"Allen, James - Unicorn Trade, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allen James)

Why did they tap me for this job? he asked himself in-a surge of homesickness. What the hell was the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful little professor of sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised his government before now, in fact the Red Ankh Society had been his idea, but still he was only at ease with his books and his chess and his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an occasional trip to Swindle-town—My God, thought Matheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in the greatest commercial empire the human race has even seen, and I'm supposed to find my planet a con man!
He began walking, disconsolately at random. His lizardskin shirt and black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty years out of date. He should find himself a hotel,
THE INNOCENT ARRIVAL
61
he thought drearily, but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before Mars had such machines. If ever.
The city roared at him.
He fumbled after his pipe. Of course, he told himself, that's why the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law. Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?
He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts, without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom deal some friend who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But more, he would have been among people he understood. The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding his syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands just didn't have a prayer against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.
Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His
62
The Unicom Trade
feet ached from the weight on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any individual sign, through all that shimmering neon. His eye fell on one distinguished by relative austerity.
THE CHURCH OF YOUR CHOICE
Enter, Rest, and Pray
That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.
"Ah, brother, welcome," said a redhaired usherette in demure black leotards. "The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The restaurant is right up those stairs."
"I ... I'm not hungry," stammered Matheny. "I just wanted to-sit in—"
"To your left, sir."
The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, and interminable.
"Get your chips right here, sir," said the girl in the booth.
"Hm?" said Matheny.
She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a fifty-buck coin down the slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games. It was a good martini, probably sold below cost. He decided that the roulette
THE INNOCENT ARRIVAL
63
wheels were either honest or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.
He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few passes he had made were unsuccessful, Earth gravity threw him off, but when he got the rhythm of it he tossed a row of sevens. It was a customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed chips toward him. He missed a throw as anyone would at home: simple courtesy. The next time around he threw for a seven just to get the feel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.
"I say," he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the green table. "I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules."
"You did all right, brother," said a middle-aged lady with an obviously surgical nonbodice.
"But—I mean . .. when do we start actually playing? What happened to the cocked dice?"
"Sir!" The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant prow at him. "This is a church!"
"Oh ... I see . .. excuse me, I, I, I—" Matheny backed out of the crowd, shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.
"You forgot your chips, pal," said a voice.
"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—" Matheny cursed his knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much more sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?
The helpful Earthman was not tall, he was dark and chiselfaced and sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zig-zag, a
64
The Unicorn Trade
sleighbell cloak and curly-toed slippers. "You're from Mars, aren't you?" he asked in the friendliest tone Matheny had yet heard.
"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny, I, I—" He stuck out his hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. "Damn! Oh, excuse me, I forgot this was a church. Never mind them! No, please, I just want to g-g-get the hell out of here."
"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft."
Matheny sighed. "A drink I need the very most."
"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus." They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what remained of his winnings.
"I don't want to, I mean, if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—"
"Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never met a Martian. I am very interested."
"There aren't many of us on Earth," agreed Matheny. "Just a small embassy staff and an occasional like me."
"I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old mother planet and so on."
"We can't afford it," said Matheny. "What with gravitation and distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for pleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage." As they entered the shaft, he added wistfully: "You Earth people have that kind of money, at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a few tourists to us?"
THE INNOCENT ARRIVAL
65
"I always wanted to," said Doran. "I would like to see the, what they call, City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday, and she was just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like, made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it!" He winked and nudged.
"Oh," said Matheny. He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to deserve— "Of course," he said ritually, "I agree with all the archeologists it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent."