The Prison in Antares Read Online Free PDF Page A

time.”
    â€œAnd he does this a lot, does he?” persisted Irish.
    â€œI’m right here,” said Pretorius. “You don’t have to pretend I’m not.”
    â€œI just . . .” she began, flustered. Then: “Never mind.”
    â€œI know you’re going to have a difficult time believing it,” said Pretorius, “but this may be essential to our mission.”
    â€œIt was last time,” agreed Ortega.
    â€œClearly I’m missing something,” said Irish.
    â€œTell you what,” said Pretorius. “Once we land you can come along with me.”
    â€œTo a whorehouse?”
    â€œTo this particular whorehouse,” replied Pretorius.
    She shrugged. “What the hell. I’ve never been to one.”
    â€œWelcome to the Space Service,” said Snake with a big grin.
    Pretorius walked over to the control panel. “Land us just outside McPherson.”
    â€œThe Tradertown?” asked Pandora.
    â€œYeah. They don’t have a spaceport, unless they’ve built one in the last few months, so just find a nice empty space and set us down. You can get a readout of the temperature and oxygen content and the rest of it if you want, but it won’t make any difference. Place hasn’t changed in a few hundred years.”
    â€œA few hundred?” said Irish.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow can you know that?”
    Pretorius smiled. “I’ve been told by an expert.”
    Everyone else laughed at that, while Irish merely looked more confused. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s so special about this place?” she said at last.
    â€œWe’re heading for a Tradertown that was named for a man named McPherson,” answered Pretorius. “In fact, the whole world is named for him, probably by himself. It’s been in business for seven or eight hundred years, give or take. No one knows why the hell he landed there. Not much grows, no one’s discovered any fissionable materials, lot of dust storms, not much rain, not even much water. There’s a rumor that no one’s buried in McPherson’s grave, that he had enough brains to leave the damned place after just a few years.”
    â€œThen why does anyone live there?” she asked.
    â€œAlmost no one does, except for the town of McPherson,” said Pretorius. “And the residents are just there to serve the town’s one major industry—Madam Methuselah’s.”
    Irish frowned. “Madam Methuselah’s?” she repeated. “I’ve heard of it. I always thought it was a legend.”
    â€œIt’s legendary, which isn’t quite the same thing,” replied Pretorius.
    â€œI don’t follow you.”
    He smiled. “The planet is as close to a hellhole as you can get and still be hospitable to half a dozen starfaring life-forms, including ours. So seven or eight hundred years ago an enterprising young blonde woman decided it might be the perfect place to open a business.”
    â€œA whorehouse,” said Irish disapprovingly.
    Pretorius nodded. “A whorehouse—one that catered to all the species that were able to reach the place. Over the centuries, as the clientele has become even more varied, so has the staff.” He paused. “It’s become a perfect No Man’s Land. I know we talk about various quadrants of the galaxy being No Man’s Lands, but a lot of them are totally unpopulated by any species. Madam Methuselah’s caters to dozens of races, many of them at war with each other, but to the best of my knowledge there has yet to be a single physical altercation since its inception.”
    â€œJust so males of all these species can get their jollies?” she said disapprovingly.
    â€œAnd females, too,” said Pretorius. “They’re not hampered by custom here.”
    â€œAll right, females too,” said Irish. “I assume we have some other