Ben Bova - Grand Tour 16 - Venus.pdf - Ben Bova - widez2

Venus

Ben Bova

Heaven says nothing, and the whole earth grows rich beneath its silent rule.

Men, too, are touched by heaven's virtue; yet, in their greater part, they are

crea-tures of deceit. They are born, it seems, with an empti-ness of soul, and

must take their qualities wholly from things without. To be born thus empty into

this mod-ern age, this mixture of good and ill, and yet to steer through life on

an honest course to the splendors of success—this is a feat reserved for

paragons of our kind, a task beyond the nature of the normal man.

— Ihara Saikaku

HELL CRATER

I was late and I knew it. The trouble is, you can't run on the moon.

The shuttle from the Nueva Venezuela space station had been delayed, some minor

problem with the baggage being transferred from Earthside, so now I was hurrying

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along the underground corri-dor from the landing pad, all alone. The party had

started more than an hour ago.

They had warned me not to try to run, even with the weighted boots that I had

rented at the landing port. But like a fool I tried to anyway and sort of

hip-hopped crazily and bumped into the corridor wall, scraping my nose rather

painfully. After that I shuffled along in the manner that the tourist-guide

video had shown. It felt stupid, but bouncing off the walls was worse.

Not that I really wanted to go to my father's inane party or be on the Moon at

all. None of this was my idea.

Two big human-form robots guarded the door at the end of the cor-ridor. And I

mean big, two meters tall and almost as wide across the torso. The gleaming

metal door was sealed shut, of course. You couldn't crash my father's party;

he'd never stand for that.

"Your name, please," said the robot on my left. Its voice was deep and rough, my

father's idea of what a bouncer should sound like, I suppose.

"Van Humphries," I said, as slowly and clearly as I could enunciate.

The robot hesitated only a fraction of a second before saying, "Voice print

identification is verified. You may enter, Mr. Van Humphries."

Both robots pivoted around and the door slid open. The noise hit me like a power

hammer: thumping atonal music blasting away against wildly overamped screeching

from some androgynous singer wailing the latest pop hit.

The chamber was huge, immense, and jammed wall-to-wall with partygoers, hundreds

of men and women, a thousand or more, I guessed, drinking, shouting, smoking,

their faces contorted with grimaces of forced raucous laughter. The noise was

like a solid wall pounding against me; 1 had to physically force myself to step

past the robots and into the mammoth chamber.

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Everyone was in party attire: brazenly bright colors with plenty of spangles and

glitter and electronic blinkers. And lots of bare flesh show-ing, of course. I

felt like a missionary in my chocolate-brown velour pullover and tan micromesh

slacks.

A long electronic window swept the length of the cavern's side wall, alternately

proclaiming "HAPPY ONE HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY!" and show-ing clips from pornographic

videos.

I might have known Father would pick a bordello as the site for his party. Hell

Crater, named after the Jesuit astronomer Maximilian J. Hell. The gaming and

porn industries had turned the area into the Moon's sin capital, a complete

cornucopia of illicit pleasures dug below the dusty floor of the crater, some

six hundred klicks south ofSeleneCity . Poor old bather Hell must be spinning

in his crypt.

"Hi there, stranger!" said a brassy, buxom redhead in an emerald-green costume

so skimpy it must have been spray-painted onto her. She waggled a vial of some

grayish-looking powder in my general direction, exhorting, "Join the fun!"

Fun. The place looked like Dante's Inferno. There was nowhere to sit except for

a few couches along the walls, and they were already filled with writhing

tangles of naked bodies. Everyone else was on their feet, packed in shoulder to

shoulder, dancing or swaying and surging like the waves of sonic multihued,

gabbling, aimless human sea.

High up near the smoothed rock ceiling a pair of acrobats in sequined harlequin

costumes were walking a tightrope strung across the chamber. A set of spotlights

made their costumes glitter. On Earth, per-forming that high up would have been

dangerous; here on the Moon they could still break their necks if they fell—or

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more likely break the necks of the people they fell upon. The place was so

tightly packed it would've been impossible for them to hit the floor.

"C'mon," the redhead urged again, pawing at the sleeve of my pullover. She

giggled and said, "Don't be so twangy!"

"Where is Martin Humphries?" I had to shout to be heard over the din of the

party.

She blinked her emerald-tinted eyes. "Hump? The birthday boy?" Turning

uncertainly toward the crowd and waving her hand vaguely, she yelled back, "The

old bumper's around here someplace. It's his party, y'know."

"The old bumper is my father," I told her, enjoying the sudden look of

astonishment on her face as I brushed past her.

It was a real struggle to work my way through the crowd. Strangers, all of them.

I didn't know anyone there, I was certain of that. None of my friends would be

caught dead at a scene like this. As I pushed and el-bowed my way through the

jam-packed chamber, I wondered if my fa-ther knew any of these people. He

probably rented them for the occasion. The redhead certainly looked the type.

He knows I can't take crowds, and yet he forced me to come here. Typical of my

loving father. I tried to shut out the noise, the reek of per-fume and tobacco

and drugs, and the slimy sweat of too many bodies pressed too close together. It

was making me weak in the knees, twisting my stomach into knots.

I can't deal with this kind of thing. It's too much. I felt as if I would

collapse if there weren't so many bodies crowded around me. I was start-ing to

get dizzy, my vision blurring.

I had to stop in the midst of the mob and squeeze my eyes shut. It was a

struggle to breathe. I had taken my regular enzyme shot just before the transfer

rocket had landed, yet I felt as if I needed another one, and quickly.

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I opened my eyes and surveyed the jostling, noisy, sweaty throng again,

searching for the nearest exit. And then I saw him. Through the tangle of

weaving, gesticulating partygoers I spotted my father, sitting up on a dais at

the far end of the cavern like some ancient Roman emperor surveying an orgy. He

was even clad in a flowing robe of crimson, with two beautifully supple young

women at his sandaled feet.

My father. One hundred years old this day. Martin Humphries didn't look any more

than forty; his hair was still dark, his face firm and almost unlined. But his

eyes—his eyes were hard, knowing; they glit-tered with corrupt pleasure at the

scene being played out before him. He had used every rejuvenation therapy he

could get his hands on, even ille-gal ones such as nanomachines. He wanted to

stay young and vigorous forever. I thought he probably would. He always got what

he wanted. But one look into his eyes and it was easy to believe that he was a

hundred years old.

He saw me shouldering through the strident, surging crowd and for a moment those

cold gray eyes of his locked onto mine. Then he turned away from me with an

impatient frown clouding his handsome, artificially youthful face.

You insisted that I come to this carnival, I said to him silently. So, like it

or not, here I am.

He paid no attention to me as I toiled to reach him. I was gasping now, my lungs

burning. I needed a shot of my medication but I had left it back at my hotel

suite. When at last I reached the foot of his dais I slumped against the softly

pliable fabric draped over the platform, strug-gling to catch my breath. Then I

realized that the strident din of the party had dropped to a buzzing, muted

whisper.

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Ben Bova - Grand Tour 16 - Venus.pdf

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