The Prison in Antares (4 page)

“I'm being serious,” said Irish, trying to keep her irritation in check.

Snake turned to Ortega. “Tell her, Felix.”

Ortega nodded. “It's a whorehouse. The most famous in the whole damned Neutral Zone.”

Irish frowned. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“They're serious,” Circe chimed in. “It's the only brothel with a reputation that extends beyond the Neutral Zone.”

“Kind of a No Man's Land,” said Ortega.

“Except that it's more of a No Woman's Land, except for the staff,” added Snake with a chuckle.

“We're really diverting to go to a whorehouse?” said Irish.

“Yes,” said Pandora. “We'll be there in twenty-one hours, ship's time.”

“And he does this a lot, does he?” persisted Irish.

“I'm right here,” said Pretorius. “You don't have to pretend I'm not.”

“I just . . .” she began, flustered. Then: “Never mind.”

“I know you're going to have a difficult time believing it,” said Pretorius, “but this may be essential to our mission.”

“It was last time,” agreed Ortega.

“Clearly I'm missing something,” said Irish.

“Tell you what,” said Pretorius. “Once we land you can come along with me.”

“To a whorehouse?”

“To this particular whorehouse,” replied Pretorius.

She shrugged. “What the hell. I've never been to one.”

“Welcome to the Space Service,” said Snake with a big grin.

Pretorius walked over to the control panel. “Land us just outside McPherson.”

“The Tradertown?” asked Pandora.

“Yeah. They don't have a spaceport, unless they've built one in the last few months, so just find a nice empty space and set us down. You can get a readout of the temperature and oxygen content and the rest of it if you want, but it won't make any difference. Place hasn't changed in a few hundred years.”

“A few hundred?” said Irish.

“That's right.”

“How can you know that?”

Pretorius smiled. “I've been told by an expert.”

Everyone else laughed at that, while Irish merely looked more confused. “Is anyone going to tell me what's so special about this place?” she said at last.

“We're heading for a Tradertown that was named for a man named McPherson,” answered Pretorius. “In fact, the whole world is named for him, probably by himself. It's been in business for seven or eight hundred years, give or take. No one knows why the hell he landed there. Not much grows, no one's discovered any fissionable materials, lot of dust storms, not much rain, not even much water. There's a rumor that no one's buried in McPherson's grave, that he had enough brains to leave the damned place after just a few years.”

“Then why does anyone live there?” she asked.

“Almost no one does, except for the town of McPherson,” said Pretorius. “And the residents are just there to serve the town's one major industry—Madam Methuselah's.”

Irish frowned. “Madam Methuselah's?” she repeated. “I've heard of it. I always thought it was a legend.”

“It's legendary, which isn't quite the same thing,” replied Pretorius.

“I don't follow you.”

He smiled. “The planet is as close to a hellhole as you can get and still be hospitable to half a dozen starfaring life-forms, including ours. So seven or eight hundred years ago an enterprising young blonde woman decided it might be the perfect place to open a business.”

“A whorehouse,” said Irish disapprovingly.

Pretorius nodded. “A whorehouse—one that catered to all the species that were able to reach the place. Over the centuries, as the clientele has become even more varied, so has the staff.” He paused. “It's become a perfect No Man's Land. I know we talk about various quadrants of the galaxy being No Man's Lands, but a lot of them are totally unpopulated by
any
species. Madam Methuselah's caters to dozens of races, many of them at war with each other, but to the best of my knowledge there has yet to be a single physical altercation since its inception.”

“Just so males of all these species can get their jollies?” she said disapprovingly.

“And females, too,” said Pretorius. “They're not hampered by custom here.”

“All right, females too,” said Irish. “I assume we have some other purpose in going there?”

“A lot more gets exchanged there besides currency and bodily fluids,” he said with a smile. “With any luck, this little excursion will save us the bother of pinpointing Nmumba's location, and since we've got to reach him before he breaks, it's worth the time.”

Irish seemed lost in thought for a long moment. Finally she nodded her head. “Okay,” she said. “I'll come along.”

“How come you never asked me?” said Snake.

Pretorius chuckled. “I won't have to bail Irish out of the local jail after she picks the pocket of some two-ton creature with a foul temper.”

“You hope,” said Snake.

Pretorius nodded his head. “I hope.” Suddenly he frowned. “You know, I think we're missing a bet here.”

“What are you talking about?” said Snake.

“There are bound to be some Altairians at Madam Methuselah's, hopefully from all three inhabited worlds.” He turned to Proto. “I want you to come along too. I know you can emulate an Antarean, but I want you to check out their uniforms, their insignia, anything that might have changed since the last time you saw one, anything that'll help you create a believable illusion of a member of any of the three variations of the race.”

“All right,” agreed Proto. “That makes sense.”

“And don't come as a middle-aged man. I don't want anyone thinking you're a customer. It wouldn't do to have one of them sidle up against you only to find out that what they see isn't there.”

“What shall I go as?”

Pretorius looked around the deck. His gaze came to rest on Irish. “Her.”

Instantly Proto appeared to be her identical twin.

Pretorius stared at the illusion, then shook his head. “No, you might get hit on. I think we'll be safer if you're an Antarean officer. A general. No Antarean serviceman or even officer is going to chat up a general.”

Proto nodded, and before his nod was done he was a general in a dress uniform.

“Okay,” said Pretorius. He turned to his crew. “We're as ready as we're going to be. Go on about your duties, grab some sleep before we land, and then let's get this show on the road.”

6

It wasn't much of a world, eighty percent dirt and the rest dust. Almost all the water was underground, or at least elsewhere. The town consisted of a landing field, a boardinghouse, a message-forwarding station, a spare-parts shop for the more popular types of smaller spaceships, a general store that sold everything from dry goods to medicine to antique weaponry . . . and then there was Madam Methuselah's, which had a fame far out of proportion to both its size and clientele.

“That's it?” asked Irish, pointing to a frame building that was clearly the largest structure in the town, but seemed unexceptional in all other respects.

Pretorius nodded. “Hard to believe its fame has reached the Democracy and half a dozen other sectors, isn't it?”

“Clearly people don't come here for the ambience,” said Proto.

“Tell me that in another ten minutes,” said Pretorius with an amused smile. “Okay, no sense standing out here in the heat just staring at it. Let's go inside.”

They climbed the three wooden stairs to the large veranda. The door sensed their presence and opened automatically, and then they were inside.

“My goodness!” said Irish, looking around. “Who would have guessed it?”

Females of more than a dozen races lounged in the main rooms, and Pretorius assured them that another thirty or forty were busy working at the moment. The walls were covered with exotic and erotic art—paintings, holographs, etchings—from dozens of worlds, and just ahead of them was a huge, elegant bar made of an alien hardwood that constantly fluctuated in color from a brilliant gold to a deep, rich mahogany.

“What's over there?” asked Proto, indicating a narrow passage that three Bodorians were entering.

“Drug dens,” answered Pretorius. “They had three of them a couple of trips ago, but I haven't looked in maybe five years, so who the hell knows how many there are now. They don't serve anything too exotic there. Can't have a ten-foot-high Torqual or a two-ton Abegni deciding to tear the place apart.”

“Could anything stop them?” asked Irish.

Pretorius nodded. “See those little purple critters?”

“I thought they were someone's pets,” she said.

“They're Phorudorians,” he said, “and those things that look like humps on their backs are natural weaponry that are every bit as deadly as laser pistols. Most of the clientele doesn't pay them any attention, which gives them an immediate advantage.”

“Most interesting security I've seen in years,” remarked Proto. “So how big
is
this place?” asked Irish.

Pretorius shrugged. “Maybe fifty rooms, plus anything they've added since we stopped here on the Michkag mission.”

“They got a restaurant, too?” asked Proto.

“A small one, just for Men and closely related species,” answered Pretorius. “They can serve intoxicants and stimulants to a hundred races, but the kitchen required to feed 'em all would take a building half this big.”

“And this place has been here seven centuries?” said Irish.

“Probably longer. They say that Santiago himself visited it in its infancy. That's probably just a myth, but it sure as hell has been patronized by a few hundred dictators and kings, and more than its share of celebrities of all races.”

“I'm surprised they cater to both sexes,” remarked Proto.

“It's a big galaxy with a lot of tastes,” replied Pretorius.

“And it's been in business all this time,” said Irish, impressed.

“Right.”

“When did Madam Methuselah name it after herself?”

“Right from the beginning, I assume,” answered Pretorius.

“You mean the first one?”

He frowned. “The first
what
?”

“The first Madam Methuselah,” said Irish.

“There's only been one,” said Pretorius.

“Oh, come on!” she said with a smile. “She'd be eight hundred years old!”

“That's right,” he replied without returning her smile.

“You're kidding!”

He shook his head. “No, I'm not.”

“She must look like a moldering, desiccated corpse.”

Pretorius smiled. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

“See that blonde who just walked over to the bar? The one who's speaking to the Domarian?”

“Yes,” answered Irish. “She's truly beautiful.”

“Want to meet her?”

She frowned. “Why would I?”

Pretorius smiled in amusement. “That's Madam Methuselah.” He enjoyed her surprised reaction for a moment, then signaled to the blonde, who walked over.

“Hi, Nathan,” she said. “You're on another job, I presume?”

“Right.”

“And that means you don't want to fertilize my frail flowers?”

“Alas, what I want doesn't enter into it,” said Pretorius. “Madam, I'd like you to meet Irish, one of my crew.”

Madam Methuselah extended her hand, and Irish shook it.

“You must enjoy brutally dangerous assignments, my dear. Our Nate has never accepted an easy one.”

“Which reminds me,” said Pretorius. “I need to speak to you, preferably not out here.”

“My office,” she said, nodding. “Bring her along. If you leave her out here, she may wind up working for me.”

“Not likely,” said Irish.

Madam Methuselah shrugged. “Bring her anyway,” she said, and headed off to yet another corridor.

“Proto,” said Pretorius, “stick around, and if any Antareans show up, make sure you can reproduce what they're wearing.”

“Right,” said Proto. “Pick me up here in the bar when you're done.”

“It won't be long,” answered Pretorius. He took Irish by the hand and led her through the corridor to a room at the end of it. The door sensed them and irised to let them through, and they found themselves in the most luxurious room in the brothel, an office with a solid-gold desk and the most elegant furniture Irish had ever seen. There was a platinum tray on the desk, with three crystal glasses filled with Alphard brandy.

“Take a drink and make yourself comfortable, Nathan,” said Madam Methuselah. “You too, my dear.”

They did as instructed and sat down facing her.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “What seems to be the problem?”

“You don't know?” asked Pretorius. “That
is
surprising.”

She frowned. “Of course I know. You want Nmumba. I was just being polite.”

“You always are,” he replied. Then: “You know where he is?”

She stared at him. “Of course I know.”

“Okay,” he said. “How much?”

“When have I ever charged you money, Nathan?”

He smiled. “I wasn't referring to money.” He paused. “But when have you ever not charged
something
?”

“All right,” she said. “If you get him out and return him to the Democracy, I will ask for a favor commensurate with the information I am about to give you. Deal?”

“As long as I don't have to break my oath to the Democracy.”

“You won't,” she said with a smile. “But you'll wish I'd asked for something that easy.”

“Don't I always?” he replied.

“Deal,” said Madam Methuselah. “Nmumba's a prisoner in the Antares system.”