See US vs Ignatz Wolk 1999.
What then?
Correspondents: Evelyn (guth) Gail (warth) Any overt acts of
infidelity? Probable. No proof.
Only obstacle: Jean. Must reach agreement.
IMPORTANT: Plaintiffs and Defendant or Defendants and Plaintiff not
solvent. Must arrange something.
See Gleda.
And see Gleda I did. I asked her if she could use not two, not three,
but FIVE Venerian entertainers. She could and would. At 1,000 prots a
head for an hour's entertainment. That took care of that much, anyway.
I was, I felt, well on the road to making legal history.
* * * * *
The following day I made arrangements to meet Jean alone in a little
bistro down on the Embarcadero. I felt the salt water air would make
her-it feel more co-operative. But on the way down I became aware of
someone following me. Cinder-caped and smog-masked, the tail I was
dragging was inconspicuous enough, but I figured the thing about right.
It was a Government man. There could be only one answer. Honest Pancho
had tipped the TBI that I was doing something illegal or immoral. I
was an active Joe Mac and that would be enough to put the Witch Hunt
Division of TBI on me even without Pancho getting wind of my dealings
with the spacegooks.
The gimmick would be, of course, that I was taking advantage of them,
violating their rights under the V Amendment of the World Constitution.
Pure falsehood, but my previous unwise political affiliations put me
under suspicion.
I looked up through the smog, and sure enough. An Eyespy hung in the
air just over my head--a tiny transmitter about as big as a half erg
piece. If I spit on the sidewalk, I thought, they'll haul me in on the
double.
This was bad enough, but when and if I actually got the Venerians an
interlocutory decree, I'd really have to watch it--and them, to see
that nothing went wrong. The WH boys would have Pancho right at their
shoulder watching for the slightest excuse to invalidate the decree.
I could get used to the Eyespy, and I thought I could convince Jean.
And above all, I had to keep the Venerians from anything like sexual
activity during the two day period of the decree. Nothing--but
nothing--will invalidate a decree quicker than _that_. And an
invalidated decree is very bad for a Legal Eagle's reputation.
I was, I thought darkly, getting into this thing deeper than I thought.
But the rewards would be worth it. Think of it. To Legal Eagle the
_first_ extraterrestrial divorce case in the history of the world! Holy
Protein, I'd be in song and story.
I made my way through the press of people on the slidewalks, my
Keep-A-Way crackling a jolly tune, and the Eyespy hovering over my head.
San Francisco is a wonderful place. Full of excitement and bustle.
It's a port of entry, for one thing, with starliners letting down
into the Bay from all over the Solar System. On the Embarcadero
there were Sandies from Mars, Rooks from the Jovian System--every
sort of spacegook there is. Except Venerians. And mingled with
the crowd I could make out the distinctive cinder capes of the
Longshoremen--absolute rulers of the district.
The bistro I was looking for was a floating platform moored to the
ancient wharves, the ones that were left after the tidal wave caused by
the bomb back in '59. It was a nautilus type joint, most of it under
water, called the Deep Six.
An attendant took my cape and smog mask at the door and bowed me along
to the maitre d'.
"A table, sir?" He clapped his hands for a waiter. "May I order you
something? A morphine syrette? Phenobarb? We have a particularly fine
aphrodisiac cocktail, sir. Or shall I just send the hostess to you and
you can order later?"
I eyed the line up of girls regretfully. They were all lovely, all
almost fully clothed--and what flesh was exposed was completely
unpainted. If Thais looked like that, I thought sadly, I wouldn't
haggle about her price. But that was sheer depravity, I told
myself sternly. That's what comes of associating with triple sexed
spacegooks--I was here on business. Not pleasure.
"I'm meeting someone," I said. "A spaceg--a Venerian uh--lady. Miss
Jones."
The maitre shrugged. "Everyone to his taste. The person you wish is at
the corner table, sir. Near the window." And sure enough, there was
Jean, her crest waving agitatedly as she pressed her three nostrilled
nose against the glass watching the sandsharks swimming gracefully
among the mossy pilings outside.
"Oh, Joe--just like _home_," she hissed softly as I sat down. She was
very strong of formaldehyde today, I thought.
I didn't quite know how to begin with her. I had to make her see
reason, but she seemed to be unwilling to pay any attention to me
at all except to comment that Clare and Vivian were very cruel to
her. "And after I've given them the best ygith of my life." Then she
returned to her melancholy contemplation of the underseascape beyond
the glass.
I ordered an alkie-and-treacle and sipped it thoughtfully watching
Jean. An amber tear had formed in the outer corner of each slotted eye
and was oozing gelatinously down her pale green cheeks.
It was like someone turning on a light in my brain. The answer was
plain as day. Jean was homesick. Miserable. And a miserable woman--or
man--or--well, does it matter?--a miserable _person_ was always
contrary. Remove the misery and _voila_--gentle as a lamb.
"Jean," I said, "this case is important to me. You must help me get the
decree. If you do--I'll do something nice for you."
Over my head the Eyespy clucked reproachfully, but I ignored it.
"Agree to the divorce. We can settle it in Collusion Court. And
I'll see to it you get passage back to Venus on the first available
starliner. How's that?"
"Back to Venus? Back Home?" Her eyes gleamed redly.
"That's a promise," I said. This would cost me plenty of prots, but the
fame would be worth it. You can see how far gone I was on this case.
"Just one thing," I added thoughtfully. "What will become of the rest
_after_ the divorce? I mean, can two of each sex get along without a
third? It sounds, well, almost unvenerian, if you know what I mean."
"The mating wouldn't be a very high-type experience," Jean said
loftily, "without an _ith_--but it can take place. It's just the
sort of disgusting business you could expect from people like Clare
and Vivian. And those _other_ two--_well_--you haven't met them, but
really--"
"Then you'll do as I ask?"
Jean waved her crest at me seductively. "Joe Obanion, you're really
very nice."
I backed away and swallowed hard as Jean laid a slick, webbed hand on
my wrist. "How about it? Agreed?"
"You know," Jean said dreamily, "you remind me of a _warth_ I used to
know back home. He and I and a really divine _guth_ called Charlie had
the most marvelous _ygith_ together. I wonder if he remembers little
me--?"
"I'm sure he does. How could she forget you?" I asked warily.
Jean blinked her slotted eyes at me and her thin lips split into a
tusky smile. "You say the nicest things, Joe. Yes, baby, I'll do as you
ask. I won't contest the divorce."
"Jean," I said with feeling, "you'll never regret this."
And the Eyespy clucked disapprovingly. Drop dead, Pancho, I thought.
Drop dead twice. I had made it.
* * * * *
Gleda Warick's house--mansion, really, lay sprawled over most of the
Twin Peaks Area. From her Lunar Room you could see the whole of the
city stretched out as if for inspection. To the east, the bay and the
floating housing developments, wharves and night spots on and under
the water. To the west the transocean highways, ribbons of plastic
floating on the still Pacific. No one could afford to run ships now
and almost all surface commerce was run over the highways in caravans
of atomic trucks. To the Orient, to Alaska, to the Pacific islands. A
steady string of lights moving at two hundred miles per hour. Rocket
trails streaked the sky as starliners splashed into the bay and burbled
to the surface, hissing and steaming. Market Street--all seven levels
of it--ran from the base of the hills to the bay, a multilevel slidway
jammed with people. The view from Gleda's place was magnificent
because of the infra-red antismog windows she had installed in the
Lunar Room at a cost, incidentally, of 100,000 prots.
She had three rooms and a kitchenette. You entered her place and almost
had an attack of agoraphobia. It was that big.
The place was overrun with people. I'd brought Thais, of course,
resplendent in red and silver paint. Lyra Yves appeared in a solid coat
of gilt, with that one breast and her left arm sheathed in flexible
vinyl. Thais nudged me. "Look at that. I think it's disgusting."
I did look. I couldn't help myself. That shiny vinyl caught the eye of
every man in the room. "Depraved," Thais sniffed.
Honest Pancho came in with an older man who was pointed out to me as
an ethnologist from the University of California across the bay. A
Professor Cripps.
Pancho, dressed in his customary green and orange enamel and
embroidered cowboy boots, stumped across the room to give me the big
hello.
"Jose, my boy! Good to see you...." He glanced up at the Eyespy.
"Trouble with the Witch Hunters? Tsk tsk--"
"As if you didn't know," I snapped.
"You think I'd do a thing like that to a _friend_?"
"Yes."
He grinned a big toothy smile at me. "As a matter of fact, you're
right. I hear you've got a big case. Non-terrie. Worth a lot to a Legal
Eagle to be the first with a non-terrie case--"
"You're too late, you vulture," I said. "Interlocutory decree
granted." I tapped my pouch. "Right here."