Five to Twelve Read Free Page B

light house tunic and slipped it on, covering her breasts. “There, how’s that?”
    “Thank you,” said Dion. “It seems rather fair.”
    “Aha, I thought you were old-fashioned.”
    He smiled. “Let’s say just quaint. Eccentric would be an even better word.”
    “And you really do write poetry ?”
    “It has been called that, chiefly by me. I have a most appreciative readership—of one.”
    “Widen your horizon, then. Expand it to two.”
    “The time is out of joint,” he said drily.
    “O cursed spite,” she retorted, laughing, “that ever I was born to set it right… But were
you
born to set it right? In the twenty-first century, Hamlet would rate a grade one analysis on about ten separate counts.”
    Dion’s mouth fell open.
    “Please don’t be too amazed. It might offend. Not all doms are illiterate.”
    “Not even Peace Officers?” he managed to say.
    “Especially not Peace Officers… The job is almost a sinecure. Sports like you tend to have a built-in death wish. You dig nothing but a one-inch epitaph.”
    Again he was nonplussed.
    “The query is,” she went on, “what to do with a doomed meistersinger? Shall I keep you-or shall I let them hang you out to dry?”
    “Have fun,” he said, trying to sound indifferent. “It’s a sweet and lovely world.”
    “Then I’ll keep you. The horizon shall be expanded.”
    “How much a lay?” he demanded coldly.
    “Or how much a roundelay?” she countered. “Sex before sonnets, or sonnets before sex? Perhaps even sex
and
sonnets. Orgasm, rhyme and rhythm in a package deal. Twee, grotty and deviant, withal.”
    Dion sighed and stood up—somewhat unsteadily. “Send for the cleaners, and we’ll sing a duet. You’re a paper doll yourself. Thank you for the brandy, chicken and all such; and I’ll bid you a very good night.”
    “Sit down, dimhead!”
    He blinked at her and sat.
    “Now listen carefully. Pm sixty-two and less than ugly, and that makes you twice lucky. You, I’d say, are late forties and needing time shots. You’ve got as much future as I care to allow. A single word, and a few cuts and bruises on each of us-less than difficult to arrange-and you’re fully programmed for a grade two with a five-year denial of shots. Do I make the signals clear?”
    “Loud and pellucid.”
    “Then keep the short wave channel open, love, and don’t make a sound like unrestrained mirth or I’ll chop you in two. Pm sixty plus—in the first bloom, no less, on my ageing sequence t- beautiful rather than ugly, even by your depraved standards, and my credit key is good for ten thousand lions. I am also a little lonely—not too much, but a little. I have an insatiable curiosity, and I don’t worry greatly about how much time I spend or don’t spend with my legs apart. I like to take reasonable chances, and I think I’d like to find out what happens, if anything, inside a reconditioned meistersinger… Still receiving signals?”
    Dion hiccupped. “Locked on the beam.”
    “If you want independence, stripling, I’ll buy it for you. Squire me, that’s all. Sex is your problem, not mine. Scribble verse, if you wish, and stick it in a radio locker. I won’t pry. All I require are civilized motions—and an absence of analysable crime… Now, drink another brandy, rattle the marbles in your head, and don’t speak for two minutes.”
    Dion did as he was told. The marbles rattled with a most peculiar sound.
    Juno Locke, Peace Officer, blonde, sixty-two, was less than scrutable. No rape, no dry-cleaners, no flesh wounds—except a couple of introductory laser holes. Most interesting.
    She had a nice box, no recent signs of squiredom and a voice that was softer than many.
    He yawned. “Stopes, Fm tired. It’s been a nocturne plus.”
    Juno smiled. “Less than elegant, but it’s an honest answer.
    Let’s go to bed.”

Four

    T HE bar was called
Vive le Sport
. It was a drab little place on the Piccadilly sub-level, occupying some of the