“Goddamn it, you salt flat romeo! That hurt? ”
But Nikolai had Nova in his sights. Fresh from the sensory drugs that had aroused him but not satisfied him, he was ready for a woman. Any woman.
“Hold it, amigo,” I said, stepping forward. A sudden bearlike arm swept me aside and I fell, my breath knocked out for a moment. I came to my feet to see her struggling in his grasp, her face more annoyed than frightened. I started forward and the third man, hitherto silent, flashed a blade at me.
Perhaps if I had thought I would have been killed. But I didn’t think, I just responded. As Shigeta had trained me, I did not go into any predictable response of karate or kung fu, but rather the deceptive blend of many disciplines called mazeru, suitable for those who do not wish to completely devote their lives to learning one discipline. I was of the lowest grade, that of gunjin, or “soldier” class. I used my knee kick against the knife-man to propel myself at the hulking Nikolai. I wrapped myself around his head, carrying him with me, rolling as we hit the ground. He came up with a roar, blocking the redhead who was lurching in toward me. I spun, getting Nikolai with a boot in the face and clipping the redhead with a usui blow that ruined his throat. I heard Shigeta’s voice. Except for training or exhibition you never must fight. But if you must, fight to win. Combat is not polite conversation.
The redhead was down, choking hoarsely. The knife-man was glaring at me, holding his kneecap. “You busted it, you goddamn tank thief!”
Nikolai was on his hands and knees, shaking his head. Blood from his smashed nose was dripping into the pinkish ground. I looked at Nova, who was looking at the three men. Her eyes came up to me with a kind of horror.
“They were just a little borracho. I could have handled them.”
I gestured towards the ripped shoulder seam of her warmsuit.
“Sure, you could.”
The man with the broken kneecap was swearing at me. “You rusted crawler, you slipped your blessed latch! You fucked up my fucking knee, you dumb cleanboot!”
“Clear your core,” I said to him. “Shut up and we’ll get you a medic.”
“We just wanted to play with the lady, goddamn it!”
“Maybe the lady didn’t want to play,” I said.
“You tumbled your gyro or something? Hurting a man like that?”
I didn’t mention his knife. I gave Nikolai another look, then I went into the Elysium Tripper and spoke to the lean dispenser just inside. I came back out and spoke to Nova. “A medic team will be over from Dome Eight in a few minutes.” She was on her knees trying to get the redhead to breathe easier. She gave me a venomous look.
“You could have killed them!”
I rolled my eyes upwards. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go to the Inn.”
“And leave them?” She shrugged away my suggestion and I became angry. One minute they’re trying to rape her and the next she’s being Florence Nightingale on Mars.
“Which way is it?” I asked. She waved an arm toward the noisiest part of the dome. Already a few drunken and curious bystanders were gathering.
“God bless,” one of them said as I shouldered past. “Nikolai and his grunts. I wonder if the Tolliver boys did it to ’em.”
The Redplanet Inn was the biggest structure I had yet seen on the planet. Only a few months younger than the oldest dome, it was older than I was and considerably more famous. A scandal when it was first constructed, it had become a legend simply because the independent nuvomartians wanted it there and to hell with the bluenoses back home. Earth
had
plenty
of
sex
and
entertainment
places
and
computer-controlled roving bisexual professionals. Earth had tri-di sex shows, labor contracts that amounted to slavery in a vastly overpopped world, and specialists galore. Earth had “balancing salons” where men or women could “center” themselves by experiencing carefully applied amounts of everything from extreme pleasure to extreme masochism. But all Mars had was the Redplanet Inn and others like it. I can’t say I disapproved. Sex on Earth had become almost ritualistic, determinedly democratic, all-too-casual, and very, very zongo. They sold everything with sex, and if that wasn’t enough, the SensoryTrips provided anything you thought you might have missed. Even illegal pleasure-center brain probes were to be had, for a price. There was something old-fashioned about the Inn. Or perhaps the word is timeless. There was direct and personal social intercourse. This was no Dial-A-Prostie service, impersonal and efficient as hell.
“Whirr-click! 1.8-meter female, brunette, 101.6—60.96—81.44
centimeters, D-cup. Fellatio skill rating 12, as requested. Conversant with the Baroque Period and the subkingdom Embryophyta. B.A., Saskatchewan College of Erotic Arts. Minimum credit, period one, applied Account XL-7-4522-T-8733 . Whirr-click! 2.1 meter male, blonde, 29 centimeter penis, Type 6 muscularity, Fornicon rating 11. Conversant with the Zorgasm Method, Early American Football, and interior decoration of the Plastiform Period. M.A., School for Creative Sexuality, Boston; B.A. from Climaxite. Minimum credit, periods one to five, applied Account GA-6-487-W-8990. Whirr-click!
As per request.
Just what you’ve always wanted. So perfect you keep buying more of them, trying variations. Pleasure units. Use and discard.
“American Concubine, good morning!” Nymphetron, Inc. “Fille de Joie, salut, cherie!” Brutes, Unlimited. “Hello, handsome, here’s my card. I’m with the Adventuress Group.” The Wantons of the World, Ltd. “Fantasy Man, of New York and Paris.” Black Stud, Chicago. “Let us cater your next affair . . .” Dial-A-Stud, ask for our catalogue of certified service men. “Perhaps you saw our ad on the telly . . .”
At the Redplanet Inn you took your chances. Paramour, Inc. was a few million miles away. The Oscar Wilde Society hadn’t been heard of here. Nymphomania was a word, not a corporation. Johann thrust a mug of something bitter and alcoholic into my hand. He had his arm around a cheerful woman named Bettina, and they were laughing. Synthetic Martian panels ringed the main room, holding in the noise. The new arrivals were being toasted, especially the flush-faced women.
Hundreds of drama tapes had reconstructed the Inn, usually larger and gaudier than it was. Top vidstars portrayed the golden-hearted whores, with blossoming breasts and costumes of rich fabrics. Laser shootouts had cut the room to ribbons in a dozen adventures. Michael Tackett and Gregory Battle had faced down the heavies here. Margo Masters and Lila Fellini had leaned against various versions of the big bar, cut from a single slab of ruby-rock and polished to a high sheen. It was déjà-vu, multiplied and overlaid.
I was halfway through my second drink of local top-pop when Nova came in. I heard the shouts before I saw her, and she let someone lift her to his shoulders only to be able to find me.
There was fire in her eyes.
“Wheaten just died,” she said. That had to be the redhead. “A good man gone because you had to play hero.”