He stripped off his soiled clothing, had a long, hot shower. Cleansed, he was beginning to feel better. And hungry. He went into the little galley and assembled a thick, multitiered sandwich, opened a can of cold beer. He carried these refreshments to his part of the main cabin, put them down on the deck by his bunk. He stretched out and then, his body disposed like that of an ancient Roman banqueter, munched and gulped. He almost finished the sandwich but was suddenly asleep before all the beer was gone.
He dreamed, re-enacting the game—but this time he caught the girl before she reached the temple. This time her hair did not come away in his hand. He turned her around, threw her to the ground, fell heavily upon her. His right knee prised her thighs apart. He . . .
The loud ringing of a bell jerked him back to reality.
Action Stations!
Then he realised where he was and that the noise was being made by somebody seeking admission to Little Sister. He got out of his bunk, reached for and shrugged into a light robe. The bell went on ringing, in short, irritable bursts.
He went aft to the airlock, operated the local controls. Prunella Fenn stood there, glaring at him. "You keep a tight ship," she snarled sardonically. "Are you afraid that the wild, wild women will come and get you?" She brushed past him, looked down at the remnants of his supper. "Didn't I hear somewhere that your Survey Service nickname was Gutsy Grimes?" She stooped to pick up the can of now-flat beer, sniffed it disdainfully. "I could do with a drink myself—but not this gnat's,piss. Fix me one, will you? A large brandy on one, small rock."
"I wasn't expecting you back," said Grimes.
"Surely you weren't expecting me to spend all night with that fat, boring slob? But the drink, Grimes. Now."
He went to the galley, poured a generous measure of brandy over one ice cube. She snatched it from him without thanks.
He said, "I'll rig the privacy screen."
"Don't bother," she told him. "I want to talk."
She gulped from her glass, put it down on the table and started to undress. There was nothing at all sensual about the display, not the merest hint of invitation. There were bruises, Grimes noted clinically, on the pale skin of her upper thighs. She saw what he was looking at, laughed shortly.
"There are times when a girl has to suffer to get a story. Or to get a lead . . ."
She picked up the glass again, sat down on her bed, facing him.
She said, "I think that I shall be able to blow the lid off two very unsavoury rackets. Soon I shall have the makings of a couple or three stories that will have readers and viewers all over the galaxy literally drooling. There's white slavery—that's been a sure seller for centuries. The others are even better . . ."
"Better?" echoed Grimes.
"You can bet your boots it is. Why do you think that the Shaara come here?"
"For the gambling?" hazarded Grimes.
"More than that. You told me yourself that the Shaara—or some of them—are voyeurs."
"Nothing especially sensational in that. You're a voyeur yourself. You watched what was happening to me in that damned machine."
"But that wasn't for real, was it? Anyhow, you should know what the Shaara are capable of. Didn't you and that postmistress wench have a rough time when you were prisoners of that Rogue Queen? The Shaara like to humiliate, torture even, other intelligent beings—but such practices are frowned upon on their own planets. Here they can indulge their vices. Money—enough money—can buy anything."
"I can't quite believe that even on New Venusberg human beings could make a profit from allowing their fellow men and women to be tortured."
"Grow up, Grimes! I've heard that you're something of an amateur historian—so you should know the extent of the evil of which humanity is capable. But you spacemen, for all your phoney machismo, lead very sheltered lives, know almost nothing about the real universe. There's a lot more to it than the clean, empty spaces between the stars!
"Anyhow, this commercialised sadism ties in with the white slave racket. Innocent little bitches—yes, and innocent little puppies—recruited on backward planets (and some not so backward) and brought here to make their fortunes (they think!) on fabulous Venusberg. An old friend of yours, Drongo Kane, is in the business up to his eyebrows . . ."
"That bastard!" growled Grimes.
"Jock told me that one of the ships Kane owns—Willy Willy—is due in shortly from a world called New Alice . . . I sort of gained the impression that he wasn't supposed to talk about it—but you know what men are like. When they're trying to make a girl they tend to boast, to show how big they are, how important. But there's only one way of being big that counts."
"Mphm."
"Where is New Alice? What sort of world is it?"
"I haven't a clue."
"You're the expert. Or supposed to be. You were hired as such."
"I still haven't a clue," growled Grimes. He got up from his bunk and padded to the playmaster, set the controls so that it was hooked up to the memory bank of the ship's computer. He hit the question mark symbol on the keyboard, then typed NEW ALICE.
The reply appeared in glowing letters in the screen: NO DATA.
Fenella Pruin laughed. "That thing is as useless as you are."
Grimes' prominent ears flushed angrily. He said, "This memory bank, especially insofar as navigational data is concerned, is as good as anything in a battleship."
"So you say." She yawned, not bothering to hide her gaping mouth with her hand. "Another drink, then I'll be ready for a spot of shut-eye. And don't you come mauling me. I've had enough of that for one night."
He refilled her glass. She downed its contents in one gulp; some of the amber spirit dribbled down her chin and on to her breasts. Grimes felt no desire to lick it off. She stretched out on her bunk, not bothering to cover herself. Grimes stretched out on his, operated the switch at its head that dimmed the cabin lights. '
She went to sleep almost at once, snoring not unmusically.
He found it hard to get off again. Two names kept flashing before his mind's eye like an advertising sign: DRONGO KANE. NEW ALICE.
He already knew far too much about Kane—but where the hell was New Alice?