A Princess of The Linear Jungle

else remains to be discovered about our world.”
    Merritt nodded, and enjoyed the ride. Oddly enough, and most unlike herself, she did not feel compelled to talk at all, beyond an occasional affirmative interjection, during the entire trip of nearly forty-five minutes. But this change did not bother her, and she was content to rest comfortably against Pivot’s big frame.
    They arrived at Wharton’s Block 52, well-known as a strip of luxe music clubs.
    “Which one are we going to?”
    “The Black Poblano. They have a new singer named Loona Poole. I’ve heard great things about her.”
    The scene outside the Black Poblano was hopping. A doorman ushered Merritt and her date inside, and Ransome tipped him with a bill large enough to furnish Merritt with a week’s worth of stuffed grape leaves for her suppers. A blonde hostess in a backless, sparkling crimson gown conducted them to a table. Ransome ordered champagne.
    The band went through several instrumental numbers, alternately lively or dreamy, including such imperishable standards as Rumbold Prague’s “Gone Scaling.” Dancers danced, drinkers drank, and diners dined. Merritt participated in everything, becoming gay and tipsy, and having a wonderful time. Professor Chambless had been so right!
    Then the lights went down, noise levels dropped, and Loona Poole emerged.
    A silvery cascade of thick hair fell nearly to her waist. Beneath the tresses, Poole’s abundant curves appeared naked—until Merritt detected flesh-colored tights.
    Ransome whispered, “The gimmick is, she’s supposed to be some kind of emissary from a far-off Borough much more advanced than ours.”
    Poole uncorked a vibrant contralto croon, employing a language which Merritt at first thought to be High Didierian, but which she soon realized was a clever kind of gibberish, or scat-singing. Swaying hypnotically, the singer stepped with high-heeled grace off the stage, microphone in hand, and began to circulate among the hushedpatrons.
    Merritt found herself responding to the singer’s self-possessed animal heat despite her rational analysis of the act’s tacky premise and tawdry execution.
    Poole finished her first song, began another, and soon stood close to Ransome and Merritt.
    Without warning she plopped herself in Ransome’s lap, never missing a note. Poole winked so that only Ransome and Merrit could see. With her free hand she slid back her hairpiece a fraction—a gesture easily interpreted by the remoter members of the audience as a smoothing of her locks—thus revealing her true dark hair beneath the silver wig.
    Merritt experienced a bomb-burst of recognition.
    Loona Poole and the detestable Cady Rachis were one and the same!
    Poole lifted herself up sinuously and sauntered on, still crooning her nonsense syllables.
    Merritt lurched clumsily to her feet, overturning her chair, and rushed toward the exit, provoking little notice, since all ardent eyes remained fixed on the singer.
    Ransome caught up with Merritt on the sidewalk.
    “What’s wrong, Mer? What’s the matter?”
    “You brought me here as a foil, just so you could see that—that sneaky sexy bitch!”
    “But I didn’t! I swear it! Why would I even involve you, if I only wanted to see Cady? I had no idea Loona was Cady. Everyone knows she signed that exclusive contract at Topandy’s! This must be a dodge to earn a little more money. I can’t help that she spotted us in the audience, Mer. Really, I’m not responsible. You must believe me!”
    Merritt began to calm down. She assessed the handsome ingenuous face of Mr. Ransome Pivot for signs of self-preserving prevarication, and found none. Nevertheless, she remained angry—until she suddenly deflated to weary, despairing dismay.
    “Please take me home, Ransome. I don’t feel like staying out any longer.”
    “But, Merritt— Oh—Oh, fine, whatever you want!”

    Nearly a month of dull uneventful evenings passed. The semester would soon commence. Merritt knew she’d have no free time, what with her work at the NikThek and auditing courses. If ever she planned to make some friends, she needed to start now.
    She wrote an apologetic letter to Ransome Pivot. In return, she got a scrawled invitation to a party that very Saturday night. BYOB, and meet you there.
    Well, Merritt mused, she probably would’ve responded the exact same way, if the shoe had been on the other foot.
    The address given was an unlikely one: a warehouse in the meat-packing