still again and went back to the bottle. He eyed it, finding difficulty in focusing. He closed one eye. That was considerably better. Hell, he wasn’t any molly when it came to guzzle. He could put it down with anybody. Even with his ultimate superior, Ross Metaxa, with that Denebian tequila of his in the stone bottle.
He’d show ’em who could drink like a gennulman. Hold his guzzle like a trooper. He took up the bottle with a flourish of braggadocio and applied it to his lips.
He got down three or four full gulps before it hit him. He dropped the bottle to the floor, unknowingly. His eyes were glazed now He had never passed out from drink in his life, but this was preciously near it. He tried to achieve clarity by slapping his cheek hard with his right hand.
He staggered toward the door, grasped the knob just in time to prevent falling. There was something he was supposed to remember, he knew. Something about that girl. What was her name? Miny…Minythy…something or other. Something she told him. He couldn’t remember.
He swayed and his hand on the knob turned in his effort to keep himself erect. The knob turned and the door pushed open and he staggered into the hall beyond in effort to keep his balance.