New Lamps by Robert Moore Williams (classic romance novels .txt) 📕

Ronson dared to breathe again. Whatever else this girl was, she was certainly full of fight and fury. She could have gone out into the street, in the face of thrown knives, if he hadn't stopped her. As she moved toward the table, he had a chance to look at the place in which he found himself.

What he saw was not reassuring. Except for a big circle in the center of the room, the place was crammed with Martian males of all sizes and descriptions. Waiters scurried through the crowd. The circle on the floor was outlined in red. No customer and no Martian ventured within it. Ronson glanced at it, asked the girl a question.

"I just got here too," she said. "I haven't had time to find out about it. Some superstition of theirs, I think." She led him to the table. Two glasses were already on it. A waiter appeared out of nowhere. "This is the one who speaks English. Talk to the gentleman, Tocko."

"Oh, yessen, missen. Me talken ze English and but very gooden. Me learnen ze human talken at Mars Porten. Don't I talk him gooden?" The last was directed at Ronson.

"You speak him very wonderfullen," Ronson answered. The waiter beamed.

"Bring the gentleman a mariwaukee," the girl said.

"Oh, yessen, missen."

"On second thought, make it a double shot," the girl said. "The gentleman looks like he needs it." She nodded brightly to Ronson as if she had selected the very medicine he needed. "Now tell me what you are doing on Mars, Dr. Ronson?"

Ronson glanced hastily at the waiter, to make certain that he was out of earshot. "I—I came here on a vacation," he said firmly and loudly. "I've wanted to see Mars ever since I was a kid. Who—ah—was sitting here with you before I came?"

"A man," she answered. "He went to the little boy's room just before you got into trouble in the street. I guess he's still there, if some Martian hasn't slit his throat. Are you enjoying your vacation?"

"Of course."

"Do you mind if I call you Jim?" She smiled at him.

"I would be very pleased."

"Good. You can call me Jennie."

"Thanks."

"Then you are enjoying your vacation." Her smile was very sweet. "Are you also enjoying trying to lie to me—Jim?"

Ronson caught his start of surprise. Jennie Ware bewildered him but this was a game that two could play. "Of course I'm enjoying it. Lying to a woman as beautiful as you are is always a pleasure—Jennie." He grinned at her and watched the anger come up on her face. Why should she be angry?

The anger was gone as swiftly as it had come. She leaned across the table, put her hand on his. "I like you Jim. I really do. And not because you called me a beautiful woman but because you kicked me in the teeth with my own act. I had it coming and you gave it to me very neatly."

The touch of her hand was very pleasant. "No hard feelings. What—ah—are you doing here, Jennie?"

She smiled sweetly at him. "I'm on a vacation too, Jim."

"Touche!" The females in the laboratories back on earth had never touched his hand or called him by his first name. He wondered about the man with whom she had been drinking. Also he was very uneasy about her real reason for being here. No woman with good sense would make the rough rocket trip to Mars for a vacation; presuming she did come to Mars, she would not willingly come to this place. But Jennie Ware was here, an enigma wrapped up in a beautiful smile. He took his eyes off her long enough to look around the place again.

In Mars Port, he had seen the native dives, but Mars Port had nothing like this. To the natives, this was a place of pleasure, filled with sights, sounds, and smells that made them happy. Over against the farther wall a tribal chieftan was absorbing narseeth through the skin of his hands, thrusting them again and again into the sirupy, smoky-colored mixture in the bowl in front of him. Every so often he stopped, whereupon the Martian female with him carefully dried his hands. After they were dry, he made fumbling passes at her. She accepted the passes without resistance. Ronson stared at the sight.

"Relax. You'll get used to it," Jennie Ware said.

At another table a huge Martian was sitting. Two others were with him. One sat facing the rear, the other faced the front. Ronson had the impression of two alert dogs guarding their master. A little chill passed through him at the thought.

Odors were in the place, of sweat dried into dothar skin garments, of stale drinks. Dim but distinct was the all-pervading clinging, cloying odor of tamil, the Martian equivalent of musk. Through an opening at the right, Ronson could see females lounging at ease in what was apparently a reception room to a brothel.

Unease came up in him again. How could this place be the way to Les Ro? But the rumors he had picked up and carefully checked in Mars Port had all been in agreement, if you wanted to see Les Ro, you came here. What happened after that was obviously fate.

Watching, Ronson saw that no Martian entered the circle on the floor.

He nodded toward the Martian females. "What do you think of this?"

"Oh, a girl has to live," she said, shrugging. "What do you think?"

"Oh, a Martian has to have fun, I suppose." His shrug was as indifferent as hers had been. For an instant, he thought she was going to spit at him.

The waiter arrived with the drink.

"I have putten you on ze listen," he said, confidentially, to Ronson.

"On the listen?"

"He means list," Jennie Ware said.

"What list?" Ronson asked.

"On ze listen of zozen waiten to see ze great Les Ro," the waiter answered.

Inside of him, Ronson felt cold come up. Strictly on his own, he had to decide how he was going to handle this. He made up his mind on impulse. "Who the devil is Les Ro?"

Across the table, Jennie Ware lifted startled eyes toward Ronson. The waiter's face showed astonishment, then embarrassment, at the idea that anyone existed who had not heard of Les Ro, Ronson thought. "You do not knowen ze great Les Ro. He is ze greatest zinker, ze greatest doer, ze greatest—"

"Stinker?" Jennie Ware said. "That sounds about right."

"You are maken ze kidden wiz me," the waiter said, indignation in his voice. "You have hearden of ze great Les Ro. You came here to see him. You musten haven. Everybody who comes here, comes to see him." The waiter spoke with authority.

"I'm sorry," Ronson said. "If he is that important, I would like to talk to him, of course. But do you mean all of these Martians are waiting to see him?" A wave of his hand indicated the group in the room.

The waiter, mollified, leered at Ronson. "Ze girls didn't. Ze girls come here for anuzzer purpose." The leering gesture included Jennie Ware in it. It said that obviously she had come here for the same purpose. What other purpose was there?

The girl gasped. Fire shot from her eyes. "I'll have you know—"

"Shut up," Ronson said.

Fire flashed at him. "Hasn't it occurred to you that you are in danger of getting your pretty little throat slit if you talk out of turn here?" Ronson whispered.

"Even ze noffers outside are on ze listen," the waiter added.

"What about me? Am I on it?" Jennie asked.

The waiter showed great astonishment. "But of course not. You are a female."

"What difference does that make?" This time the fire really shot from her eyes.

"How long do you have to wait after you're on the listen?" Ronson hastily asked.

The waiter spread his hands and twisted his shoulders. "Who knows? Some of ze noffers outside have been waiting since last wind time—"

"Almost an Earth year," Ronson said, calculating rapidly. Once during each circle of the sun the great winds blew across Mars. This was the biggest natural event on the planet. Since it occurred with the regularity of clock work, it served as the starting point for their year.

"Sometimes ze great Les Ro call you right away," the waiter said.

"How will I know if I'm called?" Ronson said.

A shudder passed over the waiter. "You vill know. Of a most certain, you vill know. Ze Messenger vill call." The shudder came again. As if he had already said too much, the waiter hurried away. Ronson turned back to Jennie Ware. She was sparkling with fury.

"If they think they're going to keep me from seeing Les Ro just because I'm a woman—"

"Why do you want to see him? He probably isn't pretty."

"Because I want to write a book about him."

"A book—" Ronson's memory suddenly came alive and he remembered where he had seen her name before. He stared at her, startled and almost aghast. Back on Earth, this woman was almost a legend. Every tabloid and every Sunday supplement had carried her picture and stories about her. The programs beamed to space had carried tales of her exploits. She had explored the depths of the Venusian jungles, she had ridden a dothar across half of Mars. When Deep Space Flight One had blasted off from Pluto, bound for the exploration of deep space, the news telecasts back to Earth had carried the information that a stowaway had been discovered and ejected from the ship just before blast off. No one had been surprised when this stowaway had turned out to be Jennie Ware. Subsequent rumors had whispered that she had practically torn Pluto Dome apart because she had been ejected from the ship. Even the fact that the ship had never returned had not cooled her anger.

In addition, she was also a very competent author. Ronson had read two of her books and had admired her deft touch with words and the deep sincerity that had showed through in even the most hard-boiled and raucous passages. Unquestionably Jennie Ware was a very unusual human being.

But in spite of this, Ronson stared at her in growing horror. Her reputation across the solar system was that of an uninhibited vixen. Here in this place, where their lives might ride on the blinking of an eye-lash, or on not blinking it, a temper tantrum thrown by Jennie Ware—or by anybody else—was the last thing he wanted to see.

A tall figure loomed beside the table. A deep voice asked, laughingly, "Well, Jim, since you've already met our lady authoress, how do you like her?"

Ronson looked up, then got up, his hand going out, a grin spurting to his face. The man standing there, Sam Crick, took the outstretched hand and grinned back at him.

Crick was tall and lean. His skin was tanned a deep brown, a color that had resulted from facing all the winds that had ever blown on Mars and all the sun that had ever shown there. Crick was something of a legend on the Red Planet. He was the eternal adventurer, the lonely wanderer of the waste place, the type of human who was always looking for something that lay just over the edge of the horizon.

Jim Ronson and Sam Crick had grown up together as boys on Earth. Ronson had gone into a laboratory, Crick had hopped a freighter bound for Mars. Ronson had not seen his old friend in many years, but he had heard from him and about him. A feeling of deep warmth came up inside the scientist at the sight of the tanned face grinning at him.

"Then you did get my space radio?" Ronson said. "I couldn't locate you in Mars Port and I was never sure." Relief at finding Crick here was a surging feeling deep within him. With Crick here, he not only had a man experienced in Martian ways and customs to help him, but what was more important, he had a friend.

Crick's face lost its smile. Wrinkles showed on his forehead. "What space radio, Jim?"

"The one I sent you, asking you to meet me here. Quit kidding me. If you didn't get my space radio, how does it happen that you're here? Don't tell me this is a coincidence."

Crick shook his head. A doleful expression appeared on his face. "I sure didn't get it, Jim. As to what I'm doing here, I'm chaperoning our lady authoress. Meet my boss." He nodded to Jennie Ware.

Ronson turned startled eyes toward the girl.

"I caught him flat broke in Mars Port just before you arrived," she answered. "Since he was broke, I took advantage of him and hired him as my bodyguard. Not that I would really need a bodyguard, but in case I fell and broke a leg, he might be handy. But his being here wasn't a coincidence."

"Eh?"