“Rather dull, I’m afraid. Oh, of itself, it doesn’t fail. And the killer-illusion choice was somewhat different—slinkering is something I haven’t done more than once or twost before. But compared to the simies of Terra or even Myra IV, it’s not much. The cortex of a fire-constrictor doesn’t permit much of the real pleasure of the kill to seep through, if you know what I mean.”
“I told you we should have gone fishing!” Porsupah put on a petulant look. “How anyone can compare the thrill of hooking a parapike with the sterility of the imitation stimuli of a simie booth—it’s all just so, so gauche!”
He handled the role of a spoiled merchant’s nephew with a skill and verve Kitten couldn’t hope to match.
“Fishing, fishing! Honestly, Niki, sometimes I swear you’d be happier a fish yourself. And I never compared the two.” She flicked ashes idly from the long stick of Terran tobacco. “Even if some of the fish are bigger than your hoveraft, I can’t see much of a challenge to someone using a powerhook and reel.”
“The thrill’s in the play and the landing, not the size of the fish. At least I don’t use an explosive hook, like some. And it’s a more honest form of fun than plugging yourself into one of those infantile joyboxes!” He waved contemptuously at the row of simies. A few had lights on over the doors, indicating they were in use. Each one they passed had a more garish sign than the next, promoting this or that forbidden thrill in safety and perfect simulation.
“Meretricious mental masturbation!” the Tolian concluded grandiosely. He rose and started to walk down another arcade way. Kitten followed, strolling on his left.
“And furthermore,” he continued as they passed a stall where a tall alien was vending home-cooked pastries, just like Emethra used to make, “there’s nothing stopping you from trolling for giant groupert or malrake with plain old hook and line, you know.”
She drew herself up haughtily. “I may enjoy taking risks now and then, it’s true, but I’m not crazy, Niki.”
“Does my lady seek something a bit more intense yet sure and private, then?” came a voice from one side.
They turned together. A portly human was seated in a wicker chair at one side of the still walkaway. In an age of multiple diet chemical controls and adequate cosmetic surgery, the man was a living fossil. He was fat.
It was moderately aesthetic fat, however, Perhaps the effect wasn’t entirely unintentional. Rather than sagging, it ballooned tautly against his cheekbones and forearms. There is a great deal of difference appearance-wise between a fat man who looks like Santa Claus and one who seems composed of wet rags. This one was a Santa.
The blue eyes, set like lapis-lazuli on either side of the marquise-cut probosis, did not twinkle, however. They stared unwaveringly back into one’s own.
The portatables surrounded the man like metallic pygmies attending an idol of gluttony. They were piled with tridee cubes of planetary scenery, hand-carvings of Replerian ivory and fine woods, and an occasional bit of good jewelry. The stock was a little better than the average of the type but displayed nothing extraordinary.