His eyes adjusted to the odd illumination after a time, and he was able to notice details. None of the doors had handles, and there were no signs to indicate what might lie behind any of them; instead, a small red square of what appeared to be glass was set into the wall beside each one. The corners, he realized, were mostly to the left, so that he was actually following a large rectangle around and around; he had come in on one of the intersecting passages, but he could not identify which one. If he continued to turn only at the ends of the corridors, he would retrace his steps over and over forever.
He had just reached this conclusion after almost fifteen minutes’ walk, and was about to pick a crossing passage at random, when a door a few paces ahead of him slid open and a woman stepped out.
He stopped, prepared to salute a lady, but did not nod his courtesy after all; this woman was obviously no lady. She wore a garment of rusty orange that accorded well with the yellow-brown walls, and with her sallow skin as well; it covered one shoulder, but dipped down on the other side well onto the curve of her breast. The skirt was a respectable near-ankle-length, but slit up either side, and the entire dress flowed as she moved, shifting about her so that John had occasional glimpses of far more of her anatomy than he felt he had any right to see.
“Hlo,” she said, “My name's Tuesday; what's yours?"
“Joel Meek-Before-Christ,” he answered shortly, cutting off his natural tendency to add, “At your service.” He was not ready to serve harlots. She had used that odd greeting he had first heard at the airport; he guessed it was a Heavener peculiarity. She had also given a blatantly false name-John knew of no one in the Bible, not even in the Apocrypha, named Tuesday or anything that resembled Tuesday. He looked her in the eye, refusing either to gawk at her body or turn his gaze away in embarrassment, and noticed that her eyes, like her greeting, had a peculiarity of their own, a very strange one indeed; each had a fold of skin at the inner corner that made them seem unnaturally far apart and somehow crooked. Her hair was very black and straight, and her skin an odd color. Distracted by her outrageous garb, he had not seen at first that she was apparently a freak.
“Joel,” she said. “Nice. Come here."
“I'm busy,” he said, and turned away, intending to retreat back to the last intersection he had passed.
“Sure you are,” she said, “wandering around like a lost satellite. You've gone past my door four times now.” She had the Heavener accent even more strongly than most, in addition to her other quirks.
“I have?” He turned back.
“Yes, you have. Come on in, and I'll tell you about it.” She motioned at the open doorway.
John considered quickly. He had no idea who this woman was-though her occupation was certainly obvious, probably something she had been forced into as a result of her physical peculiarities, which would have precluded a respectable marriage-but he also had no idea of where he would find any useful information. He had expected to find the building full of people he could follow, signs he could read, and other indications of where things were; these empty, featureless corridors had thrown him badly off-stride. This whore might well be able to tell him something of what was going on. He had never had much contact with whores, but his impression was that most were not particularly bright, and could be manipulated readily.
“All right,” he said. He followed her through the door; it slid silently shut behind him.
Chapter Eight
“But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."-Proverbs 5:4
The room was furnished in a degree of luxury John had never before imagined. The floor was broken into curving sections at various levels one step up or down from one another, all covered with thick red carpeting so soft and lush it seemed more like a low fog wafting about their ankles. The walls and ceiling were opalescent and softly glowing, and there were no windows. Velvet cushions in a hundred shades of red and gold were scattered about, ranging in size from puffs the size of his hand to pillows big enough for two to sleep on. Some were gathered together into couches, and John could not tell whether they were mounted on a frame of some sort, or merely arranged.
Pearly tables of various sizes and shapes-all curved-floated at various altitudes; John looked for the wires that supported them, but could not detect them. Several held bottles, glasses, or platters of multicolored crystal that contained strange food and drink.
There was not a single hard corner or rough feature anywhere in the entire chamber, no surface that was not either gleaming smooth or upholstered in rich fabrics. The woman, sleek and smooth in her flowing dress, fit in well with her surroundings; John, in his rough leather jacket and worn jeans, did not. It was all appallingly decadent.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.
“A little water, maybe,” he replied, to be polite.
“Oh, no, you must try this!” She handed him a stemmed glass of something a very pale blue in color.
Reluctantly, he accepted it and took a sip. He choked, gasped, and spat it out immediately.
The woman giggled.
He glared at her; when he had recovered his breath he asked, “What is that?"
“Just a liqueur.” She saw his anger and forced herself to stop smiling.
He stared at the glass in his hand. “Liquor? You mean distilled spirits?"
“That's right."
“I can't drink that! Strong drink is sinful!” He started to fling the glass away, then caught himself and placed it gently on a nearby table.
“You drink wine, don't you?"
“That's different."
“It's still alcohol."
“Only a little. That stuff-it burns!"
“You're not used to it, that's all. It's only about eighty proof.” She sipped deeply at her own glass, then smiled.
He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I can't drink that.” He was more certain than ever that the Heaveners were not native to Godsworld; he had never heard of anyone on Godsworld, not even the most radical of heretics, who condoned strong drink. God had given mankind the gift of fermentation, so that alcohol might ease the strains of life, but it was Satan who invented distillation, to turn the blessing into a curse.
Not that distillation didn't have its uses-alcohol made a good fuel for lamps or even some machines, but not for men.
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Tuesday said. “Against your religion?” The phrase seemed almost mocking, somehow. “Try this, then.” The new beverage she offered was richly red.
John sipped it warily; it had a tangy, fruity taste and no alcoholic content that he could detect. “What is it?” he asked.
“Just a fruit punch.” She smiled enigmatically.
“Thank you,” John said, sipping again.
His hostess raised her own glass, still half full of the blue liqueur, then sank back onto a pile of cushions. John had not noticed them there behind her; it was as if they had slipped into place as she descended.
He found a large cushion of his own and seated himself gingerly. The thing seemed to shift about to accommodate him more comfortably, but he convinced himself that was merely overwrought imagination, brought on by the tension of being in the enemy's headquarters and being confronted by these strange events and this strange, freakish woman. “Now,” he said when he was settled, “you said you'd tell me all about this place."
“Well, no,” she answered, “I said I'd tell you about being lost and going in circles.” She shifted, leaning to one side; her dress slipped back to reveal most of one thigh.
“Tell me, then."
“You're not from the Citadel, are you? No, I can see you aren't. You came here from one of the other villages, probably one well outside Dawes’ little protectorate. You wanted to find out what was going on here-so you walked into this building, which is conveniently left open and unguarded, and then wandered about until I found you. Am I right?"