Double-breasted jacket, wide lapels, razor-sharp creases on the pants. Belt—no, make that suspenders. Starched shirt. Vest with fancy buttons. Polished spats. Necktie.
“We don’t do weapons,” said Xenbashka Bashka Ka.
“A necktie isn’t a weapon. It’s a piece of material that goes under the shirt collar, then hangs down over the buttons.”
The alien soon designed a necktie which met Norton’s specifications.
“That looks great,” said Norton, studying what had been created.
“What colours do you want?”
“None.” Gangster films had all been in black and white, and so Norton’s suit had to be in monochrome. “White shirt, everything else black.”
Xenbashka Bashka Ka operated the wrist control, and the jacket and vest and tie and pants and suspenders and shoes all became black.
“The customer is always right,” said the Algolan, “but that isn’t.”
Norton nodded his agreement. The outfit looked far too formal. The jacket seemed like a tuxedo. More than anything, the dummy resembled a head waiter.
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“How about stripes?”
“Stripes?” Norton immediately thought of sergeant’s stripes, but chevrons on the sleeves would spoil the effect.
“Like this.”
The Algolan added pinstripes to the jacket and pants, and wider diagonal stripes to the tie, which diluted the severity of the black. That was how black and white movies looked, Norton realised. They were different shades of grey.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “like that. Now I need a hat. What were they called? A fedora? Like a stetson, but not as big.”
Under his direction, Xenbashka Bashka Ka created a hat that looked almost perfect. But there was something wrong, something missing.
“A band,” said Norton. “It needs a band.”
“You want music coming out of your hat?”
“No, a band of fabric, above the brim, going around the crown. Yeah. Like that. Not so wide. Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. That’s it!”
The perfect gangster suit, straight out of the late thirties, early forties— nineteen thirties, forties, naturally. It was a classic, there had been nothing like it for centuries. Norton gazed at the design in admiration.
“How many would you like?” asked the alien. “Two sets of everything?”
“Two, yeah, why not?” Then he realised why not. “Er, what about payment?”
“If you couldn’t pay, you wouldn’t be on Hideaway.”
“Exactly.” Norton nodded. “Exactly.”
“And if you can’t pay, you’ll wish you weren’t on Hideaway.”
“Oh.”
The alien growled, but Norton stood his ground. A growl meant laughter. Maybe.
A clawed finger tapped the circular gadget, and the no-longer-naked mannequin vanished.
“How long before it’s all made?” Norton asked.
“A few minutes. If you want, we can dispose of what you’re wearing and you can put on your new ensemble.”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like a bag to carry your other new clothes? We can make one in any style you wish.”
Norton thought about it. “I want one shaped like a violin case.”
He’d never seen a violin case, except in the movies—and neither had he ever seen a violin—but he demonstrated what he meant.
“Like this?” said the Algolan, and another manifestation appeared between them.
“More like,” said Norton, gesturing with his hands, “yeah, that, only not as much, yeah, there, that way, with a kind of… yeah.”
The alien’s creation looked close enough.
“We need your name,” said Xenbashka Bashka Ka.
“Wayne,” he said. And immediately wished he hadn’t. “Why do you need my name?”
“So that we will be paid.”
Norton had checked in as Robin Hood, but it was too late to give the Algolan another name—although not too late to give his complete one.
“I’m Duke Wayne,” he said.
“You’re a duke?”
“Yeah.”
“We are royalty.”
“That’s nice.”
“You must already know who we are.”
“No.”
“But you must.”
“No. Why?”
“Because you’re here to assassinate us.”
“What?”
“Our real name is Janesmith of Algol.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Princess Janesmith of Algol.”
“Very pleased to meet you.” Norton wondered if he was expected to bow.
“You must have discovered our identity.”
“I haven’t discovered your identity. You told me who you are.”
“We are Princess Janesmith, heir to the imperial throne of Algol.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Xenbashka Bashka Ka is our assumed name, but everyone on Hideaway knows who we really are.”
“I told you, I didn’t know.”
“We are a direct descendant of the First Empress, six hundred and fourteen generations ago. Why should we hide under a false identity? We are Princess Janesmith, next in line to the imperial crown.”
Janesmith wasn’t a very alien name, although that was the fault of the slate. It was a female name, however, and princess was a female title. If that’s what the alien really was.
“Why’s a princess running a clothes shop?” asked Norton.
“If you know who we are, you already know the answer.”
“All I know is what you’ve told me. You say you’re Princess Janesmith.”
“We are, and therefore we’re a threat to our sister, Mary-smith, Empress of Algol. Only an aristocrat, even an alien aristocrat such as yourself, is permitted to eliminate that threat by assassinating us. Are you here to execute us, Duke Wayne?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Yeah, er, I’m sure. Sure I’m sure.”
But Norton wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything. It was a reasonable assumption that his secret mission was not to kill Princess Janesmith, alias Xenbashka Bashka Ka.
He wouldn’t have been brought halfway across the galaxy for that—would he?
“If you’re not going to kill us,” said Princess Janesmith, “shall we have sex together?”
“Sex?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Why?” asked Janesmith. “Is it because we’re ugly? We think you’re very ugly, but we’ll close our eyes and imagine someone else.”
“You’re not ugly,” said Norton, and he realised he meant it.
Despite her blue skin and her strange appearance, the Algolan was better looking than a lot of human women. If she was a woman.
“If we weren’t a princess,” said Janesmith, “we’d have been drowned at birth.”
“You are, er, female, aren’t you?”
“We are, but we don’t look very feminine because we’re deformed.”
She looked feminine enough to Wayne Norton, and what he could see definitely wasn’t deformed.
“But my genitals are not deformed,” the princess continued, “and they’re compatible with yours.”
“Er… how do you know?”
“Because of my research on male Earth persons. You’re certain you are male?”
“Yeah. Totally. All male.”
“And because you are an aristocrat, you can have sex with us.”
“Can’t we, er, wait?”
Norton kept backing away, hoping to reach the wall, then feel his way around to the exit. He moved slowly, hoping that Janesmith wouldn’t follow. But she did.
“Why wait?” she asked.
“Er… shouldn’t we get to know each other better?”
“What for?”
“Because, er, it’s nice to talk first.”
“Is it like foreplay for you if we talk?”