corridor it fronted. The air was rich with a compound aroma—sharp spices, hot meats, steamed rice, and undercurrents of other, unidentifiable odors. Hawkins hesi-tated in the doorway. A teenage girl wearing a viddie--inspired version of the latest interplanetary fashions—orange and green baggies were in this year—started toward them, tattered menus in hand, but Hawkins waved her off, having caught sight of Blake Redfield at a table for four next to a wall-sized aquarium.
Marianne hadn’t been expecting much from the son of her mother’s friend, so Blake was an interesting surprise: handsome, freckle-faced, auburn-haired, an American with continental airs and too much money—it showed in his clothes, his hairstyle, his expensive men’s cologne.
And when he spoke, it sounded in his English-flavored accent. “You’re Marianne, nice to meet you,” he said, getting to his feet, a bit distracted.
There was another man at the table, an emaciated Chi-nese in work clothes who barely glanced at Hawkins but positively leered at Marianne. “This is Luke Lim,” Blake said. “Marianne, uh. Mitchell. Bill Hawkins. Thanks for taking over for me, Bill. Sit down, everybody sit down.”
Hawkins and Marianne exchanged glances and sat down side by side, facing the aquarium wall, their faces lit by the greenish light that filtered through its none-too-clean water.
Menus arrived. Hawkins barely glanced at his. The ex-pression on Marianne’s face conveyed her bewilderment—
—not lost on Luke Lim. “The rock cod is fresh,” he said to her. “Also nervous.” He tapped the glass and grinned, an appalling display of yellow teeth and goatee hairs.
She returned a feeble smile and found herself staring past him at the ugliest fish she’d ever seen, all flaps and wrinkles and stringy parts the color of mucilage, floating at Lim’s eye level where he leaned his head against the aquar-ium glass.
Man and fish studied her in return.
“Uh, I think . . .”
“On the other hand, you might prefer the deep-fried shredded taro,” said Lim. “Very . . . crunchy.”
She couldn’t believe he was licking his lips at her like that. She stared at him, fascinated. “Until you start chewing it,” Bill Hawkins warned. “Then it turns into one-finger poi, right in your mouth.”
“What’s poi?” Marianne asked softly, almost whispering.
“A Polynesian word for library paste,” Hawkins said grumpily. “Blue gray in color. One-finger is the gooiest sort.”
Luke Lim had turned his wild leer full upon Hawkins. “Apparently Mr. Hawkins doesn’t appreciate our Singapo-rean cuisine.”
“When were you last in Singapore?” Hawkins asked—mildly enough, yet enough to cause tension; he and Lim had taken an instant mutual dislike.
“Oh dear,” Marianne murmured, turning back to the menu. Surely she would find there a few familiar words, like beef, potatoes, spinach. . . .
“Forster’s off with the others tonight,” Blake said to Hawkins, diverting his attention. “He wants to see you tomorrow morning. You’ve got a room waiting in the Inter-planetary. You can sit in it, or in the bar, or wander ’round the town, but don’t expect to find anybody in our so-called office.” Blake hadn’t even glanced at Marianne since she and Hawkins had sat down. “Luke and I—we’ll be in touch, don’t worry —we’ve recently concluded arrangements for the delivery of, uh, the first item.”
“The what?”
“Item A,” Lim said meticulously. “He paid me to call it that. At least in public.”
“We’re working on the second,” said Blake.
“Item B,” Luke said helpfully.
“Why all the damned secrecy?” Hawkins asked.
“Forster’s orders,” Blake said. “We’re under observation.”
“I should bloody well think so. By about three-quarters of the population of the inhabited worlds.”
“Dressed like this, in fact,” Blake said, “I’m a bloody neon sign, but I
Marianne hadn’t been expecting much from the son of her mother’s friend, so Blake was an interesting surprise: handsome, freckle-faced, auburn-haired, an American with continental airs and too much money—it showed in his clothes, his hairstyle, his expensive men’s cologne.
And when he spoke, it sounded in his English-flavored accent. “You’re Marianne, nice to meet you,” he said, getting to his feet, a bit distracted.
There was another man at the table, an emaciated Chi-nese in work clothes who barely glanced at Hawkins but positively leered at Marianne. “This is Luke Lim,” Blake said. “Marianne, uh. Mitchell. Bill Hawkins. Thanks for taking over for me, Bill. Sit down, everybody sit down.”
Hawkins and Marianne exchanged glances and sat down side by side, facing the aquarium wall, their faces lit by the greenish light that filtered through its none-too-clean water.
Menus arrived. Hawkins barely glanced at his. The ex-pression on Marianne’s face conveyed her bewilderment—
—not lost on Luke Lim. “The rock cod is fresh,” he said to her. “Also nervous.” He tapped the glass and grinned, an appalling display of yellow teeth and goatee hairs.
She returned a feeble smile and found herself staring past him at the ugliest fish she’d ever seen, all flaps and wrinkles and stringy parts the color of mucilage, floating at Lim’s eye level where he leaned his head against the aquar-ium glass.
Man and fish studied her in return.
“Uh, I think . . .”
“On the other hand, you might prefer the deep-fried shredded taro,” said Lim. “Very . . . crunchy.”
She couldn’t believe he was licking his lips at her like that. She stared at him, fascinated. “Until you start chewing it,” Bill Hawkins warned. “Then it turns into one-finger poi, right in your mouth.”
“What’s poi?” Marianne asked softly, almost whispering.
“A Polynesian word for library paste,” Hawkins said grumpily. “Blue gray in color. One-finger is the gooiest sort.”
Luke Lim had turned his wild leer full upon Hawkins. “Apparently Mr. Hawkins doesn’t appreciate our Singapo-rean cuisine.”
“When were you last in Singapore?” Hawkins asked—mildly enough, yet enough to cause tension; he and Lim had taken an instant mutual dislike.
“Oh dear,” Marianne murmured, turning back to the menu. Surely she would find there a few familiar words, like beef, potatoes, spinach. . . .
“Forster’s off with the others tonight,” Blake said to Hawkins, diverting his attention. “He wants to see you tomorrow morning. You’ve got a room waiting in the Inter-planetary. You can sit in it, or in the bar, or wander ’round the town, but don’t expect to find anybody in our so-called office.” Blake hadn’t even glanced at Marianne since she and Hawkins had sat down. “Luke and I—we’ll be in touch, don’t worry —we’ve recently concluded arrangements for the delivery of, uh, the first item.”
“The what?”
“Item A,” Lim said meticulously. “He paid me to call it that. At least in public.”
“We’re working on the second,” said Blake.
“Item B,” Luke said helpfully.
“Why all the damned secrecy?” Hawkins asked.
“Forster’s orders,” Blake said. “We’re under observation.”
“I should bloody well think so. By about three-quarters of the population of the inhabited worlds.”
“Dressed like this, in fact,” Blake said, “I’m a bloody neon sign, but I
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