"Worried?"
"I'm always worried."
"I don't think anyone heard him. The shower was running hard enough to confuse a microphone."
There was another pause. Again Fenton laughed.
"What's the matter? You trying to figure out a diplomatic way to ask me if I've told anyone?"
"Have you?"
"Not yet."
"Do you intend to?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"Why not? Fingering another Red agent would be automatic brownie points."
"That's if brownie points are all you're after. The way I see it, there's too much bullshit down here for me to put all of my eggs into one basket. You know what I mean?"
"I think so, but maybe you'd better go on so there's no room for a misunderstanding."
Fenton snorted and shook his head.
"I like you, Vickers, I really like you. None of us know what we're getting into down here and I reckon you'd be a useful man in a tight spot. Even more useful if you owed me a considerable debt of gratitude."
"And are you going to let me owe that debt of gratitude?"
"I figure it's my best bet. It's not only that I like you, I also don't trust Lloyd-Ransom."
"So what am I? Your ace in the hole?"
"Something like that."
"I suppose I should thank you."
"It wouldn't hurt."
Vickers knew that Fenton had him right in his pocket.
"I thought I had more class than this."
"Ain't nothing classy about sitting on your own each night, reading a book and swilling scotch until the words all blur. It also ain't classy to be horny and not do nothing about it. All it is, is stressful. You hear me?"
"He could have a point there."
The three of them stepped onto the escalator that led down into the bright, smokey, jostling clatter of the handlers' messhall.
"Jesus, it looks like a prison break. You'd expect them to start banging their tin cups on the tables."
"Some nights they do."
"Jesus."
"Survivors can't be choosers."
"That's the new saying, right?"
Eggy had persuaded Vickers and Parkwood to accompany him on one of his now almost nightly visits to the handlers' quarters. According to Eggy, Fenton was already up there. They had taken a little persuading, but after a while a certain boredom with the monotony of the bunker's routine had won out and they'd followed him to the elevators feeling like guilty schoolboys on their way to the wrong side of the tracks. When Debbie learned of the intended venture, she'd first of all come on disgusted and then shut herself in her cubicle. It had increased the feeling that they were acting cheap but, their minds being made up by then, her reaction didn't deter them.
Vickers wasn't quite ready for the noise, the brightness and the crowding. Although they complained about the smallness of their group quarters on the lower level, they were, in comparison, luxuriously spacious. The handlers' messhall did look like something out of a prison movie. There was the same stark institutional functionality even though, in this instance, the function was fun. The flourescent plates were too hard and bright. They made everyone look pale and tired. The roar of rowdy, alcohol conversation fought with the throb of loud pressure pop and was then thrown back by the flat metal walls and ceiling that added a harsh, unattractive ring. By far the worst, however, was the crowding. There was a claustrophobic desperation to the way that the people crushed in together, laughing and shouting and drinking, teeth and smiles and eyes that kept looking and searching, trying to find a getaway from the knowledge that they were huddled in a hole in the ground while the world above them tried to end itself. And so many women, most of them extremely attractive. Women in uniforms, women in coveralls, women in bright civilian casuals, women in little more than their underwear. Over on the far side of the hall, three women were dancing on a table, bare breasted, lewd and drunk, encouraged by a chorus of catcalls, whistles and cheers. Vickers spotted Eight-Man shouting and laughing at the dancers but there was no sign of Fenton.
"You're damn right, survivors can't be choosers."
Eggy led the way, elbowing through the crowd toward where a line of women dispensed drinks across a stainless steel, cafeteria style counter. Eggy had clearly cut a wide swath up here in the handlers' section. A quite formidable number of women smiled, giggled, greeted, kissed him or made obscene suggestions. Eggy responded to it all as if it were no more than his reasonable due. Vickers and Parkwood also came in for a good deal of attention. The phrase "new meat" seemed to precede them across the hall. There were appraising stares and a few soft touches. Fingers briefly fondled their sleeves or brushed their thighs. Someone stroked Vickers' hair and he even felt a deft exploratory hand slide quickly between his legs. With the odds stacked five to one against them, these women didn't mess around. The crowd generated its own heat and Vickers was starting to sweat. Cramming people in like this was insane. If they ever did seal the bunker there was no way that people could survive years of this and still be anything like intact. Lloyd-Ransom couldn't seriously be thinking he could solve all of his inmate psychological problems by fear and assassination.
Eventually they reached the bar. Parkwood tried to order Johnny Walker Black but was curtly informed that the best he was going to get up here on Level Two was generic scotch, along with generic bourbon, generic vodka, generic gin and beer. Parkwood sighed and took what he could get. Eggy and Vickers also equipped themselves with drinks then turned and surveyed the crowd. They instantly provoked interest.
"Hi."
Half of the first pair was a petite redhead with green eyes, large breasts and a slight lisp.
"My name's Yvonne and this is Johanna."
"Hi Yvonne. Hi Johanna."
Johanna was taller. One of the hundreds of leggy Vegas types that had been corralled in the bunker. Her hair was cropped short in a style that made her look a little like Louise Brooks. She had a very pretty smile that reminded Vickers exactly how long it'd been since he'd had his arms around a woman.
"Are you more of the hard men from down in security?"
"That's us."
"They say a hard man is good to find."
Johanna gave Yvonne a bleak look.
"Ignore her. She watches too many old movies."
"She'd be hard to ignore."
Yvonne grinned. "Charm, even. That's a rarity in these grim days. Most of the men down here think they've only got to crook their little finger and we'll come running."
"We do, let's face it."
"Like your friend here. He's never heard of charm."
She nodded toward Eggy. At that moment he was in deep leering conversation with a trio of blondes who, although obviously not triplets, had taken some pains to look that way. He seemed poised to take all three to some dark place where they could all become better acquainted. Without thinking, Vickers threw back about half his drink. He immediately regretted what he'd done. The stuff burned like only really cheap booze could. It was the kind of stuff they served in Skid Row wino taverns. Usually it took you one of two ways, either maudlin or fighting mad.
"Christ."
Both Yvonne and Johanna laughed at his gasping surprise.
"No brand name booze up here. They don't figure we're worth it. We're just the gene pool."
There was undisguised malice in their laughter. The two women might be coming on to them but they didn't feel obligated to make a pretense of liking them. When you were confined to the first and second levels it was easy to become bitter about how all the good stuff was reserved for those down below.
"The deeper you go the better it gets, only we don't get to go deeper."