The noises of commerce were fading. From the window Anne saw the neon
blaze up over the door. For the thousandth time she blinked between the
equivocal words: 30--BEAUTIFUL HOSTESSES--30. Laughter, dry and false,
filtered up from the tea bars along the street. She looked westward,
toward the spaceport, and made out the shadowy nose of the berthed space
liner looming against the night. She could picture the scene--a thousand
stevedores unloading cargo, refill men and native spacewriters scurrying
over the sleek hull, the Earth voyageurs shouting orders and curses.
"Maybe he isn't even on it." Anne turned from the window. She crossed to
the couch and sat down, fluffing out the green crinkly glass of her
skirt; pendant, multicolored birds flashed from the rings in her ears.
She tucked rosy feet under her scented body. "I don't like Earthmen,"
she said.
"They spend money."
"They make me sick," Anne said. "With their pale skins and ugly eyes and
hairy bodies."
"They have strong arms."
Anne's wide, red mouth curled in distaste. "They're like a bunch of
kids."
The room was lighted by soft, overhead fire. Heavy drapes hung from the
walls. Sweet, spicy incense curled bluely from the burners by the
window.
Before the mirror, Milly edged in the narrow line of her pink eyebrows
with a pencil. She folded her lips in, rubbing them together, licked
them, making them a glistening red. She pinched her cheeks.
"I wonder when they'll catch Crescent?" she said.