Dangerous Women. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

table and cuddling an empty glass. His dark hair was streaked with grey, and his forehead overly large due to the receding hairline. The bartender moved to the far end of the bar and started filling the empty glasses on the Hajin’s tray. Tracy looked again at the slumped man. On impulse, he snatched up his glass and walked over to the table.

      Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the bartender, Tracy said, “He says you’ve got a good story that’s going to put everything in perspective for me.” Tracy kicked out a chair and sat down. He half hoped that the man would object and start a fight. Tracy was in the mood to hit somebody, and here on Wasua, unlike at the High Ground, a fight wouldn’t turn into a stupid duel. Tracy touched the scar at his left temple, a gift from Boho. A closer look at the man revealed the unlikeliness of a fight breaking out. There was no muscle beneath the fat, and dark, puffy bags hung beneath his eyes.

      “Loren doesn’t believe me,” Rohan said. “But it’s all true.” Alcohol slurred the words, but Tracy could hear the aristocratic accent of a member of the Fortune Five Hundred. God knew he could recognize it. He’d been listening to it for four damn years. He even feared he’d begun to ape it.

      “Okay, I’ll bite: What’s all true?”

      The tip of the man’s tongue licked at his lips. “I could tell the story better with something to wet my throat,” he said.

      “Okay, fine.” Tracy went back to the bar and returned with a bottle of bourbon. He slammed it down between them. “There. Now I’ve paid for the tale. So go on, amaze me.”

      Rohan drew himself up, but the haughtiness of the movement was undercut when he began swaying in his chair. A pudgy hand grabbed the edge of the table and he stabilized. “I am more, much more than I seem.”

      “Okay.” Tracy drew out the word.

      The man looked around with exaggerated care. “I have to be careful. If they knew I was talking …”

      “Yes?”

      The man drew a finger across his throat. He leaned across the table. His breath was a nauseating mix of booze and halitosis. “What I’m going to tell you could shake the foundations of the League.”

      The drunk poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and continued. “But it happened—all of it—and it’s all true. Listen and learn, young man.” Rohan refilled his glass, topped off Tracy’s, and saluted with his glass. This time he settled for a sip rather than a gulp. Rohan sighed and no longer seemed focused on the young officer.

      “It all started when one of my aides arranged a bachelor party …”

      If a strip club could ever be considered tasteful, Rohan assumed that this one fit that bill. Not that he was an expert. This was his first time in such an establishment, where human women flaunted themselves, much to the fury of the Church. So why had he agreed to join his staff at a stag party in honor of Knud’s upcoming nuptials? The answer came easily. Because my wife’s latest lover is the same age as my daughter, and this one was just too much. So his presence in the Cosmos Club was—what? Payback? And how likely was it that Juliana would ever find out? Surpassingly small. And that she would care? Smaller yet.

      He blushed as a nearly naked hostess, her breasts and mons outlined with a jeweled harness, took their coats and, with the graceful hand gestures of a trained courtesan, ushered them over to the smiling maître d’, a handsome man with a spade beard and sparkling black eyes. He led the group through tall double doors and into the club proper. The lighting in the main room was subdued, but recessed spotlights struck fire from the slowly rotating platforms that held beautiful, naked women. The platforms were shaped like spiral galaxies, the stars formed by faux diamonds. Rohan stared at the rounded buttocks of the girls and wondered what those behinds looked like after a long night seated on the platforms. Between the platforms was a stage made of clear glass. A crystal pole thrust up, an aggressive statement, from the center of the stage.

      Waitresses dressed—no, make that accented—with the same kind of jeweled harness worn by the hostess moved between the tables, serving drinks and food. Rohan saw a Brie en croûte garnished with sour cherries go past on a tray, and the aromas from the kitchen were as good as anything he’d smelled in the city’s finest restaurants. His belly gave a growl of appreciation. Yes, definitely an upscale establishment, catering to the wealthy and wellborn of the FFH. Another anomaly struck him. There were no aliens present. The waitstaff were all humans, an expensive affectation. Rohan assumed that in the bowels of the kitchen, Hajin and Isanjo labored as dishwashers, but the image presented to the paying customers was aggressively human.

      John Fujasaki had reserved a circular booth at the edge of the stage. An ice-filled champagne bucket and the expected bottle were already waiting. As the party arranged themselves, the maître d’ opened the bottle with a discreet pop and filled their glasses. The upholstery was plush, made from neural fabric that sensed the tension in Rohan’s lower back and began to massage the spot. The floating holo table displayed a constantly shifting view of spectacular astronomical phenomenon. Rohan stared, mesmerized, as a blossoming supernova tried to consume his drink.

      John Fujasaki, the instigator of this outing, leaned in close to Rohan and murmured, “You’re blushing, sir.” Laughter hung on the words.

      “I’m not accustomed to seeing this much … female … flesh,” he murmured back.

      “Pardon my saying so, but you need to get out more” was the response. Then John turned away to respond to another comment.

      Rohan watched the bubbles rising in his glass and wondered what the young aide would think if he knew that his boss did frequent less reputable establishments in Pony Town that catered to humans with a taste for the alien and the exotic. Then the hypocrisy of his anger at his wife over her infidelity struck him. He fell back on the age-old defense: whoring was expected of men, and no woman should place a cuckoo in her husband’s nest. The excuses rang hollow.

      John tapped his glass with a spoon. The young men fell silent and Fujasaki stood up. “Well, here’s to Knud. Those of us who’ve avoided the wedded state think he’s mad, and those who have entered the bonds of matrimony also think he’s mad. But at least for tonight we’ll put aside such worries and concentrate on sending him off in style. So, a toast to Knud on his final night of freedom, and may it be memorable!” John cried.

      There were calls of “Here, here!” from around the table; glasses were clinked, drained, and refilled. Knud, smiling but with a hint of worry in the back of his eyes, laid a hand over his glass. “Now, go easy, fellas. I have to be in reasonably good shape tomorrow.”

      “Not to worry, Knud,” Franz said. “You’re with us.”

      “And that’s why I’m worried.”

      A waitress took their dinner orders. Booze continued to flow. Rohan found himself thinking about the inflation numbers from the Wasua star system. That made him switch from champagne to bourbon. A live band began to play, and girl after girl in various and creative outfits took to the stage. The creative outfits where shed in time to the pulsing music, and the ladies were all very … Rohan searched for a word and settled on “flexible.” Almost all the tables were filled now, parties of men with sweat gleaming on their faces, stocks and ties loosened, coats removed. Girls settled into laps and ran tapering fingers through their marks’ hair. The roar of conversation was basso and primal.

      A quintet of five girls was dancing and singing on the stage to an old SpaceCom marching song, but with some interesting new lyrics. The sprightly music had Rohan first humming along and then singing along, but it was frustrating that the girls couldn’t get the beat right. They were late. He began to conduct vigorously, and felt his elbow connect with something.

      “Whoa!” shouted Fujasaki. There was a large wet stain on the front of his trousers.

      “He’s drunk,” Rohan vaguely heard someone say.

      “So what? We’re all drunk,” Franz replied.

      “Yeah, but he’s the Chancellor, what if—” Bret, a