Wayne Norton gazed in awe around Hideaway.
The entrance hall was vast, the size of an entire Vegas casino, so big that the floor curved down toward the near horizon.
And it was full of aliens…
Most of those he saw were humanoid bipeds, but the range and variety of colours and shapes and sizes seemed limitless.
Despite their differences, these weird beings had one thing in common: They were all tourists, and they’d come to Hideaway to have a good time, to spend their money gambling and whoring and drinking—and indulging in whatever other “pleasures” existed on the artificial asteroid.
But Wayne Norton was here because he was working. He was a cop, just like in Las Vegas.
“Welcome to Hideaway, sir.”
He looked like a man, his appearance both human and male. He sounded Terran, using fluent fastspeak.
Norton wished there was an alien in the reception booth because he could have tried his slate. But that wasn’t how the Hideaway check-in system operated, where everyone was met by a member of their own race. Or apparently of their own race.
Diana had briefed him on board ship, and what Norton was faced with was an illusion. He wasn’t human. He didn’t exist. He was a computerised simulation, his familiar appearance designed to reassure visitors.
Norton felt uneasy. The only other non-human in disguise that he’d encountered had been an alien assassin. And he was the intended target.
“Everyone’s a winner on Hideaway,” continued the man—the computerised simulation of a man—“and I hope you’ll be very lucky.”
“Thanks.”
“Will you be here long, sir?”
“Probably a couple of days.”
“Just for the weekend?”
Norton nodded. He didn’t know whether it was true or not, but Diana had told him to say his visit would be very brief. All this way, countless trillions of miles, travelling for endless weeks. Just for the weekend.
He guessed GalactiCop hadn’t found anyone to sponsor his stay and could only afford the room rates for two days.
Anyone who could pay their fare to Hideaway was allowed on to the planetoid, which meant that spaceship crews were prohibited. It wasn’t just a question of money, Diana had said, but of security. Space crews were notorious for causing trouble wherever they went. In return for keeping their crews on board, high-ranking officers were given access to the pleasure planet.
“Are you carrying a weapon?” asked the sim.
Like all plain-clothes officers, Norton had a concealed weapon. Concealed in his hand. Inside his hand, in fact. Which meant he wasn’t carrying a gun. Not really.
“No,” he replied, “I’m not.”
“Will you follow me, please, sir? This will only take a minute.”
“What will?”
“A technical formality. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Norton had heard the phrase before, had used it himself, and his earlier unease now became concern.
The simulation walked toward a wall, then through it. There was no doorway; he stepped through the wall itself. It was the kind of thing an illusion could do. Norton reached out, and his hand vanished into the wall. Maybe it was the wall which was an illusion. He walked through and found himself in a small room, empty and featureless.
The man sat down. Norton hadn’t noticed the chair.
“Please be seated.”
Nor the other one. He sat down.
“What name are you using?”
There was no pretence. They expected him to give a false name. For a moment, Norton was tempted to give his real name. But only for a moment. He could be anyone he wanted to be. Identity documents no longer existed. There were no passports or driving licenses anymore, and neither were there any modern equivalents. They were so easy to forge that they were useless.
Wayne Norton could be anyone he wanted to be.
He remembered his exploits with the bow and arrow, and he said, “Robin Hood.”
“And you’re from Earth?”
“Yeah.”
“Travelling through falspace can affect the memory, Mr. Hood. There’s something you seem to have overlooked. Any idea what it might be?”
“No.”
“You cannot enter Hideaway with a weapon.”
They knew he had a gun, so there was no point denying it.
“You will have to leave,” added the simulated man.
“I can’t leave. I’ve come for…” Norton still didn’t know why he was here, but he added, “pleasure.”
“This is certainly the place to find pleasure, Mr. Hood, but first you must remove your weapon.”
Norton looked at his right hand. “Yeah, I’d love to, but…”
“We will remove it for you. It also means removing your right hand, of course.”
“Removing! My hand!”
“You’ll still have the left one. You can have your other hand back when you leave.”
“No! I’m leaving now.”
“If that’s what you want.” The computerised man stood up, and Norton did the same. “Thank you for coming.” He offered his hand, and they shook. For an illusion, he had a very firm grip. “Now you can go on through.”
“Go on through to Hideaway?”
“Certainly, Mr. Hood. Your room is on level 8364, coordinates XJ-17/VF-306.”
“What about my hand?”
“You can keep it. It was a joke, Mr. Hood. Hideaway is a fun place. We weren’t going to cut off your whole hand. The index finger is all we need.”
Norton glanced at his right hand. Thumb, three fingers.
Three…!
His forefinger was gone. The sim had stolen it when they’d shaken hands. He hadn’t felt a thing, couldn’t feel a thing. There was no blood, no pain. It was as if the missing finger had never been there at all.
He glanced at the simulation’s hands, which were both empty. There was no sign of his amputated finger.
“As I told you, Mr. Hood, you can have it back when you leave.”
Norton sat down again, and the chair he hadn’t noticed was there again.
“Anything else I can help you with?” asked the sim. “I can point you in the right direction. Even if you can’t.”
“If I can’t what?”
“Can’t point. That’s another joke. You’ve got to think of this detachedly.”
“Another joke?”
“You do have a sense of fun! You’ll find plenty of that on Hideaway, Mr. Hood. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Er… yeah.”
“In that case, do you need something for the weekend?”
“What?”
“The absolute totally ultimate bugstrap. At a bargain price. Eius twenty-five percent sales tax, naturally.”
“What’s a bugstrap?”
The sim laughed, stopped, stared at Norton. “You don’t know, do you?”
“That’s why I asked.”
“It’s like a bugbelt. But of a more intimate and personal nature. You understand?”
“I don’t. What’s a bugbelt?”
“You’re not wearing one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A bugbelt is essential to every space traveller. You can’t afford to be without one, Mr. Hood. Because it’s classified as a necessity, there’s only ten percent tax.”
“But… what is it?”
The sim explained that because humans had evolved on one world, they were biologically suited to live only on that world. Anywhere else but Earth, they needed a spacesuit for protection against everything from microbes to raindrops because every type of alien “bug” could be lethal.
The early personal-defence suits were very cumbersome and restrictive, and had been superseded by bugbelts which performed the same function. These could also protect the wearer from extremes of climate and dangerous radiations, as well as compensating for differences in gravity.
And Norton didn’t have one.
“Do I need a bugbelt?” he asked. “You mean it isn’t safe here?”
“Hideaway is the safest place in the universe, Mr. Hood. The whole environment is sanitised for your protection. Hideaway can comfortably accommodate beings from every inhabited world. Different levels have different gravities or temperatures or atmospheres to make every client feel at home. Or almost at home. Whenever I go on vacation, it’s the little differences I appreciate. I’m sure it’s the same with you. But some differences are too extreme.” The sim shrugged a human shrug.
“Do I need a bugbelt?” Norton repeated.
“It’s not a question of need, is it, Mr. Hood? It’s a matter of comfort and convenience. A man of your status shouldn’t have to endure any unnecessary stress and effort. I would also advise a bugcollar.”
“A bugcollar? What’s that for?”
“For the safe ingestion and digestion of non-human food.”
“You mean… alien food?”
“Alien to you, yes.”
“I have to eat alien food?”
“You don’t have to. This is Hideaway. You can do whatever you want. Or whatever you can afford. I assume that a man of your obvious sophistication and refinement would wish to visit one of the many non-human levels to sample some of their cuisine.”
“I don’t think so.” Norton shook his head.
“You can’t imagine what you’re missing.”
“Yeah, I can.” Norton shuddered as he remembered some of the meals he’d seen during his career as a steward—and all of those had been for the human palate.
The sim slowly nodded its simulated head. “For most people in your situation I can offer a really excellent deal. Bugbelt, bugcollar, bugstrap. A package of three. But if you only want the bugstrap, why not have the absolute pinnacle of the range? Combining total safety with ultimate satisfaction. And the price? It’s so low I’m almost ashamed to tell you in case you I think I’m working for a charity.”
“I still don’t know what a bugstrap is.”
“Everyone’s a winner on Hideaway, Mr. Hood, but what if you want to play a different game? When you hit the jackpot, a bugstrap is absolutely vital. You understand?”
Norton said nothing. Because he didn’t.
“Congress,” said the sim.
“Washington DC,” said Norton.
“What do you mean?” asked the sim.
“What do you mean?” asked Norton, then he said, “Oh.” Because suddenly he understood.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Your face has turned an odd colour.”
It had turned red, Norton knew. And not because he was an Indian. He was blushing with embarrassment.
A bugbelt allowed humans to visit alien worlds without harm. A bugcollar let them safely eat alien food. And a bugstrap…
Norton tried not to think about it.
“There must be something you’ve always wanted,” said the sim, “something you can’t find anywhere else in the entire galaxy. If you can imagine it, I promise you can find it on Hideaway. You can get anything your heart desires.”
“Anything?”
“Anything and everything.”
“How about some decent clothes?” said Norton.