Vickers hadn't opened his scotch yet. The old fashioned metal cap was fighting back. He swirled his ice. "Yeah… right."
"My name's Lavern Brisk."
It was that moment. He extended a hand. "Mort… Mort Vickers."
She squeezed it.
"Well, hi, Mort."
"Hi Lavern."
It wasn't as crazy as it seemed at first. He had no choice but to go into Las Vegas and wait for someone to contact him. If he had to be a sitting duck, he might as well use his own name. It would at least hasten the process. He finally wrestled the cap off the scotch. He sipped it and smiled. The TV screen had given up on the Russians. Stanley Frog was doing something offensive in a polkadot suit. Lavern again pointed at the screen.
"You mind if I shut this off?"
"Not one bit."
He was fascinated by the dragon decals. He'd made a decision and he might as well get into the spirit of it. Lavern seemed to be doing the same. She cracked her second readymix, eased over into the corner of her seat, kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet up under her.
"I can't handle Stanley Frog. He's got to be an all-time slime."
Vickers began to ponder on just how soft and pink she might be beneath the suit. He found that, despite himself, he was actually starting to relax. The scotch helped, easing his imagination as far as wondering just how shockable she might be, in just how much experimentation she'd be happy to engage.
"I travel a lot. I manage to avoid him."
"I didn't think there was anywhere on the planet that didn't get Stanley Frog. He's on every fucking satellite."
Her propensity to talk might prove to be a problem.
"Or do you work off-planet?"
Vickers blinked. He'd known that he would have to concoct some story sooner or later. He'd been so busy speculating about Lavern that he'd been hoping it would be later. The question was sufficiently close to home to prevent anything coming trippingly to his tongue. The best he could do was mysterious.
"Not quite."
There was something watchful in Lavern's eyes. This woman might be horny but she wasn't stupid.
"What's that supposed to mean? You work in midair?"
"That's where I am now."
The language of her body became a good deal less inviting.
"You can be pretty oblique when you want to."
"I'm sorry. There are times when I tend to fall into it. What I was going to say is that I did once make the jump up to one of the donuts."
Once again the truth was as good as anything else. Certainly Lavern's eyebrows shot up. She even clutched at his arm.
"You really went into space? Oh, I'd love to do that. It must have been so exciting."
"Actually, I hated every minute. I was sick as a dog from liftoff to touchdown. I sincerely hope I never have to do it again."
The clutch relaxed. Lavern drew her hand away, she was no longer impressed. Vickers smiled and attempted to regain ground.
"A lot of things aren't as wonderful as they appear."
"That's not a very romantic view of the world."
"It's not a very romantic world. The best we can do is take our pleasures where we find them."
Lavern made a wry grimace and swallowed the last of her third martini. "That's true enough." She beckoned to a cabin attendent. He seemed to be forgiven for not liking space travel. Vickers stretched out in his seat.
"Where will you be staying when we land?"
Lavern turned from ordering. A half-smile played around the corners of her mouth.
"I have a reservation at the Pyramid. How about you?"
Eye contact was direct. Vickers' smile turned into a grin. He half shrugged.
"I hadn't really made any plans. This trip was kind of spur of the moment. I'd been thinking that I might check into one of the older joints on the strip, but I should go to the Pyramid too."
The pause was long and the eye contact total. Then Lavern produced a lipstick and a tiny mirror from her bag. She checked her reflection.
"That could be nice. Maybe we'll have the chance to get to know each other better."
The desk clerk was beckoning him back. Lavern, with a bellhop in tow with her luggage, was almost at the elevator. She turned and called to him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, go on ahead. I'll catch up with you."
She nodded and was swallowed up by the crowd around the banks of elevators. Vickers went back to the desk.
"I didn't want to say anything in front of the lady but…"
Vickers scowled. "I don't understand."
"The Intercontinental Pyramid can't accept you as a guest under the present circumstances."
"What are you talking about? I just registered and paid for three days in advance."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Donne. We have to think of the security of the other guests."
Vickers had registered under the name of John Donne. There was no way, in the time, that they could have found out who he was.
"What's the matter with me?"
"Nothing, sir. It's just that you don't have any credit cards or any backup identification. You could be anybody."
Vickers jerked his head in the direction that he'd last seen Lavern.
"I just don't want this visit to be on the record. It might prove embarrassing."
"I can understand that, sir, but there are a lot of strange people on the wander these days."
"I'm not on the wander, damn it. I'm a respectable citizen."
"The trouble is that you have no way of proving that, sir."
"So what am I supposed to do? Stay in some fleabag motel full of roamers and structurals?"
"We might possibly reach an accommodation."
Vickers raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
"If you felt like leaving a further sum on deposit, we could issue you with a temporary hotel credit card. It'd make for greater convenience for you and give us a greater sense of security."
"I bet it would."
"I don't see any other way around it."
"In other words, I have to put up a bond to stay in your damned hotel."
"It's for your greater safety and pleasure."
"So how much do you want?"
"That would be up to you, sir."
Vickers was resigned. "Would two thousand make Intercontinental Hotels feel any more secure?"
The desk clerk smiled one of those bland, computerized, cream-of-wheat smiles that they teach at low echelon corporate seminars with names like The Human Interface.
"I'm sure that would be adequate."
The clerk prepared the temporary card. It was one of the fancy new clear-plastic kind that are almost impossible to read. He extended it to Vickers on a small silver tray.
"If you'd just validate it by placing your thumb on the blue area."
Vickers silently cursed. The damn card was printcoded. In half an hour everyone with access to the hotel computers would know who he was. There seemed to be no way around it. Both the right and wrong people would find out who he was eventually. With a sense of plunging off the deep end, he pressed down on the small blue panel on the card. Finally he counted out two thousand dollars for the impassively pleasant clerk. As he walked away from the desk he wondered exactly what they'd find. Presumably Victoria had continued with the makebelieve that he was an employee who'd been terminated in high disgrace. He could easily be listed as having no job, no corporate line and, in fact, no visible means of support. The only redeeming feature of all this was that, if fired, no bounty would be payable on him. Of course, there still could be amateurs with old information.
The main elevators were lavish affairs of Art Nouveax glass that ran up and down the sloping sides of the huge entertainment complex. For twelve years the Intercontinental Pyramid had been the single landmark by which the city of Las Vegas was recognized across the world. By sheer volume, it was the world's largest solid structure. Unlike its ancient cousins in the Egyptian desert, its four faces were more than just bare areas of stepped stone. The surface of this modern extravaganza was textured with terraces, glass canopies, solar reflectors and the tracks of its dozens of elevators. Of course, the Las Vegas dome would have eclipsed the Pyramid if the dome had ever been built. The dome, which had been intended to enclose a whole section of the city like an air-conditioned moon colony, occupied another place in history as, so far unchallenged, the world's greatest development swindle. All that was left was a couple of abandoned sections of block-wide base ring.