“Oh. So you’re working for WhiteStar?”
“Yes, but strictly contract. I don’t hold with industrial serfdom.”
“Oh. So is there much call for clowns on a liner?”
Svengali took another sip of rum before replying in a bored monotone: “The WhiteStar liner Romanov carries 2,318 passengers, 642 cabin crew, and 76 engineering and flight crew. By our next port of call, in eleven days’ time, that number will have increased by one — two births and, according to the actuaries, there’s a 70 percent probability of at least one death on this voyage, although there hasn’t been one yet. There are thirty-one assorted relatives and hangers-on of crew members aboard, too. Now, most of this mob are well into their extended adulthood, but of the total, 118 are prepubertal horrors suffering from too much adult attention — they’re mostly single children, or have siblings more than twenty years older than them, which makes for much the same species of spoiled brat. Someone has to keep the yard apes entertained, and they’re far more demanding than adults: cheap passives and interactives only go so far. In fact” — Svengali raised his glass and tipped the bartender a wink — “they’re exhausting. And that’s before you get me started on the so-called adults.”
Frank put his glass down. “The revue,” he said. “That damn cabaret act that keeps spamming me with invitations. Is that anything to do with you?”
Svengali looked disturbed. “Don’t blame me,” he said. “It’s official company Ents policy to rape the nostalgia market for all it’s worth. Consider yourself, a business traveler who can use his time productively on the journey: you’re an exception to the general rule, which is that most travelers are bored silly and can’t do anything about it. People travel to arrive at a destination. So, why would they want to stay awake through weeks of boredom, eating their heads off in an expensive stateroom when they could be tucked up in a vitrification pod in the cargo bay? Deadheads in steerage consume no oxygen, don’t get bored, and buy no expensive meals or entertainments en route. So the company has to lay on diversions and novelties if they are to extract the maximum revenue from their passengers. Do you realize that the Ents manager on this ship outranks the chief engineer? Or that there’s an unofficial revenue enhancement target of 50 percent over the bare room and board tariff per waking passenger?” He nodded slyly at Frank’s refilled glass of rum. “For all you know, I could be a revenue protection officer and this glass of mine is drinking water. I’m here to keep you drinking in this bar until you collapse under the table, to the greater glory of WhiteStar’s bottom line.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” Frank said with a degree of magisterial assurance that came from three shots of cask-strength rum and a finely tuned bullshit detector. “You’re a fucking anarchist, and your next drink’s on me, right?”
“Um.” Svengali sighed. “You’re making presumptions on my honesty, and I’ve only known you for five minutes, but I thank you from the bottom of my bitter and twisted little ventricles. What kind of blogger are you, to be giving precious alcohol away?”
“One who wants to get drunk as a skunk, in company. Hard fucking editorial, the copy fought back, and there are no politicians to go beat up on until we get wherever it is that we’re going. My momma always told me that drinking on your own was bad, so I’m doing my best to live up to her advice. Really, you won’t like me anymore when you get to know me; I’m heartless when I’m sober.”
“Hmm, I may be able to help you. I’ve got the heart of an eight-year-old boy; I keep it in a jar of formaldehyde in my luggage. Er, please excuse me — if that’s funny I’m supposed to bill you.”
“Don’t worry, it was dead on arrival.”
“That’s all right then.”
“Make mine a Tallisker,” said Frank, turning to the bartender. “What cigars have you got?”
“Cigars, you say?” asked Svengali: “I’m fresh out of bangers.”
“Yeah, cigars.” In the far corner the clean-living crew began singing something outdoors-ish and rhythmic in what sounded to Frank’s ear to be a dialect descended from German. Much thumping of beer glasses ensued. Svengali winced and took two fat Havanas from the offered humidor, then passed one to Frank. “Hey, you got a light?” Svengali shrugged and snapped his fingers. Flame blossomed.
“Thanks.” Frank took an experimental puff, winced slightly, and took another. “That’s better. Whisky and cigars, what else is there to life?”
“Good sex, money, and the death of enemies,” said Svengali. “Not right now, I hasten to add: experience and honesty compels me to admit that mixing shipboard life with sex, money, and murder is generally a bad idea. But once I get off at New Dresden — end of this circuit, for now, for me — I confess I might just indulge in one or the other preoccupation.”
“Not murder, I hope.”
Svengali grinned humorlessly. “And what would a simple clown have to do with that? The only things I murder are straight lines.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Frank took another puff from his cigar and let the smoke trickle out in a thick blue stream. He pretended not to notice the bartender surreptitiously inserting a pair of nose plugs. “Did you ever run into any refugees from Moscow?”
“Hmm, that would be about, what, four years ago indeed?”
“About that,” Frank agreed. “The event itself happened” — he paused to check his watch — “about four years and nine months ago, normalized empire time.”
“Hmm.” Svengali nodded. “Yes, there were outlying stations weren’t there? I remember that.” He put his cigar down for a moment. “It really bit the flight schedules hereabouts. Every ship had to stand to arms for rescue missions! Indeed it did. However, I was working for a most malignant circus impresario at the time, groundside on Morgaine — a woman by the name of Eleanor Ringling. She had this strange idea that clowning was in the nature of unskilled labor, and used us harder than the animals. In the end I actually had to escape from that one, false papers and cash down for a freezer ticket off planet because she was trying to tie me up in court over an alleged bond of indenture she’d faked my spittle on.” He snorted. “Think I’ll stay on the rum, what?”
“Be my guest.” Frank puffed on his cigar, which, while not on a par with his private supply, was well within the remit of various arms control committees and definitely suitable for a public drinking establishment. “Hmm. Ringling. Name rings a bell, I think. Didn’t she turn up dead under peculiar circumstances a couple of years ago? Caused a scandal or something.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment. But it wouldn’t surprise me if an elephant sat on her — the woman had a way of making enemies. If I’m ever on the same continent, I think I’ll make a point of visiting her grave. Just to make sure she’s dead, you understand.”
“You must have got on like a house on fire.”
“Oh we did, we did,” Svengali said fervently. “She was the arsonist and I was the accelerant: her predilection for being tied up and sat on a butt plug while being beaten with sausages by a man wearing a rubber nose was the ignition source. We—” He stopped, looking at something behind Frank.
“What is” — Frank turned round — “it?” he finished, looking up, and up again, at the silent and disapproving face of one of the youths from the other table. He was blond, lantern-jawed, and built like a nuclear missile bunker. He was so tall that he even succeeded in looking over Frank.
“You are poisoning the air,” he said, icily polite. “Please cease and desist at once.”