Mining the Oort (21 page)

Not, however, more successful for Toro Tanabe. Here, too, all the potentially interesting women seemed to be with men they found interesting. The few who were breakfasting alone or with other women did not respond to Tanabe's overtures.

He was scowling again when he returned to where Dekker was experimentally trying out his first eggs Benedict. "Tell me, DeWoe," he said, "have you had success with women here on Earth?"

"Some," Dekker said, thinking of Sheila in the Masai hut.

"No, that Cresti Amman does not count," Tanabe said, obviously having misread that situation. "After all, she was a Martian, too, wasn't she?" He peered at Dekker's plate, and added, "That looks good. Get me some."

If there was anything Dekker DeWoe had learned on Earth, it was that the person who paid out the cues was the person who gave the orders. He didn't particularly mind, but by the time he got back to the table with Tanabe's own order of eggs Benedict his were cold and Tanabe was staring at his pocket screen angrily.

"What's the matter?" Dekker asked.

Tanabe, with his mouth full of poached eggs and sauce, said, "I have lost on the lottery again. It is nothing."

Dekker laughed. "That's the point of a lottery, isn't it? So practically everybody loses?"

"Don't you gamble on Mars?"

"No. Not much, anyway, and not lotteries. Some of the old people play cards."

"No, no.
Really
gamble. So that if you hit a winner you get really rich."

Dekker tried not to laugh anymore. "If a Martian got rich," he explained, "what would he spend the money on?"

"Why—luxuries! Things from Earth!"

Dekker shook his head. It was too much trouble to explain that no Martian lottery was likely to pay off in Earth cues, and if it did no Martian really wanted to give Earth any more money than was essential to survival. "How do you do it?" he asked, more out of politeness than interest, and then regretted it. Because Toro Tanabe explained in great detail. There was a lottery every week, he informed Dekker; you picked ten numbers from zero to ninety-nine, and then there would be a drawing and if you got all ten right you would win
billions
.

"You mean really billions?" Dekker asked, impressed.

"Well—if you don't have to share it, anyway," the Japanese conceded. "Sometimes a lot of people get the same winning numbers, and then you have to divide the profits with them. But I have a system. See, all numbers have the same chance of winning, but the payoff is bigger on some than it is on others."

Dekker frowned. "Why?"

"Because," Tanabe explained, happy to show his superior insights, "a lot of people bet
particular
numbers. Their birthday. Or their girlfriend's birthday, or their anniversary. But very often the numbers they pick will be from dates, and so there's a heavy play on one through twelve for the months, and one through thirty-one, for the days. Then a lot of people like to bet on numbers with a seven in them—they think seven is a lucky number—and a lot who like double numbers, especially seventy-seven, and then you always get a big play on the sexy numbers, like sixty-nine." He paused to wipe some sauce off his pocketscreen and began chewing again.

"What's sexy about the number sixty-nine?" Dekker asked, curious.

The Japanese looked at him. Then he shook his head. "Never mind, DeWoe. But that's part of my system: I stay off the heavily played numbers. So my chances of winning are just as good with my numbers as anybody else's—you can sum up the chances—"

He hit keys, and the screen displayed a series of fractions:

1/16 x 1/11 x 4/49 x 7/97 x 1/16 x 1/19 x 2/47 x 1/31 x 1/46 x 1/91 = .000,000,000,000,057,142

"That's the chance of any random ten numbers winning—about six in a hundred trillion or so. But if you play the same numbers as other people do you have to split the prize too many ways." He fixed Dekker with a look. "I don't like to split," he said.

Dekker tried not to pass judgment. He only said, "I thought you were rich already, Tanabe."

"But I am, of course."

"Then why—?"

Tanabe was laughing at him now. "Oh, DeWoe," he wheezed, "you Martians are so
quaint
. There is no such thing as
enough
money, don't you know that?" And then, sobering, "In any case, nothing is sure. The market is fickle, DeWoe. Many people who were as rich as we are are now as poor as—as a Martian, even. Almost. It is true that my father has rid himself of most of his Oort securities, but who knows if even the farm habitats will succeed?"

"Unless they get a comet," Dekker suggested.

"Or even if they do get a comet. They are an untried technology, and who knows what might go wrong? But, Dekker, please, remember that what I said to you was indiscreet. It is a confidence."

"Who would I tell?"

"No one, I hope." Tanabe gazed sadly at the empty plates before him, then around the room. He brightened. "Ah, some new women have arrived. Let me see if luck is in."

But it wasn't, and when he came back he said, "This place is not useful, either, and if I am going to have female company I do not want to waste any more time. I am leaving."

"All right," Dekker said. "Where are we going next?"

Tanabe shook his head. "
We
aren't going anywhere. I am going alone. I do not have time to play these games with these annoying American women this weekend, so I guess I'll have to pay for it," he said sulkily, "and I'm not paying for you."

"Pay for what?" Dekker asked, who had never imagined that prostitution existed outside of a Masai village. He stared incredulously as Tanabe explained.

"So you find something to do for a few hours," Tanabe finished. "Go to a museum or something, if you like. Then meet me where I will be having dinner—it is called Turly's, down on the Strip; that's where some of the people from the base will be. It's a salaryman sort of place," he said, with a faint lip curl, "but the Americans like that kind of thing. And we'll have a few drinks, and then you can take me back."

So there was Dekker, alone again in Danktown.

He was under no obligations to follow Tanabe's orders, of course. Also of course, he had no more attractive ideas. He knew no one in Denver—not counting Marcus, that was. For a moment he thought of trying to find the tutor, if only to talk to the only other person anywhere near who had ever known his father. But there was nothing appealing about seeing Marcus.

There was also the question of money.

Dekker's slim savings from his stipend would not carry him very far in the big city. When, for lack of a better idea, he did as Tanabe had ordered, he found that even museums weren't free. Just to enter the art museum and the planetarium cost more than he wanted to spend from his slender credit line. Still, he comforted himself, he need not worry about buying meals. He still had a full stomach from the lavish brunch. And promised himself dinner would be even more lavish.

And tried not to think of the sexual adventures Tanabe would be having while he himself was gazing at centuries-old paintings.

The planetarium was nice, though the exhibits of Mars were sadly out of date, and the modern-art museums, if not attractive, were certainly curious. After the last display of interactive holo art Dekker had a severe case of museum feet. Or legs—or, actually, museum body, all of it, because everything from the midriff to his toes was complaining about the extra work he had given it.

He sat in a square, puzzling over a map of the city of Denver. He squinted at the sky, trying to decide which way was north, but there was not much there to help him. The sun was out of sight behind clouds. Under the clouds there was a steady procession of cargo-carrying heli-blimps, sliding down toward the port of Denver, dodging among the thickening clouds; that was some help, because he found the port on the map.

So to get to the place where he was to join Tanabe he would have to go north from here, he concluded; and, yes, there seemed to be a bus line that went in the right direction to find the "salaryman" place—whatever a salaryman place was—where he would meet Toro Tanabe.

It was early, of course. But it wasn't a lot of fun to be sitting there. He tried to interest himself in the nonhuman fauna of Earth, like the insects—there weren't any insects flying around on Mars, and who knew which ones were likely to bite?—and the pigeons. He tossed the pigeons some crumbs from the roll he had filched at the brunch, and then regretted it. He was definitely getting hungry.

Dekker stared at the traffic around the square. It was a weekend, wasn't it? So why were all these people driving these hydrocars around, with a plume of steam coming out of each exhaust? Didn't Earthies ever walk? Or stay
home
? The exhausts were saturating the air, he thought . . .
 

And then perceived that—oh, God yes, of
course
—the moisture that was dampening his clothing was no longer just the vehicle exhausts that justified Danktown's name. It had begun to rain again.

Earthie buses didn't ever seem to go just where they were pledged to go. It took a change, and a long ride in a second bus, and then the stop was blocks from Turly's, the rain still coming down. By the time Dekker finally reached the restaurant he was both drenched and late.

"Why couldn't you get here on time?" Tanabe grumbled, looking around irritably when Dekker touched his shoulder. "We've already eaten almost everything we ordered. I don't know if anything's left, but you can see what you can find." He started to turn back to the dark-skinned Earthie man he was talking to, then thought of another complaint to make to Dekker. He said accusingly, "Why are you so wet? You should have bought yourself a raincoat, or at least an umbrella."

"Sorry," Dekker said flatly, meaning to say that he had not really got used to a planet where sometimes it was blisteringly hot enough to make a Martian sweat, and often freezingly cold enough to make you wish for furred boots and gloves, and all too often wet. Whoever thought of supplying himself with so many different kinds of clothing?

Tanabe blinked at his tone, then shrugged. "Sit down somewhere," he said testily. "I suppose you know everybody here."

"No, I don't," Dekker said, but Tanabe had already returned his attention to the dark-skinned man. The man was from the class ahead of their own, and Dekker vaguely recalled that he came from somewhere in Africa—not Kenya, which at least would have given Dekker something to talk to him about, but from some other African place called something like Upper Volta. Anyway, it appeared that the two of them were busy comparing notes on their sexual adventures of the afternoon, in which Dekker could not compete.

He found an empty space farther down the table and sat down. The vision of a lavish dinner evaporated from his mind; whatever food the people from the training center had ordered, its remnants were sparse and unattractive. Still, it was possible to drink, at least. Dekker located a glass that seemed to be clean, and poured himself beer from a pitcher in the middle of the table. He sipped it, looking with distaste at the remains of one of the things they called "pizza" on the table, cold and gluey.

"Are you hungry?" a woman's voice asked him.

He turned to see Ven Kupferfeld looking down at him.

"Yes," he said simply.

"You looked that way. There's a free lunch over there—" she waved to the end of the room, almost obscured in smoke and fug. "You're cold, too, aren't you?" He nodded, discovering it was true.

"Well, you'd better borrow my sweater," she told him, untying the sleeves she had wrapped around her waist. She herself couldn't have felt cold at all, Dekker thought. She certainly wasn't dressed for warmth, because all she was wearing was a skimpy halter top and a skirt that scarcely covered her hips. "You people get sick pretty easily, you know," she went on.

"We people don't," he corrected her, "if we've had all our immunizations, and I have." Still, the baggy sweater felt agreeably warm on his chilled body—it must have been immense on her—not to mention that as he pulled it over his head he caught a charming, compelling scent of Ven Kupferfeld.

Unfortunately, that train of thought led nowhere. As soon as her errand of mercy was done she had left him to resume an intense, low-voiced discussion with some male student Dekker didn't know. Dekker regarded the table without pleasure. It smelled of spilled beer and tobacco smoke, which made him feel queasy without diminishing his hunger. He got up and walked over to explore the "free lunch." It turned out to be little more attractive than the revolting cold pizza; there was nothing on the counter but sandwich materials and strange-looking killed-animal pastes spread on crackers. Dekker studied it dispiritedly, mourning for the lavish displays at the brunch; this was no substitute.

It occurred to him to wonder what he was doing in this place. Tanabe showed no interest in him. It appeared that the only reason for being there was to get drunk, and Dekker had good family reasons for not wanting to do that. It would have been more interesting if he had had Ven Kupferfeld to talk to, but she hadn't been encouraging. Most of the people in the bar were unfamiliar, or busy talking to somebody else. He saw Jay-John Belster at the bar, talking to another Martian. Then Dekker looked again to make sure, for, surprisingly, the other man wasn't a trainee. It was unmistakably Dekker's former tutor, Marcus Hagland. Belster looked his way, but Dekker turned away.

As Dekker was making a sandwich out of fatty slices of killed-animal and soggy bread Belster came over. "Hi," he said, picking up a piece of the stuff, folding it and jamming it into his mouth.

"Hi," Dekker said in return. "I didn't know you knew Marcus Hagland."

"Marcus? That his name? I don't really know him; he just hangs around here. I think he used to be a trainee, but they say the corporation threw him out for cheating." He munched thoughtfully, then added, "Your buddy Tanabe's getting really sloshed."

"It's his business," Dekker said shortly, though what Belster said was true enough. The Japanese was flushed and sweating, and Dekker observed that he had switched from beer to Scotch.