Part Eight, Chapter Three - Alien Parking Practices

So this club they're going to has something called a "vehicle escalator," and Heller parks their flying car on it, then watches to see where the system's "side arm" puts it, presumably into a parking space. Hubbard doesn't waste any words explaining how this car-scaled escalator works, leaving his readers to puzzle it out on their own. Or in my case wonder why a much more efficient and simpler autopilot system, in which cars are slaved to an AI valet and remotely taken to and from a parking space, isn't used instead. But whatever.

The first bit of heart-stopping tension comes after the girls go on to the restrooms to check their masks "the way girls will," followed by Heller who does the same presumably the way guys will. This leaves Gris alone with a hulking bouncer whose hand is out, expecting a fiver. But all Gris has is those counterfeits! How will he ever enter the club if- oh wait, a manager is waving for Gris to come on in. So he just walks right on by.

Okay, I need a minute to get a hold of myself, wipe the sweat from my eyes.

Right, let's see this club.

The evening was just beginning

Wait, they left to pick up Hightee at nine o'clock. Whaddya mean "just beginning?"

but most of the tables were already full. Masks, masks, masks, all types and shapes and kinds, a blur of hidden identities.

A blare of loud music!

Boots, boots, boots. Every color of boot anyone ever heard of and the underfloor circulating lights rippled and splashed upon them.

Tables, tables, tables. The manager led us to one, slightly raised, against a wall. I quickly checked. It was also near an emergency exit.

Repetition, exclamation!, repetition, repetition. Dissatisfaction. Boredom.

As a woman in blackface tries to sing a ballad, Gris nervously eyes the table, upon which are light-up panels with the menus and prices. All the entrees and drinks and stuff starts at five or ten credits an item, which makes Gris cringe while I get to scratch my head and wonder how badly inflation has hit dining prices since the mid 80's.

Before ordering, Heller explains the Artistic Club's premise - patrons must get up on stage and perform some sort of act to entertain the other guests, and failure to do so will double their whole table's bill. Like a horrible, overpriced, coercive Amateur Hour. Then Heller summons a "yellow-man" waiter-

Was this conscious, do you reckon? Is this more of Hubbard's "satire?" Or is it more unthinking, instinctive racism? Like he knows that the servants are all going to be yellow-skinned, because that's the natural order of things? Goodness knows I'd like to think otherwise, had I not read Battlefield Earth and encountered Hubbard's Chinese characters who spent a thousand years waiting for someone to kowtow to.

Anyway, the rest of the chapter is everyone ordering stuff and Gris counting up the bill in mounting horror. Imported game from a neighboring planet, "bubblebrew," and "flaming icecake," all good stuff. Two hundred twenty credits total. Gris chows down on what he's sure will be his last meal, since he'll either be executed for trying to pay with his identoplate or passing counterfeit money. And just when he's sure things can't get any worse, the spotlight falls on him and Heller explains that Gris will be the first from their table to perform on stage.

Oh God. Cliffhanger ending. Hope you can handle going a whole day of wondering just how Gris will get out of this mess, and what he could possibly do as an act.


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Forward to Chapter Four