Operation Isis. E. Hoffmann Price
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of France. His entire life, had it not been such a stern reality, would have been fantasy. For Azadeh and for Flora, at least, it must have been the same, in their feminine terms.
Retiring in France could be a pleasant opium dream, except that Azadeh, loathing North Americans, included all Terrestrians in her tabulation of the Damned and the Forgotten of the Goddess of Far Faring.
And here they were again, back in Bayonne; and here she was again, Flora shed of her seductive peignoir and glowing through one of the gowns she had herself designed. For many women, dresses do things. Flora was otherwise: She did things for the garments she designed. Whenever she flipped one over the foot of her bed, its magic was gone, for it no longer contained Flora.
Now they came to the balcony of their villa overlooking Lycée de Maracq, which had begun in the early 1700s as the home of an exiled Queen of Spain, and later, after having been gutted by fire, had been resurrected as a school where Felix might resume education. It was quite too early for dinner but never too late for the absinthe and Amer Picon wagon.
However much they had discussed their camera work and photos in general, there was not a word relating to the portrait of Garvin, a 15-by-28-centimeter news shot. Certainly it was not studio work. The girder structure supporting the domes was quite clear; besides, posing for formal likeness was never on his agenda.
What made the picture especially interesting was that the artwork that once had concealed the shoulder and upper arm of a woman now could be discerned, however faintly; it was enough to make one curious about her identity and why a larger photo had been cropped to exclude even a glimpse of her. The retouching dyes evidently had succumbed to Terrestrial air pollution. Garvin recalled the formal occasion: Only Azadeh, as First Lady of Mars, could have rated a seat beside him.
Clearly, this was no topic for honeymoon discussion. The photo was in Flora’s bedroom, and her thoughts were her own business. It set Garvin to wondering whether his three wives had gotten along as harmoniously as he had fancied—and hoped.
Azadeh’s son was half Garvin and half Gook.
Flora’s son was half Garvin and half “Holy Family,” which was hated or revered for the sake of Alexander the Imperator, who died in the battle that had routed the Socialist Liberators.
Long ago, a wisewoman had said to Garvin, “If your son turns out well, you have it made. Your daughter is another man’s problem.”
This was as true as history, which indicated clearly that many a war and many a campaign of assassination had been touched off by rival mothers, each maneuvering to advance her son.
The next Governor-General of Mars, whoever he might be, would control the present corps of selected scientists and the food Martian Eck & Ag would produce for an overpopulated world.
Old stuff, of course...and the cocktail moon was rising. Even Merlin, the Master Mage, had been charmed into giving a seductive enchantress the ultimate secret of power, the spell that not even he could resist.
Flora, the Enchantress, stretched luxuriously and picked from the silence what they had been saying of Pau and Lourdes and Armagnac Land, and cognac country. “You’re in love with the town and the country for kilometers around, the way I’ve been from the first sight of it. Let’s settle down and live for a little while before we die. Plenty of room for Azadeh, or if she’d rather, you could get her a spot not too far and not too close.”
Instead of saying, “I told you twice, goddamn it, no!” Garvin went Merlin-stupid and replied, “Terrestrians are as revolting to her as Mars is to you.”
He knew well that giving a reason against anything is half acceptance or, at best, inviting long debate with defeat built in. He ignored the fact that he had survived only because he fired from the hip and explained later.
Trusting her incantation, Flora continued as if she had not heard what he had said. “You and Admiral Courtney made Maritania a suburb of Megapolis Alpha. Taps sounded for him on the Asteroid, and he was there when you circled Saturn, and he mocked those who had put you both into the Rehab Facility for psychological renovation, as they called it. He needed a rest—and think of the years that have given you no rest. You gave your life to the Parliamentary Republic and to Alexander’s Democratic Empire, and before Felix was even thought of, you and Azadeh gave yourselves to the Warlords and their Limited Democracy. Rod, we’re all of us weary, and you are so tired, you do not even realize how tired you are.” There was silence, and he sat as if listening to far-off music.
Flora caught his hand. “Let’s go to Biarritz and phone Azadeh, and we’ll give her a look at some of the big blowups of our tour.”
“We’ll phone Azadeh,” she repeated, “and then we’ll have dinner at Chateau Basque. It’s not far from the communication center for the fat boys who think they have to keep in touch with Lunar stations and Maritania and don’t want to get too far from their fun and games.” And as the yellow Guiletta Veloce purred languidly toward the sea and the Devil’s Bridge, Flora murmured, “If Azadeh moved in with us and found this part of Terra pleasing, it would give our son, well, a chance to round out the education Diane is giving him.”
“Where does Azadeh come in? This gets a bit puzzling.”
“When Felix sees you and me and Azadeh together, when you with all your fame and status could have your choice of all the young and beautiful of Terra, Mars, and the Asteroid, he’ll begin to suspect that the opinion of women he learned during army service is—well, as silly as it is nasty.”
“Sweet Jesus, woman! It does not take a committee of experts. Just life and the course of living—”
“Rod Garvin, if you had been a woman as long as I have, you’d know that Felix was speaking for ninety percent of the male population from ages ten to a hundred! With all his possibilities, you’d not want him to set out in life as a thoroughbred clod!”
Chapter 7
When Azadeh faced Garvin and Flora from the videophone screen, the women did most of the talking until he backed away from the transmission receptor to display the large color blowups, a few of which were thirty-four by forty-six centimeters, card mounted. At times he got in a few words, such as, “If you could only see this in 3-D, or better yet, the real thing.”
Azadeh, never forgetting that she still was Number Two Wife, maintained animated attention, offered intelligent comment when it was in order, and all the while remained amiably passive until Flora had made all her points. All, that is, except the one she had used at the very last to make Garvin the trained seal. Either she had forgotten, or she saw no great use in mentioning that Felix would benefit. Finally there came the pause that Azadeh recognized as invitation to comment on the entirety. Her career of making Sudzo internationally famous had left her accustomed to acquiescence. Flora’s business manager had never been able to make a meaningful comparison between Sudzo royalties and the payments made by manufacturers of duplicates of the panties laundered in the course of the show: Several contingents were quite evenly divided between pink, with forget-me-nots in an unforgettable area or blue with roses appropriately positioned.
“This leaves me quite off balance!” And Azadeh looked and sounded, for her, a bit fluttery, which left Garvin groping and a shade off balance. He recalled phoning from the Asteroid to tell her that the riffraff crew of the Saturnienne had caused so much trouble for the natives that he was about to destroy the cruiser and all records, to protect the people of that cozy little planetoid against the treasure-hungry rabble that would follow if the Saturnienne and her crew ever returned to Terra. Far from telling him that she had given birth to their son, Toghrul Bek, Azadeh agreed that he was quite right in thus protecting her kinfolk, regardless of his and her personal loss.
And then Garvin sensed that for Azadeh this was nothing that required iron in the soul, such as had the time when Flora, convinced that she was in fact not a space widow, had gone to Mars to confront Azadeh with more than a bluff:
“You were working in communications when the Saturnienne radioed from the Asteroid that she had landed for minor repairs. Rod gave a glowing account of the planetoid’s unusual