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.
Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 20
Admittedly, not every reception ended on such a high note; there had been times when I played the role of the prey instead of the hunter. Figuratively speaking, of course; the people of Solaris valued life too much to take it away from any warm-blooded creature, except maybe for whales. Solarians had a strong aversion to violence, and even among the hydroids, the lowest class, no one would raise a neurowhip, a harpoon, or a machete on another. These deadly objects existed, but they were meant for work; whips were for driving whales to the slaughter, harpoons were for going after large fish, and machetes were for harvesting algae. However, despite their peace-loving nature, the inhabitants of Solaris did not reject their aggressive human instincts, instead diverting them into areas other than killing. Which areas, one might ask? Well, for example, into normal business competition, where Homo homini was still lupus est [Footnote 1]. And so much lupus that, at times, there was nothing left of the competition: no bones and no entrails! Another area was sports, but not the contact varieties such as boxing, wrestling, or soccer, instead preferring swimming, rowing, and boating competitions, dolphin racing, and the fairly dangerous safari in the squid-filled underwater jungle. The third and most important area, accessible to each and all, not just athletes and businesspersons, was lovemaking.
I had previously discussed such matters numerous times and even come to the conclusion that my personal Paradise would be filled with love, the way the Circe's holds were filled with excellent merchandise. To me, love was a sublime feeling, but for the Solarians, it was more fleshly and mundane; they leaned more towards the primacy of physiology over spirituality and turned it into a game, a hunt of a sort, where one chased, and the other fled, well, pretended to flee. The rules of the game determined the customs, traditions, and the marriage code, which was fairly vague and liberal. In accordance with it, the people of Solaris practiced multiple kinds of marriage (monogamous, polygynous, polyandrous, and group), which meant that fidelity was a very loose concept. At the very least, no one considered it a sin to "sway on a dolphin's back" with someone else's spouse; as for the hydroids, they lived as flocks rather than families.
During my previous visits to Solaris, such intimate details had not burdened me, as, to my great pleasure, I was a bachelor and could respond to any proposition. But now, also to my great pleasure, I was married, and that placed dual responsibilities on me: I had to protect Shandra from persistent admirers and to keep myself from falling victim to my own fans. And that was not an easy task! They flocked to me like moths to a flame, like bees to a bowl full of honey; not because of my pretty eyes, of course, but purely out of vanity. After all, I was the great Trader from the Stars, also decorated with the Order of the Great Calamari!
Several cycles after the banquet in Emberly, we took a chance and accepted yet another invitation, to Mahwah this time, a tiny three-island republic, the largest of which was the size of Tahiti. This reception was being thrown by the local politicians and sociologists, and, despite no orders or diplomas being presented to me, the food turned out to be exceptional, especially mollusks with hot sauce. The table had been set in an arena of an oval amphitheater, its steps reaching up towards a spacious gallery decorated with statues, mosaic panels, and the invariable palm trees. On its outer side, there were several balconies with wide parapets; the balconies were small, entwined with greenery, and secluded, like forgotten gazebos in an overgrown park. But I didn't think that anyone had forgotten about them; these mysterious balconies were probably an alternative to the dolphin backs of Emberly. In any case, the couches there were fairly spacious, and their pillows were enticingly soft. Having sampled the mollusks, I slipped away into the gallery, in order to enjoy a cigar in peace and to avoid poisoning the guests; due to the modest amount of arable land on Solaris, the locals did not grow tobacco and, therefore, did not smoke. I had a supply of excellent cigars from Punjab; they were almost as good as Havanas, which were no longer being exported, only being produced in small batches for the Castro Ruz family, the hereditary Cuban earls. Five or six millennia ago, having stopped over on Earth, I had visited their residence and was honored with a carved rosewood box with a hundred excellent cigars. They said that such cigars had once been smoked by their legendary ancestor, the founder of the Cuban Earldom, or had it been called differently in that distant past, which even I could not recall?.. But I digressed again.
I lit a cigar, stepped out onto a balcony, sat on a parapet, and watched the magical colors of the sunset. It was almost as if, somewhere beyond the sea, beyond the horizon, someone had started a giant bonfire; fire protuberances reached towards the zenith, embraced the western sky, and the rare stars were like gnats that had been scared away by the flaming hearth from the hot cradle that had borne them. Sucking on the cigar, I watched the heavenly flames and the runaway gnats, examined them, and remembered their names, until one of the gnats landed next to me. She was wearing a scarlet jacket, wrapped by a crimson belt, her pants were of the same color, and I did not believe she was wearing anything else. The jacket and the pants were hugging her flesh with such a blunt challenge and bulged in all the right places that I didn't notice any trace of other clothing underneath. She had a narrow face, thin eyebrows, pink and fluttering nostrils, long and silky hair, more dark than light; there was fire in her eyes, like in a panther about to pounce on its prey. This gnat's name was Nissan Lada Viritrilbia of the Red Clan, who had a Ph.D. in sociology.
How had she tracked me down to this secluded balcony?!
"Captain French?" Her voice was low, soft, purring. This voice alone could drive any man insane, and that wasn't even mentioning everything else, like what was bulging under the pants and the jacket.
Drawing on the cigar, I let out a stream of smoke and bowed.
"At your service, milady. Doctor honoris causa, Friend of the Border, Trader from the Stars, et cetera, et cetera. Also, if I'm not mistaken, a recipient of the Great Calamari Order."
She chuckled.
"No one would reproach you for being too modest, sir. And you probably have no doubt that you were meant to bring culture and progress to all the inhabited worlds of the galaxy, don't you? For a sizable fee, of course."
"Why not? I'm a trader. If you prefer a more romantic definition, a seeker of adventure."
She moved closer, and I sensed a barely noticeable aroma coming off her hair and skin. Nothing strange about that, as Solaris was a world of all kinds of smells, for the most part pleasant and delicate ones.
"Does your wife think so too?" Doctor Nissan purred.
"Think? What exactly?"
"That you're a great culture bearer?"
"You should ask my wife that," I replied. "Lady Shandra is a prominent specialist in Captain French. She has familiarized herself with the recordings in my computer, with hundreds of my biographies and the opinions of historians; she has studied my entire life inside and out, day by day, all twenty plus millennia. Besides, she knows French in the flesh. She knows what he eats and drinks, what clothing he wears, what shoe he puts on first, whether he snores at night, and what he dreams about when he goes to bed."
"Well, that's not so difficult," Nissan giggled again. "All men dream of the same thing. And, having fulfilled them, you fall asleep, while your wife thinks about how great a man you are and how noble your missions is, to which you have devoted twenty plus millennia. I believe that's what a hundred of your biographies say, isn't it? But I don't believe them, sir."
She obviously wanted to intrigue me, a task in which she had, most definitely, succeeded. I noticed that she had pouty and scarlet lips and that each of their movements reminded me of a kiss. All I wanted to do was to look at them for eternity.
Then again, I was in full control of myself and said in a non-trembling voice, "If you don't believe my biographers, then you must believe something else. What then?"
She smiled coquettishly.
"That you and those like you have become a great scourge on humanity. Your existence alone slows down progress!"
I was prepared to forgive her words because of the lips that had spoken them. Why am I falling apart like that? a thought came. Did the mollusks and the hot sauce affect me so much?
"Your verdict isn't that original," I noted. "I've heard even harsher sentences. Someone isn't happy with my goods, someone else doesn't like my prices; some curse me for my stinginess, others for my heartlessness, while theologians of all worlds have declared me a heretic for refusing to ferry missionaries without due compensation. But you, my beautiful lady, is a sociologist, not a missionary! You must understand how the economic machine works and what is needed to oil it!"
Her breasts rose under the thin fabric of her jacket, and I felt my lips go dry. No, that damned sauce had indeed been too spicy! And the Mahwahn wine was too strong…
"Money, goods, theology! Huh!" Nissan waved a graceful hand, seemingly brushing off all these concepts altogether. "I meant something else! The technological progress, the spread of scientific knowledge… By the way, are you familiar with the story of Shard? The space trader who was selling the mass duplicator?"
"Of course," I answered, nodding.
"Rockwell Shard and Max Jones bought the design on Alastor several years apart. Shard ended up beating Jones, who headed for the recently colonized worlds, where he sold the duplicator on thirty-six planets. Shard ended up getting the Old Worlds and Earth; he arrived to Earth an incredibly wealthy man and lost his entire fortune in less than a year. The other space traders, like you, sir, bought out the specifications, scattered in all directions, and, as a result, all the highly developed worlds were able to get their hands on the device. That took three hundred and forty-seven years, according to historical records… Well now, let's imagine what would have happened if there were no space traders: no Shard, no Jones, no you, my dear Friend of the Border, no other great Traders from the Stars. What would have happened to the duplicator?"
"Nothing," I shrugged. "It would have been used on Alastor and, possibly, invented on two or three other worlds a few millennia later. So three hundred and forty-seven years isn't that long."
My cigar was still burning, and the pleasant smell of tobacco was fighting the woman's aroma. As if trying to punch through my last line of defense, Nissan stepped closer; now, by bending my head down, I would be able to touch her hair with my lips. Her jacket opened slightly under the pressure of the firm tanned globes, and the thin fabric outlined her straining nipples. I wonder what color they are, I thought. Pale-pink or coral? Brown or completely dark, like the Barsoomian women's? I felt that I would agree to any option, but the unknown intrigued me. Her jacket opened a little more…
"Three and a half centuries!" the beautiful doctor exclaimed, advancing on me with burning eyes. "You consider that a small time period? Why, this information would've spread twice as fast without the help of any space trader! Don't you agree that…"
If I unzipped her jacket or pulled it down a little… Horrified by such sinful thought, I mentally slapped my hands, but that didn't help. I could have really used something cool right then: maybe Archon Geoffrey's preaching or a bucket of cold water! Or even two. If I splashed Nissan with the other, her jacket would get wet and become completely transparent…
Frenchie, buddy!.. I was yelling in the depth of my heart. What are you thinking, you old ashtray! You're not a young man! And you have a wife like Shandra! She's a stone's throw away… you just have to get out into the gallery and walk down… walk down and see her talking to some professor about Silurian algae or the genesis of coral reefs… Shandra, sweet Shandra!.. I tried to call up her face in my mind to protect myself with this talisman, but it was for naught. The pouty scarlet lips called to me, trembling, whispering…
"Don't you agree that, if there were no space traders, knowledge would never have become a commodity? And then no scientist, no specialist would mind for his discoveries to become a legacy of the whole human race, of all the planets, rich and poor, including the Sacabon cities. Their discoveries would be transmitted from world to world over interstellar waves, and that process would have been far quicker and more effective than…"
I did not doubt beautiful Nessie's goals, but my will and virtue were cracking at the seams. Naturally, she hadn't started this conversation to show off her knowledge or to stick space traders into a pillory. All this scientific nonsense merely hid something else, and I was ready for Nissan to break off her reproof and offer to continue our discussion on the couch. Indeed, she was pressing me towards it, slowly, calculatedly, inexorably. Her skin gave off the scent of lavender, and that smell was driving me insane.
What could I use to protect myself? I didn't have Geoffrey or a bucket of water on hand, which meant that all I had left were economics and physics, dry and sobering subjects. Well, that and my cigar.
I took a long drag on the cigar, noting that my fingers were trembling, exhaled a puff of smoke, and said, "I'm afraid you're mistaken about space communication. At interstellar distances, any energy beam dissipates, leading to data loss and the degradation of the message. The nebularity is too great and the causality is too small! In order to avoid such factors, great amounts of energy and an entire network of orbital telescopes are required, which is more expensive than my ship. In order to build such a network, powered by reactors or solar batteries, you need experienced personnel, specialists, materials, and thousands of assembly robots. This is an unattainable luxury for the worlds of the Periphery, and I can substantiate my argument with numbers. I can calculate the cost of every nut and every bolt if they are to be lifted into orbit, and how many such nuts and bolts you need, along with pipes, couplers, beams, conduits, wires, and cylinders, also…"
Her jacket burst open, and hard nipples pressed against my chest. They were scarlet and large, like a ripe cherry. The scent of lavender grew stronger, and, with a jolt, I realized that she had doused herself in aphrodisiac, that same Spice essence that was obtained from the shell of a mollusk with the cute name Febris erotica. That didn't really change anything, but at least now I knew that I wouldn't sin out of filthy lust but for purely chemical reasons. Can't argue with chemistry, I thought, as if signing my own indulgence. After all, I couldn't exactly be responsible for what the Spice's molecules were doing to my hormones, could I?
Febris erotica, love fever.
Throwing her hands around my waist, the petite Nissan whispered, "Oh let's leave this subject… all these calculations, beams, screws, and wires… or get back to them later… Tell me, Captain, have you ever been with a woman from Solaris? Well then, grab a pillow from the couch and put me up on the parapet…"
I held her with my right hand, and my left hand was already reaching for a pillow, when my doctor yelped, broke out of my embrace, and jumped away, holding her butt cheek. I looked down. The tip of my cigar was glowing with a friendly light, as if happy that vice had been punished and virtue was once again the victor. The scent of lavender was now weaker, and my thoughts had cleared up. The first thing I did was lift up the cigar to my lips, take a long drag, and put up a smokescreen between myself and the beautiful Nissan.
"You burned me!" she exclaimed, still rubbing her butt cheek. "Throw away your disgusting, filthy, smelly—"
"No way, lady!" I interrupted. "And don't move, or there's going to be more burned smells! You can send me a bill for the ruined pants in Fajeirah." I walked around her, trying to stay as far away as possible and puffing the cigar like some ancient steamboat on the Mississippi. At the opening to the gallery, I stopped for a moment and let out a parting shot, "By the way, my dear, what sort of perfume is that? I must buy a dozen bottles for my wife."
With that, I left, pulled Shandra out of the flattering crowd of admirers (they seemed to be discussing the relative merits of Malacandran and Solarian pearls), pushed her into our aircar, and floored the engine. The aphrodisiac was still splashing playfully in my blood, but, fortunately, it wasn't far from Mahwah to Fajeirah, about an hour and a half with a tail wind. The wind was favorable and sped up our vehicle, also fanning the flames in my loins. I was barely able to restrain myself. We landed on the roof of our hotel, came down to our room, entered the bedroom (to change), but, as soon as I saw the bed and Shandra's naked thighs, the love balm raged inside me with such fury that I felt not a light breeze, not a storm, but a genuine tsunami.
Omitting further details, I would note that chemical passion was no worse than the natural one; when joined together, they worked wonders. One of those wonders was the fact that we had managed to fall asleep at all that night.
I woke up first and quietly, to avoid disturbing Shandra, left for my office. I ordered and drank two glasses of juice and then contacted the Circe. The goods had been loaded, the nozzles had been polished, the tanks were full of water; we could be on our way at any moment. The Circe had already finished comparing her files with the libraries of the planet's universities, and all the latest information on Solaris had been processed, analyzed, and catalogued.
Nodding in approval, I switched to my secretary, Sedan Peugeot Hammurabi. It should be mentioned that Solarians had very peculiar names, which they were proud of, believing that they were following an ancient Earth tradition. Without a doubt, that was the result of Aurora's influence, whose people had colonized Solaris; the Aurorans were very big on ancestry and produced all family names based on Roman and Greek roots or from even older ones from the times of Assyria and Babylon. But, five or six millennia ago (I could not recall exactly), the computers on Aurora had picked up a virus, probably along with files purchased from a careless trader. As a result, a large amount of data and historical information was lost, and, for some time, the people of Aurora thought that the automotive industry had begun during the time of Rameses, Sargon, and Nebuchadnezzar and that "Ford" and "Packard" were the names of great rulers from that distant era. Thus began the tradition of the strange Auroran names, which was continued by the settlers of Solaris. No one remembered who Hammurabi and what a sedan was anymore, but I knew that the former had walked on two legs, while the latter had rolled on four wheels!
But to hell with the Solarian misconceptions. I summoned my Sedan Hammurabi to make certain inquiries.
"Tell me, o unworthy one," I greeted the secretary, "are you aware of yesterday's events in Mahwah? I believe I'm paying you to put together a schedule of my visits and to ensure their safety, safety being the primary and most important thing! I only contact respectable people, and your task is to make sure that these people really are respectable. No psychopaths, no missionaries, no inventors of perpetual motion machines! And no horny ladies! Got it?"
My secretary went pale.
"What happened, honorable sir? Those Mahwahn sociologists are very decent people… and very hospitable…"
"A little too hospitable. Their hospitality could've ruined my life," I noted grimly and told him of yesterday's attempt.
Hammurabi wilted, "Shall I send a complaint, sir? A diplomatic note to the Republic of Mahwah Congress?"
I waved him off.
"To hell with this Nissan Viritrilbia… I prefer to not complain about ladies. But you I'm going to fine for ten percent of your fee. Any objections?"
My secretary shook his head.
"You can fine me a quarter, sir. It's my fault, of course, mine! I forgot that your customs in the… hmm… sexual area… yes, exactly… are a little different from ours. Now, about that unfortunate reception… Was it just one lady who was using Spice? Or were there several?"
"Fortunately, just one and quite deliberately. My reaction was very powerful, too powerful to explain with the lady's beauty and intelligence. Sure, she's pretty, but I'm not one of those roosters who jump any hen."
"So you didn't?.."
The phrase was suspended in mid-air, and I shook my head.
"No, like you said, I 'didn't'. I was saved by an accident. An accident and my wife, with whom I had come to that accursed Mahwah. But, if not for my wife and the accident, then I would have most definitely 'done'."
Hammurabi's mouth tightened.
"I understand, sir… an accident and Lady Shandra, your delightful wife…" He stared at me in astonishment. "So, you neglected that woman… Amazing! Our customs really are different from yours!"
"You've already said that, kid." I could probably get away with treating Hammurabi this way, since he was very young, only about a hundred. "Now tell me, is the use of an aphrodisiac allowed on such receptions?"
He shrugged.
"Here, everything that is not forbidden is permitted. But I should note that this lady… this Nissan Viritrilbia… took a great risk. She is a Doctor of Sociology, after all! But that's not the only reason. There is another risk."
"Which one?" I inquired.
"The damage to the woman's reputation. If it became public, then her colleagues would think that she was incapable of attracting a man without artificial stimulants. Such things are not punishable by law, but the opinion of her peers… that is to say, the unofficial atmosphere… the conventionalities of academia… A disgrace, great disgrace!"
"Is it not a disgrace outside academia? I mean the use of Spice in public places. Not in an intimate setting."
"Of course not, if the people are of a simpler sort. I don't mean the hydroids, they can't afford Spice, but those who work in the service industry… regular workers, owners of sea farms or small restaurants and shops… They don't neglect Spice! There is even an interclan Union of Tantric Mysteries, and, if you'd like, honorable sir—"
"Tell me of these mysteries, kid," I ordered, ignoring the final hint. A thought was knocking on my head, having not yet formed itself in numbers and words.
"Well," Sedan began, "typically, they're conducted in some secluded cave on a coast or in a floating bungalow; basically, in a confined space, with only mats and rugs. The participants sit in a circle or lie down on pillows, eat and drink and listen to rhythmic music. The food is spicy, while the drinks are stronger than those served at academic receptions…" He allowed himself a smile. "Then the lights are turned off, a Spice aerosol is misted through the air, and everyone watches pictures… well, you can guess what kind… These pictures and films are, for the most part, harmless, not counting the holograms from Dolores Rose… They have such great masters!"
"I know," I nodded. "The Order of Carnal Pleasures. I don't deal in their products."
"Of course, sir. Well then, as for those mysteries… After the crowd has been heated up, they all jump up and start to rip off one another's clothing, with pieces flying everywhere! Then they fall into a pile on the rugs, like in a frog tank, crawl amongst naked bodies, and copulate, until they're exhausted. And that's when the most interesting thing begins! Then, honorable sir—"
"Enough," I interrupted Sedan, as the thought, having reached my speech centers, had formed and ripened. "I don't want to know what they do in the nude, but I'd like to hear about their clothes. What are they like?"
"Clothes?" my secretary called back in confusion. "What is so interesting in their clothes?"
"Nothing for you, but a possible sales market for me. I want details!"
The clothing had turned out to be fairly ordinary, shorts and shirts, without any erotic frills. Excellent! After all, I could offer those Spice lovers something better, maybe that seductive jumpsuit that Malacandra had been flooded by thanks to Veit and Neimeyer. Not made of crystalsilk, of course; crystalsilk couldn't be ripped so easily, and it was a little pricey for the tantric mysteries. But a local fabric, something simple and transparent, would be perfect!
Calling up the image from the Circe, I showed the jumpsuit to Hammurabi, and the secretary's jaw dropped. Definitely the right choice! If I develop a male and female line, without sleeves, but with ruffles and bows, for easier grabbing and ripping, then the clients would be ecstatic! More importantly, those were such great clients! They'd need a new jumpsuit for every gathering, as there'd be nothing left of the previous one but tatters!
Having estimated the sales market, I told Sedan to contact my salespeople in all the clans and give an "all hands on deck" signal. Soon, my monitor was filled with faces, cheerful, tired, or sleepy, depending on their current time and whether they had been pulled out of a desk or a bed. We managed to distribute the work before breakfast; all had received holographic samples, and my workshops were already busy on the first batch, made in the traditional five-color scale. I was full of certainty that I was about to do the incredible, something no other trader had dreamed of: selling an off-world outfit on Solaris!
Such an accomplishment needed to be celebrated. Having finished with my business dealings, I moved to the dining room and ordered breakfast and a bottle of champagne with it. Then I peered into the bedroom. Shandra was just then stretching and yawning.
"Pirate!" I heard her gentle cooing voice. "Pirate, space monster!"
"I love you too, honey. But why a pirate?"
"You ravaged me like a pirate." Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Shandra clarified, "Last night, after we got back from Mahwah. That was first. And second, are you not a pirate, dear? Did you not capture the Circe? Did you not take her away from the poor spice and beverage company? You're a pirate, a genuine pirate!"
I grinned.
"I prefer to engage in piracy in the bedroom, not in space. You know that I'm a quiet and peaceful man from Old Earth and that only something extraordinary can shake me up, such as mollusks with hot sauce. And I didn't capture the Circe, I stole her! While there are pirates among us space traders, alas, I'm not one of them. Are you disappointed, honey?"
"Not very," Shandra replied, continuing to yawn and stretch. "But if you're not a pirate, then who is?"
"Well, Corday, for example. Chris Corday of the Chiquitita, who now flies on the Space Hound. He—"
Shandra briskly jumped out of the bed.
"A new story, Graham? Will you tell me?"
"Definitely." I put a robe on her shoulders. "Breakfast and champagne await, my princess! But after breakfast…"
She dashed to the dining room after me.
Footnotes
1) "Homo homini lupus est" is Latin for"man is wolf to man".