Trigger and Friends by James H. Schmitz

* * *

She’d showered and was studying the black gown’s effect before the mirror when the ComWeb chimed.

“Permission for audio intrusion granted,” Trigger said casually without looking around. She was getting used to this sort of thing.

“Thank you, Miss Drellgannoth,” said the ComWeb. “A package from the Beldon Shop has been deposited in your mail transmitter.” It signed off.

Beldon Shop? Trigger frowned, laid the gown across a chair and went over to the transmitter receptacle. She opened it. A flat small green package, marked “The Styles of Beldon,” slid out. A delicate scent came trailing along with it. A small white envelope clung to the package’s top.

Inside the envelope was a card. It read:

“A peace offering. Would you wear it to dinner in token of forgiveness? Very humbly, Q.”

Trigger found herself smiling and wiped off the smile. Then she let it come back. No point in staying grim with the character! She pulled the package tab and it opened up. There were three smaller packages inside.

She opened the first of these and for a moment gazed doubtfully at four objects like green leaf buds, each the size of her thumb. She laid them down and opened the second package. This one contained a pair of very fancy high heels, green and pale gold.

Out of the third flowed something which was, at all events, extraordinarily beautiful material of some kind. Velvety green . . . shimmeringly alive. Its touch was a caress. Its perfume was like soft whispers. Lifting one end with great care between thumb and finger, Trigger let it unfold itself toward the floor.

Tilting her head to the side, she studied the shimmering featherweight cat’s cradle of jewel-green ribbons that hung there.

Wear it?

What was it?

She reflected, found her dressing gown in one of the suitcases, slipped it on, sat down before the ComWeb with the mysterious ribbon arrangement, and dialed Gaya’s number.

The Intelligence girl was in her cabin and obviously had been napping. But she was wide awake now. “Shielded here!” she said quickly as soon as her image cleared. “Go ahead!”

“It’s nothing important,” Trigger said hastily. Gaya relaxed. “It’s just—” She held up the ribbons. “Major Quillan sent me this.”

Gaya uttered a small squeal. “Oh! Beautiful! A Beldon!”

“That’s what it says.”

Gaya smiled. “He must like you!”

“Oh?” said Trigger. She hesitated. Gaya’s face grew questioning. She asked, “Is something the matter?”

“Probably not,” said Trigger. She considered. “If you laugh,” she warned, “I’ll hate you.” She indicated the ribbons again. “What is that Beldon really?”

Gaya blinked. “You haven’t been around our decadent circles long enough,” she said soberly. Then she did laugh. “Don’t hate me, Trigger! Anyway, it’s very high fashion. It’s also”—her glance went quickly over Trigger—”in excellent taste, in this case. It’s a Beldon gown.”

A gown!

Some of the beautiful ribbons were wider than others. None of them looked as wide as they should have been. Not for a gown.

Dubiously, Trigger wriggled and fitted herself into the high fashion item. Even before she went over to the mirror in it, she knew it wouldn’t do. Not possibly! Styles on many Hub worlds were rather bold of course, but she was sure this effect wasn’t what the Beldon’s designers had intended.

She stepped in front of the mirror. Her eyes widened. “Brother,” she breathed.

That Beldon did go with a woman like stripes went with a tiger! After one look, you couldn’t quite understand why nature hadn’t arranged for it first. But just as obviously there wasn’t nearly enough Beldon around at the moment.

Trigger checked the time and began to feel harried. Probably she’d wind up wearing the black gown anyway, but at least she wanted to get this matter worked out before she decided. She dialed for a drink, took two swallows and reflected that she might have put the thing on backwards. Or upside down.

Five minutes later, she sat at the dresser, tapping her fingers on its glassy surface, gazing at the small pile of green ribbons before her and whistling softly. There was a thoroughly baffled look on her face. Suddenly she stood up and went back to the ComWeb.

“Ribbons?” said the lady who was the Beldon Shop’s manager. “That would be 741. A delightful little creation!”

“Delightful,” said Trigger. “May I see it on the model?”

“Immediately, madam.”

A few moments later, a long-limbed model strolled into the view screen, displaying an exquisite arrangement of burnt sienna ribbons plus four largish leaf-like designs. Trigger glanced quickly back to the table where she had put down the strange green buds. They had quietly opened out meanwhile.

She thanked the manager, switched off the ComWeb, got into the Beldon again and attached her leaf designs where the model had carried them. They adhered softly, molding themselves to her, neatly completing the costume.

She stepped into the high heels and looked in the mirror again. She breathed “Brother!” again. Maccadon wouldn’t have approved. She wasn’t sure she approved either.

But one thing was certain—there wasn’t the remotest suggestion of dowdiness about a Beldon. Objectively, impersonally considered, the effect was terrific.

Feeling tawny and feline, Trigger slowly lifted one shoulder and lowered it again. She turned and strolled toward the full-length mirror across the cabin, admiring the shifts of the Beldon effect in the flow of motion.

Terrific!

With another drink, she could do it.

She dialed another drink and settled down with it beneath the mechanical stylist for a readjustment in the hairdo department. This time the stylist purred as it surveyed and hummed while it worked. And when the hairdo was done and Trigger moved to get up, its flexible little tool pads pulled her back gently into the seat and tilted up her chin. For a moment she was startled. Then she saw that the stylist had produced a shining make-up kit and was opening it. This time she was getting the works . . .

Twenty minutes later, Quillan’s voice informed her via the ComWeb that he could be outside her cabin any time she was ready. Trigger told him cheerily to come right over, picked up her purse and swaggered toward the door, smiling a cool, feline smile.

“Prude, eh?” she muttered.

She opened the door.

“Ya-arghk!” cried Quillan, shaken.

14

They were out on a terrace near the top of an illusion mountainside, in a beautiful evening. Dinner had been old-style and delicious, served by its creators, two slim, brown-skinned, red-lipped girls who looked much too young to have acquired such skills. They were natives of Tranest, Lyad said proudly, and two of the finest food technicians in the Hub. They were, at all events, the two finest food technicians Trigger had run into as yet.

The brandy which followed the dinner seemed to represent no letdown to the connoisseurs around Trigger. She went at it cautiously, though she had swallowed a couple of wake-up capsules just before they walked into the Ermetyne suite. The capsules took effect in the middle of the first course; and what she woke up to was a disconcerting awareness of being the center of much careful attention. The boys were all giving her-plus-Beldon the eye, intensively; even Lyad’s giant-sized butler or majordomo or whatever she’d called him, named Virod, ogled coldly out of the background. Trigger gave them the eye back, one after the other, in turn; and that stopped it. Lyad, beautifully wearing something which would have passed muster at the U-League’s Annual Presidential Dinner in Ceyce, looked amused.

It wasn’t till the end of the second course that Trigger began to feel at ease again. After that she forgot, more or less, about the Beldon. The talk remained light during dinner. When they switched off the illusion background for a look at the goings-on during the Garth stopover, she took the occasion to study her companions in more detail.

There were three men at the table; Lyad and herself. Quillan sat opposite her. Belchik Pluly’s unseemly person, in a black silk robe which left his plump arms bare from the elbows down, was on Quillan’s right.

The third man fascinated her. It was as if some strange cold creature had walked up out of a polar sea to come on board their ship.

It wasn’t so much his appearance, though the green tip of a Vethi sponge lying coiled lightly about his neck probably had something to do with the impression. Trigger knew about Vethi sponges and their addicts, though she hadn’t seen either before. It wasn’t too serious an addiction, except perhaps in the fact that it was rarely given up again. The sponges soothed jangled nerves, stabilized unstable emotions.

Balmordan didn’t look like a man who needed one. He was big, not as tall as Quillan but probably heavier, with strong features, a boldly jutting nose. Bleak, pale eyes. He was about fifty and wore a richly ornamented blue shirt and trousers. The shirt hung loose, perhaps to conceal the flattened contours of his odd companion’s body. Lyad had introduced him as a Devagas scientist and in a manner which indicated he was a man of considerable importance. That meant he was almost certainly a member of the Devagas hierarchy, which in itself would have made him very interesting.

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