Heinlein, Robert A – Friday

We went to number seven, the farthest dressing room, and entered. Georges closed the drapes, zipped them tight, flushed the water closet, then turned on the cold water and left it running. Speaking again in French, he told me that we were about to change our appearance without using disguises, so, please, my dear, get out of the clothes you are weaning and put on that suit you have in your jumpbag.

He explained in more detail, mixing French and English and continuing to flush the commode from time to time. I was to wear that scandalous Superskin job, more makeup than I usually do, and was to attempt to look like the famous Whore of Babylon or equivalent. “I know that’s not your métier, dear girl, but try.”

“I will attempt to be ‘adequate.’

“Ouch!”

“And you plan to wear Janet’s clothes? I don’t think they’ll fit.”

“No, no, I shan’t drag. Just swish.”

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t dress in women’s clothes; I will simply endeavour to appear effeminate.”

“I don’t believe it. All night, let’s try.”

We didn’t do much to me-just that one-piece job with the wet look that had hooked Ian, plus more makeup than I am used to, applied by Georges (he seemed to feel that he knew more about it than I did-he felt that way because he did), plus-once we were outside-that here-it-is-come-and-get-it walk.

Georges used on himself rather more makeup than he had put on me, plus that vile perfume (which he did not ask me to wear), plus at his neck a shocking-orange scarf I had been using-as a belt. He had me fluff his hair and spray it so that it stayed bouffant. That was all . . . plus a change in manner. He still looked like Georges-but he did not seem like the virile buck who had so wonderfully worn me out the night before.

I repacked my jumpbag and we left. The old moose at the newsstand widened her eyes and caught her breath when she saw me. But she said nothing as a man who had been leaning against the stand straightened up, pointed a finger at Georges, and said, “You. The Chief wants you.” Then he added, almost to himself, “I don’t believe it.”

Georges stopped and gestured helplessly with both hands. “Oh, dean me! Surely there has been some mistake?”

The flunky bit a toothpick he had been sucking and answered, “I think so, too, citizen-but I ain’t going to say so and neither are you. Come along. Not you, sister.”

Georges said, “I positively am not going anywhere without my dean sister! So there!”

That cow said, “Morrie, she can wait here. Sweetie, come around behind here with me and sit down.”

Georges gave me the barest negative shake of his head but I did not need it. If I stayed, either she would take me straight back to that dressing room or I would stuff her into her own trash can. I was betting on me. I will put up with that sort of nonsense in line of duty-she would not have been as unpleasant as Rocky Rockford- but not willingly. If and when I change my luck, it will be with someone I like and respect.

I moved closer to Georges, took his arm. “We have never been separated since Mama on her death bed told me to take care of him.” I added, “So there!” while wondering what that phrase means, if anything. Both of us pouted and looked stubborn.

The man called Mornie looked at me, back at Georges, and sighed. “Hell with it. Tag along, sister. But keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way.”

About six checkpoints later-at each of which an attempt was made to peel me off-we were ushered into the Presence. My first impression of Chief Confederate John Tumbril was that he was taller than I had thought he was. Then I decided that not wearing his headdress might make the difference. My second impression was that he was even homelier than pictures, cartoons, and terminal images showed him to be-and that opinion stayed. Like many another politico before him, Tumbril had turned a distinctive, individual ugliness into a political asset.