Anarchaos

IX

The room I was to sleep in was small and windowless, but nevertheless extravagant. The walls were covered in a textured fabric of rich blue, complemented by a gray carpet on the floor. The furnishings continued the use of blues and grays, with the addition of dark polished wood tones. The lighting was soft, indirect, and a bit whiter than I was used to.

Jenna had led me here in silence, her face stern and expressionless. She was clearly angry about something and was trying unsuccessfully to keep that anger hidden. I supposed that the clues Colonel Whistler had managed to call to my attention concerning the relationship between himself and Jenna were what had caused the anger, but I couldn’t understand why. Surely the implication of those clues was true; the services of a Jenna would almost have to be among the fringe benefits offered executives sent to a remote place like Anarchaos. Why should she be angry that such an obvious role had been made clear to an unimportant stranger?

Looking at Jenna, reflecting on her para-secretarial duties, I began to think of myself in regard to those duties, and how long it had been since I had shared pleasure with a woman. There had been the years in prison, of course, and since then my attention had been focused exclusively on the death of my brother. Only when the subject was called to my attention, as it had been by the presence of Jenna and the implications made apparent by the Colonel, did I remember my thirst, which then became feverish.

Jenna said, “If you’re hungry, I could have food brought to you. Not much, of course; everything’s shut down for the night.” She was trying to be civil, but her voice was made of ice and her words had sharp edges.

I said, “Is it me you’re mad at?”

She seemed surprised. “No no,” she said, and tried a smile which worked fairly well. “Don’t mind me, I’m just tired.”

“Do you have to go back to the Colonel now?”

Instantly, her face snapped shut again and coldly she said, “Why?”

“I wish you’d eat with me. I don’t like to sit at a table alone.”

Only slightly less hostile, she said, “It’s late, Mr. Malone. I’m not very hungry, but I am tired.”

Her coldness was helping me forget the thirst. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll have some food sent to you.”

“Thank you. My luggage is still outside, in the auto.”

“I’ll have it brought in.” She hesitated, then said, somewhat contritely, “I’ll try to be pleasanter in the morning.”

“We all will be,” I said, “after we’ve slept.” It was meaningless politeness, and I was relieved when she accepted it as a goodbye and walked out, closing the door silently behind her. I sat down in a blue armchair, removed my shoes, and rubbed the bare soles of my feet back and forth across the carpet, giving myself over to the cat-pleasure of it while waiting for the food to be brought.

It came ten minutes later, and I wasn’t entirely surprised when it was brought by Jenna herself, who smiled apologetically at me and said, “Is it too late to accept your invitation?”

“You’re just in time.” I glanced at the two servings on the tray she carried, and said, “I couldn’t have eaten all that anyway.”

She laughed, perhaps more than the joke warranted, and I helped her set the table for two. She kicked off her own shoes when she saw I was barefoot, spoke brightly and humorously about her troubles in getting this snack from the kitchen help, and all in all made every attempt to make up for her past behavior. I responded more than I wanted to, my thirst returning stronger than ever, and it being now in part a literal thirst, my mouth and throat as dry as the desert around the city. I drank down the glass of milk she’d brought me, plus several glasses of water, but my mouth remained dry, my skin somewhat feverish, my thoughts random and confused and explosive.

During the meal she led the conversation, talking to me as her employer had done of Earth, except that Jenna seemed more interested in Earth as I knew it than as she remembered it. She asked me questions, and I gave her the most harmless parts of my biography. She mentioned Gar once or twice, each time with sympathy and what seemed very like regret, but asked me nothing about him and volunteered nothing that she knew of his last months on Anarchaos.

A knock at the door interrupted us at one point. I went to it, and found a guard from downstairs, who had brought my knapsack. When I shut the door and turned back to the table, I saw that Jenna had left it and had moved to a part of the room which could not be seen by anyone standing in the doorway. She seemed to be quite interested in a small wooden chair there, and commented on how seldom one saw that style of furniture these days. I agreed, we both returned to the table, and we went on with our meal and our conversation.

She seemed interested in the auto, which she called in the local fashion — as I had done — a car. “You took a chance,” she said, “driving alone all the way from Ni.”

“I was armed,” I said.

“But what if the car had broken down?”

“I would have been in trouble.”

“Yes, indeed. Most people don’t own cars here at all, and that’s why. It’s much safer to fly.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to go about buying a car,” she said.

I shrugged. “Buying and selling are about the same anywhere.”

“Did it cost much?”

“Not much. Excuse me, I need another glass of water.”

She made a joking comment on the amount of water I was consuming, and I replied in kind. When I came back with the fresh glass we talked about other things, and neither of us mentioned the auto again.

Finishing the meal, she pushed her chair back and said, “It’s getting late. We both need our sleep.”

I said, “Will you stay here?”

She pretended to misunderstand me. “I’d love to talk some more, Rolf, but it’s after two now.”

I said, “I meant, stay here.”

She studied me in silence for nearly a minute, and I read her every thought on her face. I knew when her curiosity about me was uppermost in her mind, and I knew when her dislike of being taken so bluntly for granted was strongest, and I knew when she was considering the possibility of using me to avenge her pique against the Colonel, and I knew when she decided that if she had the name she might as well have the game. I also knew when she was deciding not to answer me too quickly, in order not to appear eager or easy, and in my mind I counted to ten with her, missing by one beat, so that I had just finished thinking nine when she smiled with sex in it and said, “You’re not very subtle, are you, Rolf?”

“I hoped you would think the invitation a compliment,” I said, but didn’t add that I was incapable at the moment of any greater subtlety. My mouth was dry again, but the glass was empty.

“I do think it a compliment,” she said, her voice husky, “but I’m afraid I’m an incurable romantic. I like my compliments… sweeter.”

I got to my feet, and went to her, and took her in my hands.

She spoke only twice more, the first time to whisper, “Turn out the light,” which I did, though I would have preferred it on. The second time, just before I fell asleep, she ran her nails lightly over my chest, and laughed against my throat, and murmured pleasurably, “You act like a man just out of prison.” I laughed too, and folded my arms around her, and fell asleep.