in supermarkets like other people.” His hand moved
gently from her shoulder down her side to her hip, thigh, knee, shin,
foot. “But I’m glad you took me on the field trip.”
“Me too.”
He said quietly, “It’s
not like you to waste all this wisdom on the first naked man you meet
in a strawberry patch. To make it worthwhile, you’d almost have
to marry me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I
will.”
4
The
boardroom for Pleasure, Inc. overlooked the Polynesian water slide.
Somebody had once joked that the architect’s plans had been
folded and the contractor hadn’t noticed. It sounded true
because mistakes in Las Vegas were not little slipups that made a few
chips fall between the floorboards. They were hideous, gargantuan
blunders, like building a billion-dollar casino on ground that was a
foot lower than the adjacent square mile of parking lots, so the
whole place got inundated with water in a flash flood every five
years. But the location of the Pleasure Island boardroom had been no
mistake; it had been a suggestion from Calvin Seaver, vice president
for security.
Seaver stepped from the elevator
and stared out through the double layer of one-way glass at the
beautiful waterfall and the rocks and the lush tropical plants and
flowers. He saw a pair of boys – he guessed eight and ten years
old from the memory of his own boys – and then the father, a
guy in his late thirties with a little baby fat around his middle and
a U.S.N, anchor tattoo that showed he wasn’t troubled with neck
pains from holding up his brain. They stood on the platform ten feet
from Seaver, waiting for something. He guessed it was Mom. And there
she was. Not bad. A trace of cellulite in the haunches and sag in the
tits, but nothing for her to worry about. She plunked down at the top
of the slide with them, and all four went slipping down, around,
under the waterfall, and out of sight. Good for them.
Seaver was trained to feel a
presumptive hostility, watching the guests for some sign that they
were going to cause a need for his services, but the reason he was
the best was that he could tell the sheep from the goats. These were
sheep. They wouldn’t know how to cause trouble, because it
wasn’t in their nature. During their stay they would never know
that he was watching over them, protecting them while they played and
while they slept, making sure that nothing disturbed the artificial
tranquility around them.
Those four were evidence that
things were going beautifully. They would stay maybe five days. Mom
and Dad would get a taste of canned glamour and carefully controlled
risk. The boys would spend some time in the virtual-reality arcades,
getting the feel of paying money to get excitement, and ensure
Pleasure, Inc. of repeat business for the next fifty years. The
family would pay Pleasure, Inc. more than they spent on this year’s
taxes to their home state, and then they’d be gone.
The goats were different –
card counters and con men and shortchange artists and call girls and
pickpockets – always trying to fade in among the sheep, but
restless. He knew half of them by sight, but he didn’t need to.
He could detect it in their eyes the first time he saw them. They
were hungry. He had sensed something too eager in Pete Hatcher’s
eyes early on, but he had misinterpreted it. His mistake was in
accepting the bosses’ assurances that all Hatcher was after was
pussy.
He glanced at his watch and
moved on down the hallway. Seaver was probably the only one who could
see this part of the complex clearly when he looked at it. The
elevators and the long, narrow hallway gave his people plenty of time
and means to isolate anyone who had some business that wasn’t
on the board’s agenda. The double panes of one-way glass kept
anyone from amplifying the vibrations to pick up a conversation or
using any sort of photography. Being next to the water slide ensured
that nobody who wasn’t wearing a bathing suit could get close,
and
gently from her shoulder down her side to her hip, thigh, knee, shin,
foot. “But I’m glad you took me on the field trip.”
“Me too.”
He said quietly, “It’s
not like you to waste all this wisdom on the first naked man you meet
in a strawberry patch. To make it worthwhile, you’d almost have
to marry me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I
will.”
4
The
boardroom for Pleasure, Inc. overlooked the Polynesian water slide.
Somebody had once joked that the architect’s plans had been
folded and the contractor hadn’t noticed. It sounded true
because mistakes in Las Vegas were not little slipups that made a few
chips fall between the floorboards. They were hideous, gargantuan
blunders, like building a billion-dollar casino on ground that was a
foot lower than the adjacent square mile of parking lots, so the
whole place got inundated with water in a flash flood every five
years. But the location of the Pleasure Island boardroom had been no
mistake; it had been a suggestion from Calvin Seaver, vice president
for security.
Seaver stepped from the elevator
and stared out through the double layer of one-way glass at the
beautiful waterfall and the rocks and the lush tropical plants and
flowers. He saw a pair of boys – he guessed eight and ten years
old from the memory of his own boys – and then the father, a
guy in his late thirties with a little baby fat around his middle and
a U.S.N, anchor tattoo that showed he wasn’t troubled with neck
pains from holding up his brain. They stood on the platform ten feet
from Seaver, waiting for something. He guessed it was Mom. And there
she was. Not bad. A trace of cellulite in the haunches and sag in the
tits, but nothing for her to worry about. She plunked down at the top
of the slide with them, and all four went slipping down, around,
under the waterfall, and out of sight. Good for them.
Seaver was trained to feel a
presumptive hostility, watching the guests for some sign that they
were going to cause a need for his services, but the reason he was
the best was that he could tell the sheep from the goats. These were
sheep. They wouldn’t know how to cause trouble, because it
wasn’t in their nature. During their stay they would never know
that he was watching over them, protecting them while they played and
while they slept, making sure that nothing disturbed the artificial
tranquility around them.
Those four were evidence that
things were going beautifully. They would stay maybe five days. Mom
and Dad would get a taste of canned glamour and carefully controlled
risk. The boys would spend some time in the virtual-reality arcades,
getting the feel of paying money to get excitement, and ensure
Pleasure, Inc. of repeat business for the next fifty years. The
family would pay Pleasure, Inc. more than they spent on this year’s
taxes to their home state, and then they’d be gone.
The goats were different –
card counters and con men and shortchange artists and call girls and
pickpockets – always trying to fade in among the sheep, but
restless. He knew half of them by sight, but he didn’t need to.
He could detect it in their eyes the first time he saw them. They
were hungry. He had sensed something too eager in Pete Hatcher’s
eyes early on, but he had misinterpreted it. His mistake was in
accepting the bosses’ assurances that all Hatcher was after was
pussy.
He glanced at his watch and
moved on down the hallway. Seaver was probably the only one who could
see this part of the complex clearly when he looked at it. The
elevators and the long, narrow hallway gave his people plenty of time
and means to isolate anyone who had some business that wasn’t
on the board’s agenda. The double panes of one-way glass kept
anyone from amplifying the vibrations to pick up a conversation or
using any sort of photography. Being next to the water slide ensured
that nobody who wasn’t wearing a bathing suit could get close,
and
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