Free The Venus Belt by L. Neil Smith Page A

someone else’s blood. I wondered how solidly I’d connected. That knee had connec t ed solidly enough; I could hardly stand upright: gas pains amplified a hundredfold.
    The naked, sword-swinging barbarian routine has been oversold, I think. Locked out in the middle of the night, gasping, drenched in someone else’s blood, I care not what course Conan may take: I lowered myself to the floor against the wall and practiced groaning. A couple of timid passers-by ran screaming at the sight of me, then a uniform arrived, gun in hand, to let me explain what had happened. She passkeyed me in, promising to send a medic, and followed the trail of gore away.
    Healer Francis W. Pololo had something absolutely wonderful for pain. He also took blood samples from my Rezin as I rummaged around for some nice, easy-fitting trousers, but wouldn’t listen about fingerprints. Guess he had that theory filed away with phrenology and palm-reading. Nice fellow, though, and not bad-looking for a gorilla. I thought of K o ko, wondering if he was spoken for, and as I gingerly fastened my pants, I thought of Clari s sa, too, glad we hadn’t made this a second honeymoon. Then I asked the doctor for another pain pill.
    ***
    Full of nerve-deadeners, I didn’t want to mix my highs, but the Level 790 bar was a well-lit public place where nobody could sneak up on me, and I wasn’t planning to sleep again until I got my Webley back. That infernal gadget of Clarissa’s was all that had kept me out of Bonaventura ’s meatloc k er.
    A bit slow on the nanoelectronic uptake, though: my assailant had had plenty of time to pull out every drawer in the bureau and empty it on the carpet. Something told me it wasn’t just a scavenger hunt.
    Despite the nighttime emptiness of the Yellow Tower corridors, the bar seemed almost crowded. “Western Hemisphere” the bartender an s wered as he poured me out a double—King Kong Kola. “Every-one in Yellow’s up from North or South America. Breakfasttime in Green right now, suppe r time in Orange.”
    I sipped my drink; definitely not the Real Thing. “What about the Blue?’’
    “Whatever time suits their porpoises,” he snickered.
    I considered throwing up all over his nice clean bar. Instead I turned my back, hitching up my elbows to watch the natives as the sky turned round and round outside. Some were talking, drinking, playing cards or electronic games. Others watched a stage where a young gorilla was taking off her clothes. Seemed like a waste of time, to me.
    The place began to fill up even more. More likely cocktail time in the Orange Tower. All this joint needed was a big tank for the dolphins, and—
    “ Hey! ” The guy beside me stumbled sideways, knocking over his drink. He wheeled on the person next to him. “Whaddyou wanna do that for, si s ter?” he slurred, peering sadly down inside his empty glass. The pale, sophi s ticated type beside him turned slowly, gave him a silent sneer down her nose, and turned away.
    “Hey! You can’t jog my arm like that an’ broff it osh . . brush it off! Whaddabout my drink?” He extended a wobbly arm and poked her shou l der savagely.
    “Take it easy, friend,” I said, my tongue doing its own thinking as usual. “Let her alone, I’ll buy you another—”
    “Who aksed you , buddy?” He jabbed me in the chest with stiffened fi n gers, setting off a number of accumulated pains.
    I seized the offending digits, bending them back a little. “ Now, buddy, you want that drink or not? “
    Wrenching his hand free, he drew it back for a punch. “I’ll teach you to—” and let fly craftily with his other fist, but I ducked, and he bashed it meatily into the bar. I slid under his second flailing punch and planted my own stiffened fingers dead-center in his solar plexus.
    “ Whoof! ”
    He doubled, staggering against a chair, and fell across a nearby table, scattering crockery. The occupants jumped up, knocking others down around them in a rapidly