This is a fan translation of Captain French, or the Quest for Paradise (Капитан Френч, или Поиски рая) by Mikhail Akhmanov and Christopher Nicholas Gilmore.

Chapter 7

In some respects, Barsoom matched my vague dreams of Paradise, if one could imagine a Paradise populated by two-meter tall people suffering from muscular dystrophy. Gravity here was only sixty percent of Earth's, the climate was tropical, the soil was fertile, and, thanks to these reasons, everything on Barsoom grew and bloomed with extraordinary generosity; the trees were kilometer high, while the grass looked like a jungle growing on the shores of the local version of the Congo and the Amazon. Barsoom was an old world, settled during the first millennium of space expansion, and humans had lived here for long enough for the planet to remake them to its liking. As a result, a special human race had formed, not one as exotic as the Sacabons, but still radically different from the pioneers. If I wasn't mistaken, they'd come from Earth, specifically from Brazil, Peru, and Argentina. But now, after twenty millennia, only historians remembered that.

Men on Barsoom were known for their height, over two meters, and even the women were not much shorter. Their build was flexible, delicate, graceful; their faces were wedge-shaped with a small chin and hawkish features, their skin was dark olive, their hair was black or dark-brown, long and wavy. They had sloping shoulders, long limbs, and small pouty mouths; like most of the peoples scattered throughout the endless space they saw their appearance as the most beautiful and the only possible one.

The latter claim was clearly dubious, but I was prepared to agree with the former, as they possessed a certain charm. When I'd been here last, I had a fling with one of my models, a fairly passionate girl. We loved one another for a whole week and parted without tears, hysterics, or scenes; neither of us had expected anything more serious. To me, she was merely an exotic beauty, and, to her, I was a space monster, just as exotic, who added to her collection of lovers. I had no doubt that I'd occupied an honorable place in the top ten of this collection.

Upon entering into orbit around Barsoom and declaring my arrival via the planetary communication network, I found out, to my relief, that Barsoom continued to prosper. There'd been no comet strikes, no nuclear carnage, no sudden flares of religiousness, no environmental disasters, and no other devastating calamities here; like before, Barsoom was a rich, generous world with a very unique and refined culture. I was doubly pleased: first of all, I wished the Barsoomians all the best, and, second, I planned to introduce Shandra to a normal and pleasant human society.

And so, I presented my credentials and list of goods, and then we descended to the capital spaceport.

Compared to the Murphian misery, it seemed especially bright, luxurious, and attractive. Shandra was enraptured by the buildings of white stone, gateways decorated with mosaics and lancet arches, spiral ramps, lined with greenery, terraces, hanging at dizzying heights, and giant trees, looming somewhere in the distance, like a mountain ridge covered in green paint. The hot green sun and the jade skies added a truly unearthly charm to this picture. The spaceport was a lively place, as Barsoom had a fairly decent planetary fleet, but we were received on the honorable first runway and greeted with drums and timpani by the Minister of Trade, a delegation of business representatives, a platoon of life guards, a police cordon, and two hundred reporters. After shaking the hand of every local big shot, I thrust Sandra into a slider, got in myself, and we headed towards the capital, the beautiful seaside city of Gatol. The service here was top-notch: our suite (a presidential penthouse with a dozen rooms, a garden, a pool, and three gold-plated bathrooms) was already waiting for us, along with a dozen wistful maids and porters. Besides that, I had rented extensive office space one floor below; a sultry handsome man with the height of a basketball player named Esteban Maria Jorge dim Rio was already on duty there in the capacity of my spokesman.

The next two weeks were filled with hassles; I needed to hire agents, open accounts in local banks, meet with businessmen and journalists, receive a dozen honorary diplomas and addresses, as well as pay my respects to the authorities. Barsoom was not prone to anarchy; a multi-party democratic system was in use here, and the parties were, thanks to a long tradition, called juntas. Barsoomians were an open, hot-blooded, and expansive people, not prone to political intrigues, but valuing glory and success in life. At the dawn of time, these qualities often led to violent clashes between the juntas; occasionally, fists, blasters, and machetes were employed, although things had never reached the scale of a civil war. Then the political passions cooled, and, currently, the denizens of Barsoom preferred to devote their time to sex, business, various forms of art, and sports. They were obsessed with sports, especially soccer, and this fact was reflected in their political structure. Now, every party that lay a claim to power had to put together a soccer team; whoever won got to occupy the presidential palace. Interestingly, the claimants to the highest government post always took the role of goalkeepers; apparently, the art of catching a ball was associated on Barsoom with the ability to deal with various social scrapes and cataclysms.

Currently, the Attacking Bulls Junta was in power; they were energetic and assertive fellows, so I was unable to avoid a banquet at the presidential residence. I wasn't a fan of such festivities; too much food and alcohol, too many people, and too many empty speeches. But Shandra was delighted, and that sweetened the bitter pill a little.

Then, after doing our duty, we were left to our own devices. My spokesman, whom I had instructed to find a mentor for Shandra, finished this task, finding three candidates; I chose the one named Cassilda Dolores dim Caracosa, also known as the Black Star. She was a rather energetic woman Shandra's height, but half her weight, with burning black eyes, a mop of black hair, and eyelashes so long they could be braided. Her self-confidence, her parlance, and her requested fee led me to think that she was at the top of success and popularity. I paid with an easy heart: there was nothing I wouldn't do for Shandra. The first meeting with the magnificent Cassilda took place in my office, on the fortieth floor of the Simmons-Hyperion Hotel. It was just the two of us; I hadn't brought Shandra with me, fearing submerging her too quickly and abruptly into the world of Barsoomian bohemia.

After accepting my check with regal indifference, Cassilda lowered herself into a chair, showing off her delicate knees, and looked me over from head to toe. Then she inquired when her wardrobe would be ready and when the first show would take place.

"Showing off clothing is not your primary task," I noted. "You have been hired with another goal in mind."

"Massaraksh!" This juicy Barsoomian curse word fluttered from her lips with the ease of a butterfly. I still didn't know its meaning, by the way. "Massaraksh! Then why do you need me, fatty? To keep your bed warm?"

I wasn't offended; from the viewpoint of any Barsoomian, I was suffering from obesity and a lack of height. As for the hints about the bed, then Barsoom had loose morals, and sex was not a forbidden topic. And besides, we weren't at a presidential reception.

Despite this, I decided to put her in her place, by making a stern face and roaring, "Massaraksh thirty-three times! I don't sleep with skeletons, my dear! I like women who have something more substantial under the dress than insolence, skin, and bones! Besides, I'm married, old, stingy, and not in the habit of wasting money."

Cassilda looked at me with respect. Enforcing my success, I opened a bottle of sparkling wine, we had a drink, and switched to first-name basis.

"So what will I be doing then? If you're as a stingy as you claim," she waved my check, "then you're going to squeeze a bucket full of sweat from me for this money!"

"Most definitely," I confirmed and got down to business, explaining that my wife, Lady Killashandra, wanted to master the art of fashion modeling and that she needed a mentor.

Cassilda threw a frank appraising glance at me.

"Is she a half-pint like you? Or even shorter?"

"Not at all. She's about your height, graceful, slender, flexible, but of a more… hmm… solid build."

"So, she has more under her dress than just bones, skin, and insolence," Cassilda noted. "And where did you dig up such a marvel?"

"On Murphy, during my previous stop."

Cassilda's left eyebrow rose, the corners of her mouth lowered, and now her flexible face seemed to read, "Not the best choice, guy!" This was the main difference between the Barsoomians and the angels of Paradise: they were too self-centered and occasionally sinned through arrogance. They should really remember that, in ninety-nine out of a hundred worlds, their appearance would not be looked upon favorably. Then again, the majority of planetary inhabitants suffered from the same narrowness of worldview.

I told Cassilda that my wife would not be participating in the show on Barsoom and would not be seen as her competition, as she could not be considered a professional. She'd been practicing only with the help of holographic recordings, she had some technique, moved fairly well, knew all the necessary gestures and moves, but some subtleties were still beyond her, some secrets of fine art, known only to the true masters. And so, after talking it over, we had invited a master.

After hearing me out, Cassilda gave an important nod with her brunette head.

"Fina, I'll work with your lady. You're right about one thing: a runway is not a simple thing, and there are plenty of secrets… including those that only a woman can reveal to another woman. I hope your girlfriend is not too bashful, if we get to demonstrating panties, bras, and stockings, is she?"

I confirmed that this would not be a problem, hinting at a bonus upon success.

At that promise, Cassilda batted her eyelashes and declared, "You're too generous for a miser who doesn't like wasting money! But if we're talking about a bonus… Well then, thirty percent in addition to my fee will be acceptable."

"Twenty," I countered. "Twenty plus all the outfits you'll be showing."

"Outfits? Massaraksh with them! You think I don't have enough outfits? My entire life passes among them! Among dresses, mantles, skirts, blouses, hats, and pants! I'm sick of them already!"

"Then how about a nice emerald on a platinum chain?" I asked. "I think it'll look amazing in your curls."

This satisfied her, and we shook on it. We also agreed that the mentorship would start in ten days aboard the Circe, where the robots could easily make the most exquisite attires; that the lessons would continue after the show, which was to take place in a month, also aboard the ship, as there was an element of attractive exoticism in that; that I agreed to deliver all the important Barsoomian fashion designers, representatives of the leading firms, and journalists aboard, to the never-ending glory of Cassilda Dolores dim Caracosa. With the magnificent Cassilda on the runway, there was no way we could fail!

Then we parted. My new employee went to cash her check with an easy step, while I went up to the penthouse to Shandra. I couldn't say I was totally calm in those minutes, after all, Cassilda was really something! Even her nickname seemed ambiguous to me: I knew that every black star eventually turned into a black hole, as insatiable as the Devil's maw. I could only guess if Cassilda had passed this stage yet and hoped that Shandra would only get good things from this hole and nothing bad. I hoped.

Now that the dates had been set, I could hire an advertising agent, burdening him with all the routine preparations for the show. He had to contact the local fashion designers and clothing manufacturers, inform the gossip columnists and other interested persons, in essence, comb all of Barsoom and squeeze out the cream of the crop into my shuttle's passenger cabin. I had lucked out with a no-nonsense agent, so now I had free time.

I decided to make good use of it and bring Shandra into this brilliant new world. This operation needed to be done with care; I realized that my fair lady was still too naïve, too vulnerable to jump into the very thick of the Tower of Babel that was ever-present on Barsoom. Here, I was her only protection and guide; after all, her beauty (a gift that always caused reverence and admiration) was unusual for Barsoomians and as strange as a lily flower growing on a rosebush.

We hired a small but comfortable guided atmospheric speeder and left to wander Barsoom. This trip was not my preferred method of relaxation; typically, when coming down to a planet, I spent my time in cities, trying to make up for the lack of human contact. All these images of nature: waterfalls coming down from the mountains, the mountains themselves with ice caps, picturesque gorges, majestic rivers, and forests with gigantic trees, basically, all that made me sad; it seems to be that all these views had been stamped out specifically for tourists on some enormous automated factory. But to Shandra, who was gazing at them for the first time, our trip was wondrous. She was full of admiration and enthusiasm, she was amazed and sighed, absorbing all this beauty, and taking pictures, just like a young schoolgirl from Brooklyn visiting the Amazon jungle. Then again, was she really not a schoolgirl, despite her age and position?..

I looked at her and was moved to tenderness.

But schoolgirls could be foolish or smart, and Shandra was of the latter sort. Quickly figuring out how to operate the automated guide built into our little ship, she started playing a game with it. Our guide, a fairly clever pseudo-intelligence, was a faithful servant of its masters; it sent us to specific hotels and restaurants, landed in front of attractive bars, recommended this and that entertainment, promising free drinks if we graced them with our presence. After studying the tourist brochures, Shandra started selecting competing establishments; the guide countered with more generous promises: the drinks were then accompanied by discounts, lottery tickets, and all kinds of souvenirs. This continued over and over again, causing Shandra to break out into bouts of laughter; she was running this game with childlike enjoyment, forcing the guide to shell out one hundred percent discounts. Typically, she managed to do it.

The current generation (meaning those born within the last five or six hundred years) was used to dealing with robots. Even Shandra, despite the fact that few of them were left of Murphy after the global cataclysm, and there had been less than a dozen of them in her convent. To the current generation, robots seemed to be something commonplace and familiar; it had grown up among thinking machines and perceived them with complete indifference, like a necessary part of society, at least, on the rich and highly developed worlds like Barsoom. Such an attitude has its advantages and disadvantages, and I didn't know which it had more of. I would have preferred for people to treat robots in a more emotional manner by, for example, considering them as something close to them instead of an equivalent of a table or a chair. I wasn't advocating for robot rights; it was ridiculous to speak of rights, since they were only machines, without any self-awareness, but for people it would be better to believe in the presence of an electronic soul, something like feelings, and even compassion in them. This would have allowed people to assert themselves without causing harm to one another. For example, they could see robots as slaves, thereby satisfying their latent thirst for power, for supremacy over another thinking being, for the drive to punish and reward, encourage and execute… But no, no! Who would be satisfied with executing a stool or ruling over a chair? A person, now that was different… I myself treated robots with a certain cautious wariness. This might seem strange, as, after all, I'd been living in the body of a giant robot that was my Circe for twenty thousand years! One could say that it was about time I got used to it, right? Nothing of the sort! And there were a few good reasons for that. First of all, all robots, computers, and thinking machines were split into two categories for me: the Circe (which I trusted completely) was in one, and all the others were in the other. And second… Second, recall Isaac Asimov (he'd been an ancient writer) and his laws of robotics. A robot may not harm a human… A robot must obey a human… This sounded very noble and impressive, but reality had turned out to be completely different! Our robots lacked intelligence and obeyed only their master rather than any human, and they did it with the indifference of a programmed machine tool. If ordered, they could sew fancy clothing and fluff pillows, but they could also torture and kill… Recall my pious passenger, who'd lost a limb along with his blaster! Had I ordered it, he could have parted with his head! This as why I was careful with robots. As for my personal guards, I knew that I carried full responsibility for them and everything they did. I was careful, very careful…

And so, our journey continued. At times, we ate and slept aboard the ship, and other times we stayed in hotels, finding ourselves under the aim of holoprojectors of the journalistic brotherhood. All these commentators, reporters, observers, and journalists were, in my opinion, an evil, but an evil that was necessary in a civilized world, born of human curiosity. Were there other ways of satisfying it? I didn't know… But I was certain that Paradise had no reporters.

Usually, I was able to deal with them by hinting that Killashandra and I were on our honeymoon and did not intend to give interviews or pose in front of holocameras. It was the best way to fight off their attacks; if there was one thing they treated with understanding on Barsoom, it was the passion of love that gripped newlyweds. And, as was well-known, passion demanded privacy.

I violated this rule only once, by setting up a business breakfast with a representative of a large local firm called Inesilla, and only because my advertising agent had insisted on the meeting. Inesilla's area of interest was fashion, in all its frightening diversity: from clothing, jewelry, and home design to unusual animals and antique rarities. I'd hoped to sell my silver Punjabi figurines to them.

The breakfast took place in the most luxurious hotel of the city of Zodanga, which was just as lush, big, and bright as the planetary capital of Gatol. During the first change of dishes, we agreed that Inesilla would participate in the upcoming fashion show; during the second, I managed to get a good deal on purchasing two black unicorns, and, during the third, a small shipment of crystalsilk, an amazing fabric from Triton, which could also be produced on Barsoom. I hadn't really needed the unicorns or crystalsilk, but, if you wanted to sell something, you needed to buy something too, right? Besides, the crystalsilk could be useful to Shandra; dresses from this fabric were only worn by real ladies, as well as real models.

We finished with the unicorns and the fabric, lit up cigars, and, during dessert, our breakfast companion started discussing art. From there, the conversation kept going on its own, along a beaten path, straight to the lower limbs of my Punjabi figurines. I demonstrated their holograms from all seductive angles and aspects, but the Inesilla representative remained cold as ice.

After finishing his coffee, he mumbled reluctantly, "These are decent compositions, Captain French, not bad at all for Punjab… I think their masters are familiar with the subject matter not only in theory. However…"

This "however" froze in the air, ruining the taste of my cigar. After a minute or two passed, I started talking of the moral relapse on Punjab, of the puritanical views and their harmful influence on art. By and large, my speech boiled down to the idea that the figurines I was offering were no less a treasure than Raphael's paintings and Michelangelo's creations. I wasn't sure if my companion had heard of these great names; at the very least, they did nothing to convince him.

"Hmm… yes…" he mumbled pointedly. "As a long-term capital investment, these sculptures pose a certain interest… It's too bad they're so… hmm… heavyweight!"

And he named a price twenty times less than what I'd paid for them. With such a beginning, there was no sense negotiating, and, after finishing off dessert, we peacefully went our separate ways.

After leaving the restaurant, Shandra asked, "Graham, that guy from Inesilla… What did he mean by 'heavyweight'?"

I smiled.

"Barsoomians like using this word in relation to other human races. It means corpulence, innate thickness… let's say, a certain surplus of flesh."

"Are you sure? After saying that, he looked at me. Why is that?"

Her mouth opened in resentment, and I decided to cross out Inesilla from my guest list, no matter what my agents told me.

"You see, my girl, it's called anthropocentrism. Barsoomians think that they're the center of Creation, that their appearance is perfect, that all other people, who aren't fortunate enough to live on Barsoom, are something between a hippo and a pregnant pig. Don't be upset at them, it's only harmless vanity, while they're talking about beauty criteria. But if they exhibit such narrowness of worldview in moral questions, in the issues of ethics, ideology, and faith, that is when it becomes genuinely scary!"

Shandra nodded ruefully.

"Scary, Graham! It's… it's Murphy!"

That day, she was thoughtful and did not try to play with our cunning guide.

A few days later, we returned to the capital, and then to our ship, which continued to diligently circle Barsoom. Soon we were joined by Cassilda, who was very energetic, very businesslike, with a group of dresser robots and sizable luggage. I could smell cosmetics in her chests from a mile away.

She liked Shandra. At least, that was how I interpreted the phrase, "You've got something going, baby!" and the slow, mysterious flutter of her long eyelashes. Then our guest occupied the main lounge and got everything moving there. Robots (both hers and mine) stood at attention before her, the runway rumbled and boomed from the clicking of heels, sweet perfume wafted through the entire habitation module, and the invariable "massaraksh!" was interspersed with other words, which were more ancient and thus understandable to a dinosaur like me. I was amazed by this slender woman's energy: in a mere few hours, she had tried on all the dresses, rejected a dozen of them, and sifted through the Circe's memory banks in hopes of finding something ancient, forgotten, but suitable for Barsoom. I didn't know if she was a star or a black hole, but she was most definitely a top-tier specialist! After establishing this fact and noting that Shandra was also fond of her mentor, I relaxed.

I had to return to Gatol for the presentation of holofilms and literary works set up by Esteban dim Rio. It was an important event, promising me a decent profit, if I managed to sell at least a tenth of the recordings in the Circe's banks. Now that my gamble with the Punjabi figurines had failed, I was putting great hopes on the market of spectacles, books, and, especially, sporting events, which were so popular on Barsoom. Spectacles were a hot item on any highly-developed world, but I wouldn't be able to sell many technological innovations: they had their own, and whatever they didn't was easier to invent than buy from a space trader. There were exceptions, of course, like the mass duplicator, which was being spread by Shard from the Beauty and Jones from the Asgard; but Barsoom already had a duplicator, and this world, fortunately, had no need for the Tranaian mind-wiping machine.

My recordings did not produce great excitement, but, all in all, the presentation was successful; as I had hoped, ten percent were purchased outright (sports, ballet, erotica, neuroclips, and pop hits), and some poetry and prose ended up being sent to literary experts in a capital university, who would then determine the intrinsic value of these works for Basroomian libraries. I could count on selling the rights to half of the literary recordings, as long as the critics were not too strict. Upon returning to the Circe, I discovered that the lovely ladies were in agreement and good spirits, that their lessons were moving along at full speed, and that the robots were working tirelessly. Having found five dozen ancient outfits, Cassilda had them re-created in silk, velvet, and brocade, and some of them had turned out to be true discoveries. I was ecstatic, although the ball gowns from the time of Triton's greatness could turn out to be too risqué even for Barsoomians. They were too revealing and left breasts, as well as other private parts, completely exposed, but the trick was to glue them out of crystalsilk. Its noble glow hid that which should be hidden, shrouding the shoulders and hips in an iridescent, shimmering haze. Yes, crystalsilk was truly an amazing thing! It looked beautiful, its price remained stable (and high!), and only a few worlds knew how to create such magic. I had to once again go to Inesilla for an additional order. Fortunately, I wasn't in a habit of being hasty in my business dealings and hadn't yet cancelled the invitation; after estimating the possible benefits, I decided not to cancel it at all. I hoped their representative hadn't meant to insult Shandra, and I could compensate for his carelessness with crystalsilk dresses.

The day came when my shuttle delivered a horde of guests from Barsoom, and my quiet, peaceful, calm ship turned into a semblance of the Colosseum on the eve of gladiatorial combat. I'd had the precaution to lock up the bridge, the bedroom, the store rooms, and the medical section, but the other compartments (except, possibly, the brig) were full of colorful human maelstroms, bright lights, waving clothes, and black curls, glittering eyes, and sparkles of gems scattered on the dark olive skin. In the wardroom (that was where the bar had been set up), people ate and drank; in the gym, which had been decorated with floral garlands from my greenhouses, people drank, ate, and gossiped; in all other places, except for the lounge, people were doing the same thing. The doors to the lounge were still closed in expectation of the coming event. It was likely a planetary-scale event, as, besides the businesses and the journalists, politicians were also in attendance: from the ruling junta, as well as the from the Ferocious Jaguars, Gray Condor, Anaconda, and Ocelot juntas. They drank a lot, but everyone was behaving surprisingly properly, including the reporters, probably because a squad of robots with beam rifles had been posted by the brig.

Finally, the great doors of the lounge opened, and the people, tired of waiting, rushed inside. I had to note that all space traders tried to maintain order during such events, and I did so more than others. I had my own way of conducting auctions, which was completely impartial and did not allow the participants to stick their noses into other people's business. So, the spectators took their places in the mezzanine, while the direct participants sat in the parterre, at some distance from one another. Each of them was issued a miniature terminal, connected to the Circe's computer, and each could tap out an offered price on it. The highest bid appears on the display board; those wishing to increase their bid did so secretly, as their chairs were more like booths, which prevented others from seeing hand gestures or facial expressions. Then the gavel fell three times. Done! Sold!

There was a little secret in that, which was my own terminal, which displayed the top bid and from which I could raise it if I was dissatisfied with the highest offer. This meant that no item ended up going cheaply; at the very least, it stayed with me; after all, only I knew the terminal IDs and the names of the winners. With this system, no one knew who got which dress and how many of them were bought out by greedy Old Frenchie himself. The demonstration took place slowly, so the model had time to change. During the pauses, I entertained the people with various jokes, the robots handed out cold and strong drinks, and the guests exchanged their impressions. The idea behind the lengthy showing was twofold: first, this allowed me to hire just one model (but the best one, like Cassilda), and second, I could gauge the reaction of the buyers. Was it even necessary to mention that, from where I sat, I could see everyone, as well as their names and bids on my terminal?

We started at the usual leisurely pace. Cassilda was beyond all praise, definitely a star and not a black hole: her makeup was excellent, her gestures polished, her movements smooth, the fabric was streaming down her sloping shoulders, her eyes were shining, her hair was weaving. The spectators were applauding excitedly, the buyers were busy over their terminals, the Circe was calculating the profits, the robots were dashing back and forth with trays, while Shandra and I were entertaining the guests.

As I'd mentioned, my fair lady was not displaying dresses, but she was a full participant of the show. This was her first presentation into society, and I had not stinted on snacks and drinks to properly decorate it. Maybe she seemed "heavyweight" to the choosy Barsoomians, maybe her red curls and emerald eyes presented an unusual appearance to them, maybe!.. But here, aboard the Circe, she was the mistress: the lady, the owner, the overlord! The queen, damn it! And her king (well, more like old prince) wished to underscore her power.

I had chosen an exquisite black dress embroidered with gold for Shandra; her hair, which was shoulder-length now, held a glowing emerald tiara with six prongs; her bare arms were covered in bracelets, earrings, selected to match the tiara, gleamed in her ears; a belt gripped her slim waist, and the charcoal-black fabric was falling down to her ankles in smooth soft waves; her breasts were half-exposed and covered with a graceful lace, an interweaving of dark, scarlet, and gold threads, like a supernova explosion. She was gorgeous! The Barsoomians, most of whom were men, could not tear their admiring eyes away from her. Heavyweight or not, she was a woman, a magnificent woman, worthy of adoration! She held herself well. She limited her topics of conversation with the guests to Barsoom's scenery, the activity on the runway, and the two dozen books she'd had time to read, but Shandra was saying all that with that same enchanting smile that gave a woman's words a certain mysterious meaning, a hint at a secret. Despite her innocence, she had picked up a few choice expressions from Cassilda, but they seemed perfectly appropriate coming from her lips, as if a queen was deigning to use her subjects' slang. In any case, the Barsoomians were not raising their eyebrows too high, while their olive faces glowed, as if rubbed with oil. Finally, I noticed our choosy friend, the Inesilla representative, clucking and strutting his stuff before my wife, and I knew we had triumphed. It was a victory!

The same could be said of the auction. We finished it, and I started to move among the participants, handing out their certificates, along with my congratulations and Shandra's enchanting smiles. Only one item had remained unsold, the prices were decent, and I already calculated that our journey to the world of Barsoom had completely paid for itself. I had a thought that I should switch to export now, purchase a large shipment of crystalsilk, recordings of sporting events, two or three patents of technological innovations, and—why not?!—a dozen black unicorns. Along with my shabns and pterogeckos, they would make up an entire mobile menagerie.

That evening, I celebrated Fortune's smile in the small but pleasant company of Cassilda and Shandra, and, in the morning, I went down to Gatol to start the export operations. Over the following week, I did not see much of either of my ladies, although I invariably returned to the Circe by dinnertime. They almost never left the lounge, but, by listening to the changing rumbling of the rotational thrusters, I could guess that Cassilda Dolores dim Caracosa was coaching my wife in the full range of the gravity forces, in which humans still thought of rags and outfits. It was between point-zero-two and one-point-three gs, so I could hope that, after such polishing, Shandra would not lose face in either the cities of the Sacabons or the heavy world of San Brendan. The hallway and the gym were still soaked in thick perfume aromas, the runway rang from the dancing of the heels, and the robots were dashing about like catechumens, carrying piles of clothing and lingerie, caskets of cosmetics, and heavy trays with snacks and bottles. Apparently, the transformation of my Shandra into a professional model was accompanied by great hunger and thirst.

After about three or four days of this, I got worried and, having dined, demanded an account of their success. My spouse started reporting readily, but Cassilda quickly hobbled her.

"He's a man!" The dark eyes looked at me with such disdain, as if I was a macaque male, who had encroached on a bird-of-paradise. "He's a man and shouldn't stick his nose into feminine secrets, my dear. Remember it well, if you don't want to lose him! As for you, Graham," she turned towards me, "go mind your own business. Massaraksh! Why don't you go have breakfast with your slacker agents? Why not have a drink? Why not go to a decent establishment, to a club or a university of some sort? Maybe you can buy some clever people for your zoo!"

And so, I was ushered out of my own ship, with my own wife's silent acquiescence. Had I been a younger man, I could have become indignant, but the wisdom of the years had told me that, wherever two women came together, the Devil was always present! And it was best not to argue with him!

I came down to the planet, but decided not to bother my agents; I didn't like breathing down their necks. My spokesman Esteban was preparing yet another meeting with the press, the other guy was putting the squeeze on the university critics, so, to avoid getting in the way, I went on a tour of fashion houses, buying everything that presented even the tiniest value. After loading up on data discs, I stopped by textile suppliers and selected several lengths, remembering that the clothing of any world looked best when made of local fabrics. After finishing with these chores, I had lunch at the high-end Buenos Limas restaurant; then again, there was nothing there that the Circe's cybernetic chefs could not have made for me.

I went to sleep in my solitary penthouse with the gold-plated bathrooms, but I had trouble sleeping; I kept seeing dreams, in which Cassilda absconded with my ship and, after jumping in the Ramsden field, was circling over Murphy, with the vile idea to sell Shandra into slavery to the chaste sisters. It was absurd, of course, but I awoke in cold sweat during the darkest of the night's hours and immediately contacted the Circe. She replied and informed me that everything was fine aboard, that the mistress and her guest were asleep and were, according to the readings of the sensors in their beds, in good health.

"Wish I could say the same…" I muttered through gritted teeth, to which the Circe advised me to take a laxative.

Humor had always been her weak point, and, after a moment, I decided that she wasn't joking but trying to vent her anger at me. Well then, she had good reasons for that: try being calm when a pair of women were commanding you!

I was not inclined to follow the laxative recommendation; after riffling through the recordings, I found a neuroclip with gentle tunes from Lyoness, inserted it into a slot behind the pillow, and fell asleep.

I devoted the next two days to the local zoo. Among the Circe's hydroponic compartments and greenhouses, there were two special rooms, the hibernator and the menagerie, which contained my collections of animals, birds, insects, and fish. The hibernator, which was, in essence, a refrigeration unit, was where I kept fertilized eggs and other genetic materials, while the menagerie was for a number of amusing creatures, presented at full length, as it were. There were a dozen pterogeckos from Pern: small flying lizards, brightly colored and surprisingly clever; I even suspected that these miniature dragons were telepathic. There was a pair of shabns, a result of genetic crossbreeding of a horse and a camel; these long-legged humped animals were capable of moving at great speeds, carrying heavy loads, and surviving for weeks without water. They'd been bred on Malacandra, and I stole them by bribing the cloning technicians. Well, it hadn't really been a bribe, more like a private agreement; as a result, my partners had become a little richer, and I got the samples of the genomes I needed. I also had birds, butterflies, and bugs, large tanks with all manner of aquatic wildlife, giant Auroran slugs, Yamahan snakes, which had mutated after the disasters there, and many other creatures, useful, beautiful, and frightening. And now I'd added black unicorns to my collection, but Barsoom's fauna was very diverse, and I could probably find something more amazing here than these squat black monstrosities with cornified noses. I found suitable exhibits on the afternoon of the second day. If memory served, they looked like furry orange gorillas the size of a kitten; even their temper, as the zookeepers assured me, was gentle and friendly. They reproduced well, ate everything, and did not make a mess in every corner; in other words, they were perfect pets for any home. They weren't Barsoomian, by the way; they'd been brought by Aldis, the owner of the Binary Star, a century ago. Their home planet was Globodan, a peripheral world, which I had not heard of until then. They were a good commodity, fairly rare too, unless my competitors had already beaten me to the punch. I contacted the central flight control and inquired as to the routes of Aldis and the two other space traders, Davaslatta of the Queen Bee and Dars of the Anastasia, who had visited Barsoom within the last hundred years. One had departed for Punjab, another headed to the Excalibur sector, and the third was on his way to Penelope… Perfect! My next destination was Malacandra, and then Solaris, so our paths could not possibly cross.

I paid a business visit to the zoo director. Did he possess fertilized eggs?.. Or material suitable for cloning?..

He turned out to have both, so we began our negotiations, which went well into the evening. The director (who was one of those highbrow types, who would take an inch if you gave him one) had managed to sell me the roe of some exotic fishes with inch-long teeth that were as voracious as piranhas. But I took them, along with the ten-percent discount on the orange critters.

Back at the office, a message from my literary agent was waiting for me. The guy turned out to be nobody's fool; he'd finished the operation with the highbrow critics and even managed to sell them Hamrestes and The Defeat of Heresy. As one could imagine, I was very pleased! Such success needed to be celebrated, and who with but my fair lady? After all, the purchases I had made on Murphy could be seen as her dowry, no matter what Archon Geoffrey would have said about that!

I wanted to see her, so I headed to the spaceport, and from there, to the Circe. The hour was late, it was almost midnight, but I thought that Shandra would not be upset at the awakening, especially if I woke her with the tenderest kiss of all.

With that thought, I docked the shuttle, exited it, and headed for the bedroom.