He brought the vial to his desk, checked the gauge to be sure the fix was adequate, and waited for Lizbeth. The door slid open, and she came in carrying a small, red leather woman’s kit.
She laid the kit on the desk, her breasts shading to a pale chartreuse as she stepped into the shadow of the drapes. She snapped open the lid, selected a silver vial, and asked, “Sure you won’t try a mixed fix? Grand kicks, father.”
“I’m straight,” he told her.
“On what?”
“Morph.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s your snort, but why make life short?”
The hands of the chronometer nudged nine-thirty. “Time to kick,” Van said. He placed the silver vial on the desk, swabbed his arm with alcohol, and then picked up the hypo again. He traced it along the vein, waiting until the indicator told him he’d score. He glanced at Lizbeth, who had lifted her short skirt and was running the vial along the inside of her thigh, using her legs as most women did, preferring not to mark her arms, which were constantly exposed.
“Well,” Van said, “happy.”
“Here’s to you.”
They pressed the buttons on their vials simultaneously, and Van felt the sharp, slender needle puncture his vein, felt the drug ooze from the vial into his blood stream, felt the vial draw back the drug mixed with blood, pump it into his body, again, in, out, in.
“Destruction,” he murmured, his eyes closed.
“Doom,” Lizbeth answered, her eyes beginning to glaze, her mouth partly open as the drug took hold.
Van released the button, twisted the cap of the vial so that it would clean the needle, and then put it back into the kit, alongside the other empties. Lizbeth snapped shut the lid on her case.
“This is good stuff,” he told her. “Where’d you order it?”
“Swift’s Drugs; we’ve always got it from them.”
“Mm? Well, this is unusually good. You might order more at once. We may get some of the same lot. Incidentally, is everyone in the office supplied?”
She nodded briefly. “Just ordered a new shipment of benzejuana yesterday.”
“Benzejuana? Who’s the square?”
“One of the stock clerks. A Ree convert; he’s breaking in slow.”
“Mother, how slow can you get? Give him a pop of herro tomorrow. That or two weeks’ notice. Groove?”
“I understand,” she said. Her speech was slow, her lids half-covering her natural blue eyes.
“What brews this eve, Liz?”
“With me?”
“Uhm.”
“Nothing.”
“Time we changed that, don’t you think?”
Lizbeth smiled. She made a small movement with her hand. “Whatever you say.”
“Fine. I’ll be by at twenty. Leave your number, yes?”
“Formal?”
Van shrugged. “Lips and breasts,” he said. “Skin tint optional.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Father, I’m dead,” she said gaily.
“Fine. Send the girl in, Liz. Tell her I’ve an appointment at...” He lifted his arm, glanced at his wrist chronometer. “...nine forty-five. Tell her we’ll have to make this short.”
“Grooved,” Liz said, and then she was gone.
Van pulled up his breeches, adjusting them higher on his waist. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror set next to the bar. The breeches were skin-tight, and the new stuff he’d used on his chest had given him a wild crop of hair there. He nodded in satisfaction and sat down behind his desk. In a few moments, the door opened, and the girl entered.
He didn’t need a second look to know she was a Realist. She was wearing a skirt that reached some six inches below her knees, and the blouse she wore had long sleeves and a neckline that hugged the throat. She wore no makeup, her lips a pale pink against the whiteness of her face. The only vivid color about her was in her hair, a lustrous red, and that was gathered at the nape of her neck in a tight bun. She wore flat shoes, of course, de-emphasizing the curve of her legs, and she was constrictingly brassiered and girdled.
“Mr. Brant?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“My name is Lydia Silverstein.”
“Have a seat, won’t you, Miss Silverstein?” He indicated a chair, and thought of what his own name had been before he’d joined the Vikes. John Branoski. Van Brant was a definite improvement.
The girl sat in the chair he offered, crossing her legs, and demurely pulling her skirt down.
“What can I do for you, Miss Silverstein?”
“I’m a writer,” she said.
“I gathered. Most people who come to literary agents are.”
Her green eyes widened slightly, and her lips parted. “Yes. Yes, I suppose they are.” She sucked in a deep breath, the bra harnessing her effectively. “I’ve written some stereoshows.”
“Have you?” Van said solicitously.
“Yes. But I’ve been having trouble getting them aired.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’m a Ree.”
Van smiled and looked at the girl’s blouse. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I suppose you’re wondering why I came to you.”
“Well...”
The buzzer sounded on his desk, and he clicked down the toggle. “Excuse me,” he said. Then, “Yes?”
“I’ve got Mr. Alloway on seven.”
“Thanks, Liz.” Van turned, snapped on seven, and focused. “Hello, Walt.”
“Hello, Van. What brews?” Alloway was a darkly handsome lad who’d recently had a nose bob. He was wearing crimson breeches, his chest curling with blond hair that was striking against the bronze of his skin. The hair on his head had been tinted blond, too, leaving his eyebrows their original black for a really unusual effect.
“I was wondering how you’re getting along on the new Senso,” Van said.
“All right, I suppose.”
“Ails? Ills?”
“Small smells, that’s all. I need a chick with a frontage. These damn Senso things demand too much.”
“Would you rather be back scribing for the pabacks?”
“Don’t make glip, father.”
“I’m the original glib lip,” Brant told him. “Since when is the scribe casting the show?”
“How do you mean?”
“You said you needed a chick with frontage.”
“Oh. Yeah. You ever work with Lana Davis?”
“Only to take her checks. Why?”
“She’s got Ree tendencies, I swear.”
Van glanced quickly at Miss Silverstein, and then turned back to Walt. “How so?”
“You know how these Sensory shows work. I swear, father, the step below is a better one. I’d rather do tri-dims any day of the week.”
“Less slop and more chop, Walt. I’ve got someone with me.”
“All right, I’ll straight-point it. I’ve got a busty bazoo in one scene, nice bit of biz with it. Davis doesn’t want falsies; she says the viewers can spot them and feel them. She wants the real thing. Is that Realist, or is it?”
“She’s right,” Van said. “She’s been producing these Sensos for a long time now. She knows what the suckers want.”
“But the real thing? There ain’t no such chick, Van, not the way I’ve written it.”
“So change the script.”
“That’s the crux, Van. She likes it the way it is!” He spread his hands helplessly, shaking his head. “She’s crazy Van, I swear.”
“Then do it her way. Pop over to Deborah Dean’s tonight. You’ll see plenty of frontage. You might be able to get something.”