few routine follow-up questions I would like to ask him, but I cannot do so if his term of exile is so absolute that I cannot even call him, or conduct a Noetic examination. Will you grant an exception to your ban, please, and allow computer services, communication, and telepresentation to continue to serve
him?'
Phaethon, for some reason, was looking at Gannis when Harrier spoke. Gannis had never been able to control his expression without artificial aids, which, presently, in a scene adhering to Silver-Gray protocols, he did not have. So Phaethon saw a look of eager hostility across his face.
Phaethon did not have a psychometric routine in his personal thoughstspace, nor was he trained in Warlock- style controlled intuitions. So he had no way to confirm his hunch. But he did have a hunch. Looking at the hunger on Gannis's face, Phaethon thought: He's one of them.
The Enemy (whoever they were) would be glad that Phaethon would still have access to the Mentality. As soon as he logged on, as soon as he made a phone call, or telecast a ghost, they would know where he was; the moment he accessed the Middle Dreaming, a snare program (like the one that had been associated with Scaramouche's sword) could trigger him into the Deep Dreaming. And in the Deeper Dreaming would be something like a memory box, but open, and with another set of memories, not his, inside. It would be death, and worse than death. His soul would be consumed and replaced.
Nebuchednezzar said, 'I am certain the College, as a public-spirited body, will do all it can to aid a police investigation, even one which seems as routine as this one. Without objection, so ordered.'
Harrier turned and shook hands with Phaethon, whispering,
'Don't give up the fight, old man. If you hadn't been mugged, I shouldn't ever have been created, so I have quite a fond spot in my heart for you. Go to Talaimannar in Ceylon....' Phaethon was turning his head to see if he could get one last word, one last look, to his father. He also wanted to hear the rest of Harrier's message, and wanted to warn Harrier, or someone, about Gannis. But Nebuchednezzar brought the heel of his mace down on the floor with a sharp crack of noise, confirming the sentence of the College of Hortators.
Phaethon was perhaps expecting that he would be led from the imaginary chamber by images of footmen or bailiffs. Certainly that would have been in keeping with Silver-Gray protocols and standards. But Phaethon was no longer considered Silver-Gray. He was no longer considered anything. Neither the Eleemosynary Hospice nor the local telepresentation service felt any obligation to continue treating him according to Silver-Gray standards or any other standards.
The moment the mace touched the floor, the scene vanished. He was back in the casket, disoriented. His thoughts seemed to moving slowly and stupidly without Rhadmanthus there to assist him. Was this what shock was?
And the liquid was draining out of the casket, leaving Phaethon cramped and bent on the inner surface. Then, just as suddenly, jarring and dizzying, the gravity spin slowed and braked, so that his body was crushed up against the medical wires and in-jacks of the left-hand side of the casket. The lid hissed open (blinding him with outside light) before the centrifuge had come to a complete halt, so that he was practically flung out.
His thoughts were still confused; he was trying to remember what the last thing was that he wanted to say to his father...
Phaethon floated in free-fall, clinging to the rim of the casket, his legs stuck out, pointing toward the carpet, but not
'down.' He felt the pressure in his temples, the beat of blood in his face, as the fluids in his body distributed themselves evenly throughout his body instead of falling to a accustomed position near his feet.
A maintenance remote, shaped like a stark cylinder crowned with telescoping arms, was hovering near him, held in place by a tension of magnetic forces. 'The Eleemosynary Composition thanks you for your patronage, but no longer wishes to rent this space. The standard rental agreement allows for instant expulsion of those who fall under Hortator osctracization, without notice or advertisement. If you do not immediately take steps to leave the premises, the unit is instructed to regard you as a trespasser, and to join the Constabulary and to eject you by force.'
Phaethon did not respond or move. He had known what he was risking; he had known what exile might mean. But the reality, now that it was here, seemed more than he could bear. It took him a moment to draw his breath and muster his strength.
The moment was apparently too long a time. The remote opened its mechanical arms like a giant spider. The hull of the machine changed, and now bore gold-and-blue police emblems. 'This unit has uploaded all proper training, oaths, and experience, been checked against the Constabular Academy on channel 14, and has graduated and been awarded a position as sergeant-at-arms of the municipal commandry. I am now authorized to use force against you if you resist. This place in which you are is not your property; you have been asked politely to depart.'
Better to walk than to be hauled.
'I'm going. I'll be happy to go....' Phaethon triggered thrusters in his elbows and boots. The reaction gently thrust him down the corridor.
The remote moved in front of him, blocking his way. 'Pardon me, sir. The air that you are in, unlike air on Earth, is not a natural product but is owned by the Eleemosynary Composition, and must be pumped in at the owner's expense. The Eleemosynary Composition asks that you not distribute
ejected particles throughout the Hospice corridor, or foul the air with pollutants.'
'It's steam. Hot water.' His teeth were clenched. Phaethon knew he should not be letting this aggravate him. But in his whole life, machines had never been anything else than unfailingly polite to him. Historical dramas always portrayed criminal sentences, executions or reconditionings, to be surrounded with grave ceremony. Not this petty harassment.
'Nonetheless, the air in this corridor does not belong to you, and you cannot eject matter into it without permission.'
'As you wish.'
Phaethon kicked against the carpet and pulled himself hand over hand to the air lock at the hub of the wheel- shaped hospice. Left and right, he saw that other caskets were empty. The casket doors gaped like empty windows. It gave Phaethon a feeling of desolation.
