Schismatrix plus - Bruce Sterling [91]
Greta was patient. "It came here as an egg, Bela. It didn't get that large eating breadsticks. Carnassus takes good care of them. He was the embassy's exobiologist."
Lindsay tried some soup with the sliding trap-bowl of his low-gravity spoon. "You seem to share his expertise."
"Everyone in Dembowska takes an interest in the Extraterrarium. Local pride. Of course, the tourist trade isn't what it was, since the Investor Peace collapsed. We make up for it with refugees."
Lindsay stared moodily into the pool. The food was excellent, but his appetite was off. The eurytpteroid stirred feebly. He thought of the sculpture the Investors had given him and wondered what its droppings looked like. A burst of laughter came from Well's table. "I want a word with Wells," Lindsay said.
"Leave it to me," she said. "Wells has Shaper contacts. Word might leak back to the Ring Council." She looked grave. "You wouldn't want to risk your cover before it's well established."
"You don't trust Wells?"
She shrugged. "That's not your worry." A new course arrived, borne by a squeaking, velcro-footed robot. "I love the antique servos here, don't you?" She squirted heavy cream sauce over a meat pastry and gave him the plate.
"You're under stress, Bela. You need food. Sleep. A sauna. The good things in life. You look edgy. Relax."
"I live on the edge," Lindsay said.
"Not now. You live with me. Eat something so I'll know you feel safe." To please her, Lindsay bit reluctantly into the pastry. It was delicious. Appetite flooded back into him. "I have things to do," he said, stifling the urge to wolf it down.
"Think you'll do them better without food and sleep?"
"I suppose you have a point." He looked up; she handed him the sauce bulb. As he squeezed on more sauce she passed him a slotted wineglass. "Try the local claret." He sampled it. It was as good as vintage Synchronis, from the Rings. "Someone stole this technology," he said.
"You aren't the first defector. Things are calmer here." She pointed out the window. "Look at that xiphosuran." A lumpy crab was sculling across the pool with intolerable sluggish calm. "It has a lesson for you." Lindsay stared quietly, thinking.
Greta's domicile was seven levels down. A silver-plated household servo took Lindsay's wardrobe bag. Greta's parlor had a baroque furred couch with sliding stirrups and two anchored chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet. An adhesive coffee table held a flip-top inhaler case and a rack of cassettes. The bathroom had a sauna compartment and a fold-out suction toilet with a heated elastic rim. The overhead light glowed pink with infrared heat. Standing on the icy tiles, Lindsay dropped his glove. It fell slowly, at a pronounced slant. The room's verticals didn't match the local gravity. This keen touch of avant-garde interior design filled Lindsay with sudden nausea. He leaped up and clung to the ceiling, closing his eyes until the dizziness passed.
Greta called through the door. "You want a sauna?"
"Anything to get warm."
"The controls are on the left."
Lindsay stripped, gasping as the freezing metal of his artificial arm brushed his bare ribs. He held the arm well away as he stepped into the blizzard of steam. In the low gravity the air was thick with flying water. Coughing, he groped for the breathing mask. It was pure oxygen; in moments he felt like a hero. He twisted the controls recklessly, biting back a scream as he was pelted with a sudden sandblast of powdered snow. He twisted back and let himself cook in wet heat, then stepped out. The sauna cycled through the boiling point, sterilizing itself.
He turbaned his damp hair, absently knotting the towel's ends in a Goldreich-Tremaine flourish. He found pajamas his size in the cabinet; royal blue with matching fur-lined mukluks.
Outside, Greta had changed from her fur jacket and tights into a quilted nightrobe