A Talendar for Shirley (2)

A Talendar for Shirley

Peony D Beckside

With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for creating the world of Gor, in which this story is set. 

Chapter Two: Allaying Fear.

 

This Mike is an interesting man, a real gentleman!  He holds the limousine door open for me to exit.  Inside the restaurant he takes my coat and finds somewhere to hang it.

“What would you like to drink, Shirley?”

“A gin and tonic would be nice, please.”

He signals for a waiter.

“A gin and tonic for the lady, please, and for me Ka-La-Na wine.”

The waiter looks at him strangely, before departing to fetch the drinks.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of Calana wine.  Where’s it from?”

Yes, this restaurant too, is one of ours.  We’ve taken many of our finest ‘wares’ from and through this business.

I do so like to tantalise my prey.  It makes their eventual surrender so much more delicious.  They say that the best way to tell a lie is to tell the absolute literal truth but in a way that the hearer can’t possibly believe it.  The corollary of that is that the best way to tell the truth is to make it so fantastic that it can only be taken as a ludicrous lie.

The drinks arrive.  Mine is the usual sparkling transparent beverage.  Mike’s is a rich ruby-red liquor.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The Maitre D’ signals that our table is ready.  Mike responds.

“Shall we?”

Mike begins to rise, offering me his hand.  The moment is lost.  The first law of repartee is ‘Better never than late’.  I’ll find out about Calana wine one day, no doubt.  Mike, in gentlemanly fashion holds the chair, pushing it in underneath me as I sit.  Such chivalry is rare in this day and age.

We silently peruse the menus given us by the waiter, each deciding our preference.  The waiter returns.  Having discussed each other’s choices, Mike takes the lead, ordering for us both.  We make small talk briefly.  I’m curious about this man.  It’s strange, but I get the distinct feeling that he knows almost everything about me, yet I know virtually nothing about him.

“So who are you Mike?  What do you do?  What’s your line of work?”

He teases…

“What would you like me to be?  What kind of man is it that fascinates you?  What do you see me as being?”

She giggles.  Our soup arrives.  Unbidden the waiter fills Shirley’s glass with an appropriate wine.  He will ensure that her glass remains topped up.

“Well, you are obviously fit.  There’s something feral about you; a wildness.  It’s almost as if you are ‘out of your time’.  I could see you as a Gladiator in ancient Rome, a Viking reiver, a knight in shining armour, perhaps.”

I smile wickedly.

“How perspicacious of you, Shirley!  What if I were to tell you that I am an evil alien from another planet, the descendent of Earth men resettled there centuries ago?  A planet where society is akin to your old Greek and Roman civilisations.”

I’ve timed it perfectly.  She almost chokes on her soup as she tries desperately to minimise the damage that her unrestrained laughter is causing to the tablecloth in front of her.

“Ask a silly question…”

I mentally finish off her question; ‘get a silly answer’.

“So where then is this mythical planet then?”

“Oh, the other side of the sun, where it can never be seen…”

She laughs again.

“Even I’m not that naive.  Surely such a planet would cause sufficient gravitational anomalies on the orbits of the other planets that our scientists would have hypothesised such a body.”

“Ah!  What you don’t know is about the Priest-Kings, in their lair of the Sardar mountains.  They are so powerful that they can control gravity at a local and planetary scale, so as to hide the planet from detection.”

She guffaw’s appreciatively; taking a good swig of wine from her glass. 

“You tell an excellent tall-story, Mike!  Just don’t expect me to believe such rubbish!”

She’s hooked.  She might not believe it, but I can see that she’s curious for me to tell her more of this ‘entertaining’, to use an Earth phrase, ‘bullshit’.  Our main course arrives.  We are quiet as we savour the food.  It gives Shirley time to think up ways to debunk my story.

“So what’s this mythical planet called, then?”

I debate giving her a made-up name.  I gamble that she won’t have heard of my planet.  There are records of it here on Earth; autobiographies of people have travelled to the planet.  The beauty of it is that those biographies are hidden within a genre of speculative fiction, they thus are not taken seriously, not believed in the slightest.  They are most definitely not what is considered ‘mainstream’ fiction.  If I tell her true, she’ll either have heard of the place and continue believing I’m joking with her, or she won’t have heard of it, keeping her within safe ‘abduction’ bounds.  Tonight’s ‘hunt’ then is more like a Spanish bullfight,  Tease the ‘bull’, play with it, until the moment when I thrust in the ‘sword’ of truth.  I have to say that this ‘bullfight’ is really quite delicious!

“The planet is called Gor.”

I smile as I watch her face closely, watch to see which way this revelation will go.  There’s a real danger that I can have overplayed my hand.  If she’s heard of it, she can go one of two ways.  She can laugh it off, not believing it, or suddenly realise her danger and try to leave.  That’s where the backup plan comes in, if it’s needed.

“Can’t say that I’ve heard of it.”

No, I haven’t.  Not really.  Something tinkles at the back of my mind.

“Would you care for desert, Shirley.  Coffee perhaps, afterwards?”

“Yes, that would be nice, thank you, Mike.”

She peruses the menu.  I call the waiter over and order for us both.

“There’s actually quite a lot known, here on Earth about the planet Gor.  Several people have written of their experiences there.  Whole books, in fact.  It’s just that those books are seen as fiction, so no-one believes they are real.”

Yes, that’s where I’ve heard the name ‘Gor’ before.  On bookshelves when I was much younger, barely a teenager.  I recall they all had rather lurid pictures on them, and ridiculous titles; Nomads of Gor, Raiders of Gor, Winged Platypus’ of Gor, Snake Riders of Gor, etc.  Total masculine bullshit all of them, doubtless.  I had much more taste, Black Beauty, Little Women, Anne Of Green Gables, were my choice.  Hark at me!  Taste?  If the truth’s known, I’m ‘hooked’ on big trashy ‘historical’ and ‘romantic’ bodice-rippers.  I certainly didn’t read these ‘Gor’ books.  No!  It’s just this man’s sense of humour.  He’s teasing me!  I don’t mind.  It’s nothing if not entertaining.  Most over-dinner conversations tend to be boring.  This one certainly isn’t. Rubbish, yes, but it definitely makes me giggle.  Ah here’s desert’

Again, there’s a short spell of quietness as we devour our desert.  The waiter arrives again.  He’s playing his part perfectly.  I know who he is.  He knows who I am, and that this is a ‘play’.  He’s part of the backup plan, should it be required.  He places coffee cups on the table and pours out what on Gor is called ‘Black wine’.

“So, Mike, if you are from this ‘mythical’…”

She doesn’t quite use the word ‘bullshit’; it not being considered proper in her society to do so, at least not in polite company.  I can see though from the look in her eyes she’s muchly amused at the ‘tale’ I’m spinning; even if it isn’t a ‘tale’.

“...planet, what are you doing here on Earth?  Just what is your ‘line of work’, then?”

“I’m in the import and export business.  I’m at the export side, mostly.  I facilitate the collection and shipping of suitable merchandise.”

“Oh.  What kind of merchandise?”

“Luxury goods, mostly.  Pretty baubles for those that can afford them.”

I don’t tell her that she’s just the sort of ‘pretty bauble’ that I specialise in.  We are though, at the moment of truth.  The organisation has in it’s personnel a young man that looks rather like a currently fashionable movie-star.  He’s just strolling into the restaurant.  I draw Shirley’s attention.

“Hey!  Isn’t that Brad Pitt?”

Shirley turns her head to see.  Surreptitiously I drop the tiny little pill into her coffee.  Our scientists, using the Earth technology, have found a way of compressing a strong dose of tassa powder into a pill the size of those sweetener tablets vain women use so as to avoid using sugar in hot drinks.  These pills are buffered so that they don’t take effect immediately.  They suddenly kick-in about fifteen to twenty minutes after being ingested.

“I do believe you are right!  I didn’t know he frequents this restaurant.  I wonder who he’s with?”

‘Brad Pitt’ goes out of sight.  Shirley finishes up her coffee.  I have her now.  I call for the waiter to bring the bill.  This is her cue to ‘Powder her nose’.  Here on Earth, it’s expected that the man will pay when he takes a woman out to dinner.  It being the usual procedure for the woman to visit the toilet, freshen her make-up, while the monetary transaction takes place.  Women have got this manoeuvre down to a fine ‘art’, so as there being no embarrassment of them not having any money if they were to be asked to pay their half of the bill. It’s the done thing.

Shirley returns from the rest-room.  I press a button on a small paging device that’s in my pocket.  I retrieve her coat and walk her out of the restaurant.  The limousine slides up as we exit.  I hold open the door for her to enter.  It’s the last free-woman courtesy I will give her.  As she sits down, she yawns widely.  I climb in next to her and pull the door shut.  Shirley yawns again.

“I’m sorry, Mike.  I feel so tired.”

“That’s alright Shirley.  You’ve been mixing wine with gin.  ‘Grape and Grain’ often don’t mix well. The fresh air as you were getting into the car can sometimes knock one out.”

That and the tassa pill.

“You can let yourself sleep.  You are quite secure…”

Her breathing settles into a steady rhythm.  The car heads out of the city.  The ship taking me home, along with my prize departs tonight.