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Old beaver traps decorated the walls, and the lights were made to simulate ironmongery holding candlesticks. The candlesticks were topped with small but ordinary-looking bulbs. A painting of a farmhouse surrounded by wildflowers adorned the wall above the dresser; a nude of a strategically disrobed seated woman drinking hot coffee,
looking out her window at ice and snow, hung next to the bed by the window. Another sleeping nude hung above the bed.
If it was a brothel, it was the plushest one he'd ever been in.
Valentine checked the view. The waterfall was obscured by a deck from their room, but he had a good view of the river running west. He tried to guess how high it went in the opening minicanyon below the falls in the spring flood, but even with Cat eyes it was hard to judge.
"Cocktails, dinner, dance party", Gide said, reading a schedule on the desk. "Looks like we missed cocktails and part of dinner. Tomorrow: breakfast, exercise, lecture on the glory of heroism, games, cocktails, dinner, party. Sunday: services, brunch, departure".
Valentine despaired at a grease stain on his uniform. He must have brushed against a greasy pot in the wagon. "Let's get cleaned up and eat.
There were two galleries showing movies on the biggest televisions Valentine had ever seen, colors impossibly bold and bright in the dimly lit rooms. A small casino added that special thick, nervous air unique to gambling dens, and some kind of art exhibition was going on in one of the lobbies, well-crafted patriotic pieces that Valentine liked better than the four-color slogan posters of Southern Command.
Attractively dressed women lounged in the bars and in front of a gallery autopiano, ready to talk or dance or be taken back to a room. Valentine watched one military-haircut man in civilian clothes head for the rooms, his hand resting lightly on his companion's buttock. Valentine examined her eyes as they passed. She'd popped or smoked something to get up for the evening.
Valentine suppressed a shudder. He kept expecting the maitre d' from the Blue Dome to appear at his elbow.
Gide, now dressed in a borrowed little black dress and heels, eyeliner running up the backs of her legs to simulate stocking seams, tracked down a late-night buffet and they ate.
"I poked my head in the gift shop while you were looking at the pictures", she said. "Nice booze. Perfumes even".
"Bonded whiskey, but they can't get you a decent set of boots".
"Speaking of which, there's a shoe store on the gallery. If you'll loan me thirty bucks, I can sign for the rest. I have to hurry - they close in ten minutes".
Valentine gave her the cash.
He went out on the balcony and enjoyed the summer night, watched the roar of the fountain. He fell into a conversation with another falls gazer, an artist in an ill-fitting sport coat and trousers.
"My piece is called Hope and Glory" he said. "I won a new-moon party here with it".
Valentine quietly raked his memory. "The two rising... what are they, angels?"
He seemed pleased that Valentine had remembered. He started talking about the difficulty of getting good paints, when he looked up. "That's Adler. He gave a quick talk at the reception for the artists".
Valentine looked up at the peak of the A-frame. There was a small balcony, hanging over their own, and muted light glowed within. A man stood looking over the edge, his face in shadow thanks to the backlighting. He turned and leaned and Valentine got a better view.
Valentine liked the look of him. Tanned - maybe the altitude of the Outlook helped - and lean but not gaunt, with gray white hair that set off the tan, a father figure in the twilight of middle age stood looking at the western horizon beyond the foothills of the Cascades. He held a lit cigar in his hand.
Late-night diners trickled out of the dining room and joined in the waterfall watching. Gide returned, wearing low black-heeled shoes and real stockings.
Adler set down his cigar on the railing. It rolled and he stopped it with a digit.
"Liquor holding out?" he called down to those below. He had a clear, fast speaking voice, like a radio news announcer.
A few men raised their glasses. A couple applauded.
"I'm here for the night air, not a speech. Enjoy". He lifted his finger and the cigar rolled off the balcony rail. A muttonchopped officer in a black dress uniform grabbed it as it fell.
By the time Muttonchops was showing his trophy to his escort, a blonde who had the body of a seventeen-year-old and the eyes of thirty-five, Adler had vanished indoors.
"He's shy", the artist said. "I like that".
Valentine looked out into the clear night, wondering what the shy military genius had been looking for to the west. Sulfur-colored light painted the distant clouds above Seattle.
* * *
"I thought you were going to buy boots", Valentine said as they returned to their room. The bed had been turned down, and the room carried a floral, elegant fragrance.
