“Tom Cat, these doors are soundproof; you can stop being formal.”
He relaxed a little. “Okay, Pussy Cat.”
“So give us a kiss and sit down. That hall door locks itself. Winnie is the only one who could walk in and she won’t.”
“Pussy Cat, sometimes you make me nervous.”
“Oh, piffle.” She moved into his arms. “I do have a question to ask you—advice that I want. You can discuss it with O’Neil and get his advice, and any of the guards. But it is your advice I want; the rest is cover-up.”
“Woman, quit talking and shove me some mouth.”
Joan did so, a long thorough kiss. Presently he said hoarsely, “You don’t have much on under this.”
“I don’t have anything on under it. But don’t get me distracted, Thomas Cattus; let me get my question in. I’m going nightclubbing tonight—Jake and me, Winnie and Dr. Garcia. They’re going to want to take us to cubes. I want to see rough places. I figure you know where they are.”
“Mmm…Eunice, the up-high places are all in bad turf.”
“Well, are they safe once we’re inside? And can one get inside safely?”
“Uh. . . there’s one, has its own inside parking and as good armor as the doors you have. Look, I’ll bring up a list, addresses and so forth, and everybody’s suggestions. But I’ll star my own.”
“Good. Thank you, Tom Cat.”
“God, but you feel good. Do we have time? Can I lock that other door?”
“If I’m not worried about Winnie, why should you be? Grab a pillow and put me on the floor.”
The party made rendezvous in Joan’s lounge. Jake Salomon had elected to dress with ultra old-fashioned formality: maroon tuxedo jacket and trousers, with white turtleneck. The silky knit made a splendid background for his gold ankh necklace. Dr. Garcia was just as formal in modern mode: scarlet tights boldly padded, stretch-fit white mess jacket with jabot of pearls and black lace. Little Winifred wore her new emerald dress with floor-length skirt—no body paint as Joan had advised but blushes caused her skin to change again arid again from extremely fair to rosy glow. On her forehead in caste-mark position was a single emerald.
Jake looked at her. “Little one, what holds that solitaire in place? Insurance?”
She blushed again but answered saucily, “It’s on’ a corkscrew, sir. Shall I unscrew it and show you?”
“No, I’m afraid you might be telling the truth.”
“Never in mixed company, sir. Actually it’s the adhesive we use on bandages. Won’t come loose even with soap and water but alcohol takes it right off.”
“Then be careful not to spill your drinks that high.”
“Oh, I don’t drink, Counselor; I learned my lesson long ago. I’ll be drinking Cuba Libre without the ‘libre’ and screwdrivers with no drive to them.”
“Doctor, let’s leave her at home; she’s just a chaperon.”
“Would you make me stay home, Counselor? Just for not drinking?”
“Just for calling me ‘Counselor’ if you do it again. And for calling me ‘sir’. Winifred, men my age do not care to be reminded of it by pretty little girls. After sundown my name is Jake.”
“Yes, Counselor,” Winifred answered meekly.
Jake sighed. “Doctor, someday I hope to win an argument with a woman.”
“If you do, tell Dr. Rosenthal. Rosy is writing a book on the difference in mental processes between male and female.”
“A dreamer. Eunice, does that thing cover you any better when you stand up? And what is it?”
“It’s a hula skirt, “Jake. And it does.” Joan Eunice was wearing a floor-length skirt, with her torso covered with a myriad glittering stars. They faded out gradually at neck and shoulders. The skirt was ‘thousands of gold nylon threads overlying more thousand~ of deep blue threads.
As she was seated, the mass of threads fell away from her graceful legs. Now she stood up; the threads fell back into a solid curtain. “See, Jake? A plain gold skirt. But when I move”—she walked—”the blue underneath keeps flashing through.”
“Yes, and you, too. Panties?”
“A rude question. The Polynesians never heard of pants until the missionaries corrupted them.”
“That’s not a responsive answer—”