A Tale Of Two Planets

Chapter 31 - Dorothea

Dorothea had a rough night. No mirror on the wall, yet a feeling of being watched stuck with her all through the night. On several occasions, she thought she heard footsteps along corridors, back and forth. Sometimes they stopped, pausing by her door. Or so she imagined. Even more, she imagined an ear listening, an eye by the keyhole, peeping, someone spying. But there was no keyhole, was there? She shrugged, trying to shake the fantastic feeling. Still, deep down, she knew she was right.

Early morning, Spaceport time, she rolled out of bed, abandoning every thought of getting proper sleep. Her yellow pajamas kept its lovely feeling against her skin, despite a tinge of suspicion creeping into the fabric. Her regular clothes announced a challenged. Lying on the floor, oozing. No, she couldn't. A fly on her sock completed the picture (how the heck did a fly end up here anyway?). She swallowed her pride and picked up the phone, demanding room service. Food and beverages, but most importantly, a change of clothes.

Only minutes later, someone knocked on her door. An unfamiliar face with a stack of clothes, a glass of orange juice, coffee, and a ready-meal breakfast bar. "Here you go miss—" jaws working a chewing gum. A pink bubble appeared around her lips, burst, retreating into her mouth. The face also retreated.

The new outfit suited Dorothea fine. Boring, but fine. Shirt and pants, nothing more. A nice fit among earthly travelers. She gathered her things. This would be good bye, then. No more yellow pajama— A last glimpse of the hotel and its lofty foyer. Would she miss it? Perhaps. The mind worked in mysterious ways. Sometimes, it would conspire against her, create positive memories out of anything. Out of nothing. Even out of evil. Her time on Mars, as it were, had a romantic tinge to it, did it not? A heavy dose of nostalgia, violating her mind and smudging her recollections. The roses in her garden, the lonely café at the corner, the sunset—not all of it, of course, but plenty of it, polished up and placed on a pedestal. Yes, she would make this one, this moment, a cheerful one too. Why not?

The receptionist observed Dorothea trot past her desk, let her dull eyes rest on the Marsian's small feet. Then on her bag. Then on her borrowed outfit. She lowered her eyes at the exact right moment, avoiding eye-contact. Dorothea looked the other way, straightening her back under the chartered shirt. No one said good bye.

The doors slid open and Dorothea received her freedom. Or so she thought. She descended the stairs, stepping onto the pavement, when the periphery of her eye gave her a warning. She pressed her bag to her chest and spun on her heels— Too late.

Dorothea felt a strong grip under her arms— What a tiresome practice. She hadn't enjoyed it the first time, neither the second. Nor the third. The forth came just as unwelcome. Spaceport security did an excellent job, hauling her backwards along the corridors. Without a word, without so much as a glance.

"So, not back to the hotel?" Dorothea ventured. "My passport— You've managed to prolong it?"

"We manage nothing." The reply came from the right.

Dorothea looked up, caught a glimpse of the warden's face. The nose—it looked familiar. But the eyes? Gray and empty, anonymous. "Oh, I don't think that's quite correct. You do manage Spaceport security questions. Or perhaps you'd prefer the word handle? There's a difference. Now, I'm not one to ignore it. I even respect it—" No reply. She tilted her head, studied the knuckles dancing next to her head. Enormous, yet soft looking. A strong grip, yet comfortable. No pain in her armpits. She appreciated that. Very professional. No wonder they'd been hired by Spaceport Security. Imagine the opposite: Spaceport Piracy. Yikes. How to train such knuckles? Or were they born like that? Made for gripping and threatening? Poor mothers, raising those children. And giving birth—another yikes.

A door appeared in the wall. With a, ugh, she landed on a stiff chair, Spaceport Security releasing her without ceremony. Door closed behind her. Did she need to use the bathroom? No, not yet. Swell. So—everything was cool?

The door opened and a clerk entered. A familiar face, sporting a smiling mouth. One hand in her pocket, she placed herself in front of Dorothea. "I've been thinking— That, perhaps you've been thinking? Perhaps you've had the time to consider the matter, to see things clearly? Because, that's what they are, clear—" She leaned forward, ever so slightly, making it known she was expecting a satisfying reply.

"Are we still talking about the delivery?"

"Indeed, we are— And your passport, of course. Can't deliver a package without a passport— I think you should consider helping an old friend out."

"Friend?"

"No-no—" The clerk wriggled her finger. "Hold your protest. You want to help, don't you? Help me help you, yes? Then, let me explain, let me make it even clearer— It's simple. I need influence, and— Influence, used properly, might help me help you, speeding up the process."

Dorothea frowned. "Something illegal will gain you legal influence?"

The clerk's eyebrows crept upwards, almost into her hairline. "Surely—" she faltered. "Everything legal begins as something illegal. That's how rules are made. Even on Mars—" She turned to pace the room. "However, technically speaking, you're the one in the illegal position. You're the one without a passport, suspected of—things. Shady business."

"I am?"

"Why, yes. So, perhaps you want to switch seats with me? A law for the lawless?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Make an effort, please. Give it a minute. You'll notice the penny drop."

Dorothea gave it a minute, a painful minute. Her stomach knotted up—damn it. The facts sank in. The penny dropped. She lifted her head, "So, your cousin—she's got contacts?"

Clerk brightening up. "That's a question in the right field. Well done. And - to answer your question - yes. My cousin's got influence."

"You should have influence."

The clerk lost her brightness. "It's not that simple— I have as much influence as a robot. I do my job. I do what's expected of me, what I'm programmed to do. But I decide nothing. Now, we can change that, you and I. Just give it a push in the right direction, send my card into the spotlight."

"And this delivery— It's important?"

"It's illegal enough. Look—" She stopped her pacing. "I do want to solve this case of yours. My career needs it, and I need my career. And you need both me and my career."

"I need my passport."

"Exactly— Do you know a funny thing? I don't even have a passport. Don't need one. I'm not going to Mars, am I? My work's here, at the Spaceport. Here's where I'm needed. I don't even wander the Earth anymore."

"But I don't want to bribe anyone."

"Oh no, I'll be doing the bribing. You're just a delivery girl. No one kills the messenger. Not really. Not in the end."

"Alright—"

"What's that?"

"Alright."

"Perfect—" The clerk opened the door, waited for Dorothea. "What could possibly go wrong—or get worse? I'll have the delivery set up. Let's meet again, first thing tomorrow. Security'll find you. Also, you really should get back to your hotel."