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The madam’s urgency can only mean that I have an off-worlder caller and I’m as excited as can be.
    The water that comes out of the faucet is colored with impurities, so I have a bucket filled where I let the sediment settle on the bottom. I soak a rag and use it to rub down my body, cleaning as well as I can my armpits and between my legs. I think about the dress I’ll wear and scrub my arms nice and hard. They’ll be on display and I want my porcelain flesh to glow.
    I know that there’s a shower waiting for me at The Hotel, but the client can always turn you away when he first sees you, before you even make it to the room.  The best thing to do is to look your best, like a girl from Venus.
    I shampoo my hair and give my body a once-over with my makeshift washcloth before slipping into my nicest dress. It’s yellow, with a bare back and a cut that keeps close to my figure all the way down to my ankles. It’s not the easiest thing to move in, but it’s never failed to force an expression of surprise from my off-world clients.  They’ve all heard the stories of the Ionian moon and the wretches that live there. They unhappily expect a girl in tatters and rags. Well, you don’t get repeat customers that way.
    I’m putting the last touches on my hair when the madam barges in again.
    “Cal, get your ass downstairs! They sent a goddam car for you.”
    I foolishly pause what I’m doing to stare at her. “A car? Stop screwing around.”
    “I’m not fucking kidding. They sent a car.”
    This is unprecedented. Not just for me, or even for the girls in my brothel. I don’t know anyone on Io who’s been in a car unless it was part of their job. “Who’s the guy?”
    The madam looks away. She doesn’t want to tell me, though I can’t piece together why not. “Just be downstairs.”
    I slip into my heels, grab my bag, and totter out the door. A few of the girls help me down the stairs in my restrictive dress and soon enough I’m on the street, staring into the face of an aged chauffeur holding open the door of a shiny grey car. It’s an expensive car—I can tell from the films I’ve seen that this is not a vehicle designed for prostitutes, but rather politicians and businessmen.  It sits there in the filth of the street, seemingly unreal, like it was drawn into a picture. As I step into the car I look down the avenue over the glistening, reflective hood. Everything is blackened. The sky is one endless haze. Nothing haunts these streets but grease and plastic tumbleweeds. There avenue is lined on each side with blocks of apartments—most have the top few stories caved in.
    I don’t feel right sitting on this soft leather. I try not to move, to not shed my wretchedness on this pristine surface. Respect for wealth and beauty is the closest thing I have to religion.
    It’s not long before the sound from the tires turns to a gentler hum as we ascend the smoothly paved road up the hill to The Hotel.  It sits there, a world apart, a palace overlooking the city, shedding white light in a perfect circle around it.

2
    We pull up and the door is opened for me and a white gloved hand reaches out for mine to help me out. My throat clenches and tears burn beneath my eyelids. The entrance to the lobby is wide open, pouring warm, clean air out into the night. Beneath the chandelier, in the middle of the room, is Mr. Julius R. Burberry, American Earthman, former CEO of a revolutionary solar mining company and current inter-planetary flaneur.
    He’s standing there in pleated pinstripe pants and gleaming black leather shoes. He wears a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms, fabric stretched by his broad shoulders. A thin, red silk tie is loose around his unbuttoned collar and dives down beneath the buttons of a dark pinstripe vest cinched fittingly around his waist.
    He was my best customer. The best customer, in fact, of any girl on Io.  He came on business frequently, checking up on the refining