"Are you loose?"
"Quit trying to change the subject."
"Marjorie, you wouldn't believe me and you would babble. Let's go up to the dining room before all the martinis dry up."
Lunch was okay but Trevor did not have Georges' imagination, knowledge of cooking, and skill at intimidating a maŒtre d'h"tel. Without Georges' flair the food was good, standard, North American cuisine, the same in Bellingham as in Vicksburg.
I was preoccupied; discovering that Janet's credit card had been invalidated had upset me almost more than the horrid disappointment of not finding Ian and Janet at home. Was Janet in trouble? Was she dead?
And Trevor had lost some of the cheerful enthusiasm a stud should display when the game is afoot. Instead of staring lecherously at me, he too seemed preoccupied. Why the change in manner? My demand to see a picture of his wife? Had I made him self-conscious thereby? It seems to me that a man should not engage in the hunt unless he is on such terms with his wife or wives that he can recount the lurid details at home to be giggled over. Like Ian. I don't expect a man to "protect my reputation" because, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they never do. If I want a man to refrain from discussing my sweaty clumsiness in bed, the only solution is to stay out of bed with him.
Besides, Trevor had mentioned his wife first, hadn't he? I reviewed itÄyes, he had.
After lunch he perked up some. I was telling him to come back here after his business appointment because I was punching in as a guest in order to have comfort as well as privacy in making satellite calls (true) and that I might stay overnight (also true), so come back and call me and I would meet him in the lounge (conditionally trueÄI was so lonely and troubled I suspected that I would tell him to come straight up).
He answered, "I'll call first so that you can get that man out but I'll come straight up. No need to make the trip twice. But I'll send the bubbly up; I won't carry it."
"Hold it," I said. "You have not yet sold me your nefarious purpose. All I promised was the opportunity to present your sales talk. In the lounge. Not in my bedroom."
"Marjorie, you're a hard woman."
"No, you're a hard man. I know what I'm doing." A sudden satori told me that I did know. "How do you feel about artificial persons? Would you want your sister to marry one?"
"Do you know one who might be willing to? Sis is getting to be a bit long in the tooth; she can't afford to be particular."
"Don't try to evade me. Would you marry one?"
"What would the neighbors think? Marjorie, how do you know I haven't? You saw my wife's picture. Artifacts are supposed to make the very best wives, horizontally or vertically."
"Concubines, you mean. It isn't necessary to marry them. Trevor, you not only are not married to one; you don't know anything about them but the popular myths... or you wouldn't say `artifact' when the subject is `artificial persons.'
"I'm sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. I misused the term so that you would not suspect that I am one."
"Oh, babble! You aren't one, or I would know it. And while you probably would go to bed with one, you wouldn't dream of marrying one. This is a futile discussion; let's adjourn it. I need about two hours; don't be surprised if my room terminal is busy. Tape a message and curl up with a good drink; I'll be down as soon as possible."
I punched in at the desk and went up, not to the bridal suiteÄin the absence of Georges that lovely extravagance would have made me tristeÄbut to a very nice room with a good, big, wide bed, a luxury I had ordered from a deep suspicion that Trevor's low-key (almost reverse) salesmanship was going to cause him to wind up in it. The difficult louse.
I put the thought aside and got to work.
I called the Vicksburg Hilton. No, Mr. and Mrs. Perreault had punched out. No, no forwarding address. Sorree!
So was I, and that synthetic computer voice was no comfort. I called McGill University in Montr‚al and wasted twenty minutes
"learning" that, Yes, Dr. Perreault was a senior member of this university but was now at the University of Manitoba. The only new fact was that this Montr‚al computer synthesized English or French with equal ease and always answered in the language in which it was addressed. Very clever, these electron pushersÄtoo clever, in my opinion.
I tried Janet's (Ian's) call code in Winnipeg, learned that their terminal was out of service at the subscribers' request. I wondered why I had been able to receive news on the terminal in the Hole earlier this day. Did "out of service" mean only "no incoming calls"? Was such arcanum a close-held secret of ST. and T.?
ANZAC Winnipeg bounced me around through parts of its computer meant for the traveling public before I got a human voice to admit that Captain Tormey was on leave because of the Emergency and the interruption of flights to New Zealand.
Ian's Auckland code answered only with music and an invitation to record a message, which was no surprise as Ian would not be there until semiballistic service resumed. But I had thought that I might catch Betty and/or Freddie.
How could one go to New Zealand with the SBs out of service? You can't ride a seahorse; they're too small. Did those big waterborne, Shipstone-driven freighters ever carry passengers? I didn't think they had accommodations. Hadn't I heard somewhere that some of them didn't even have crews?
I believed that I had a detailed knowledge of ways to travel superior to the professional knowledge of travel agents because, as a courier, I often moved around by means that tourists can't use and ordinary commercial travelers don't know about. It vexed me to realize that I had never given thought to how to outwit the fates when all SBs are grounded. But there is a way, there is always a way. I ticked it off in my mind as a problem to solveÄlater.
I called the University of Sydney, spoke with a computer, but at last got a human voice that admitted knowing Professor Farnese but he was on sabbatical leave. No, private call codes and addresses were never given outÄsorry. Perhaps customer service might help me.
The Sydney information service computer seemed lonely, as it
was willing to chat with me endlesslyÄanything but admit that either Federico or Elizabeth Farnese was in its net. I listened to a sales pitch for the World's Biggest Bridge (it isn't) and the World's Grandest Opera House (it is), so come Down Under andÄ I switched off reluctantly; a friendly computer with a Strine accent is better company than most people, human or my sort.
I then tackled the one I had hoped to be able to skip: Christchurch. There was a probability that Boss's HQ had sent word to me care of my former family when the move was madeÄif it was a move and not a total disaster. There was a very remote possibility that Ian, unable to send a message to me in the Imperium, would send one to my former home in hopes that it would be forwarded. I recalled that I had given him my Christchurch call code when he gave me the code for his Auckland flat. So I called my erstwhile homeÄ
Äand got the shock that one gets in stepping on a step that isn't there. "Service is discontinued at the terminal you have signaled. Calls are not being relayed. In emergency please signal ChristchurchÄ" A code followed that I recognized as Brian's office.
I found myself doing the time-zone correction backward to get a wrong answer that would let me put off callingÄthen I snapped out of it. It was afternoon here, just past fifteen, so it was tomorrow morning in New Zealand, just past ten, a most likely time of day for Brian to be in. I punched his call, got a satellite hold of only a few seconds, then found myself staring into his astonished face. "Marjorie!"
"Yes," I agreed. "Marjorie. How are you?"
"Why are you calling me?"
I said, "Brian, please! We were married seven years; can't we at least speak politely with each other?"