watch everyone. I know what you mean, though. I’m something of a celebrity now, myself, just like you, and everyone watches me all the time. I feel like I’m always onstage, wherever I go, and believe me, that’s not something my type is used to dealing with.”
Fred sat up in bed, shaking his head. “I’m not talking about celebrity, Mary, and I’m not talking about the nits, although they’re bad enough. I’m talking about clone fatigue, and before you tell me there’s no such thing, I know there isn’t, but I’ve still got it. Or at least they’re afraid I do. Do you realize what a threat I pose to the economy? Do you realize what a disaster it would be if ten million russes started coming unglued and falling out of type? The whole value of iterants is the reliability of our core traits. Without that we’re no better than free-rangers. So,
Mary stood in front of the exit hatch. “It doesn’t make me feel good hearing you talk like that, Fred. It seems obvious to me that whatever you did you did to protect me, your wife. I just don’t see how anyone could interpret that as falling out of type.”
Fred smoothed the sheet on either side of him. “Then let me explain it to you. This is the way my brothers and I are built. I don’t know about your line or the jerrys or belindas or any of the others, but we russes are single-mindedly committed to our clients. We will put ourselves at risk for them to the point of sacrificing our own lives. It doesn’t seem to matter to us if our clients are princes or fools, as soon as we take an assignment, we’re committed. Marcus is there to vet our clients and guarantee we’re not hired for criminal purposes, but when —”
“I know all that, Fred.”
“My point is, at the clinic, if you were my client being held against your will, say, and Marcus approved my mission, I could have done exactly what I did — employ a black market identity to gain entrance, kill two guards and assault a third — and afterward I would have been given a medal. But the fact is you were
Mary spied her slippers under the bed and bent over to retrieve them. “I doubt they would have given you a
Fred pictured his batchmate and oldest friend again as he had a million times already, his body limp, the livid bruise across his throat. “It doesn’t happen often,” he went on, “but russes have killed russes in the line of duty and been commended for it.”
“That must be awful. Listen, I think that maybe you should take it easy for a few days, get used to things, before deciding anything.” She opened the hatch and added, “But come out of here while I get ready. I’m going to work today. Or stay in here, and I’ll come in when I return.”
Fred threw the sheet off him. “I’ll come out. I’m going to go apartment hunting. Then I’m going to visit the Brotherhood.”
“So soon?”
OUT IN THE suite, the living-room walls were alternating live views of the city from various tower locations, and Fred got caught up in watching them. His city looked different somehow. It occurred to him that nearly a year had passed since he had been outdoors. Even the ride from the prison had been underground. So he put that at the top of his day’s to-do list — Go outside.
Mary called him into the bathroom. She wore only a towel around her waist. She wiped condensation from the mirror and opened two frames. In one, an evangeline was interacting with a small group of aff-looking people. The muted audio sparkled with jests, jokes, and off-camera laughter.
“That’s her,” Mary said.
“Who? Shelley?”
“No, Fred, my hollyholo, my Leena. She’s playing a supporting role in a popular novela.” The scene changed to a desert landscape where a party of four rode camels. “And here she is in a Pretty Tall Productions novela. She’s also working eight more minor roles simultaneously. And here . . .” she said, pointing to a dynamic graph in the other frame, “are her earnings per role, and at the bottom her cumulative income.”
Fred studied the charts. “Impressive,” he said. “This axis measures what, hundredths?”
“No, hundreds.”
He looked again. “So the total is annual income?”
“No, hourly.”
Fred was speechless.
“I’ve thought it over,” Mary said, “and I’ve come to a conclusion: I’ve earned this sim, and I’m not giving it up. If you can live with that, and if you’re serious about looking for an apartment, then find one with either its own null room or time-share access to one. I’m not going to wait another six months before you touch me again.”
“I’ll add it to my list.”
“Do that.”
While Mary dressed, Fred ordered town togs from the closet and took a shower. Mary was waiting for him when he emerged. He barely recognized her in her aff outfit. On her head was an odd, boxlike hat. She had been wearing a hat at the prison. He wondered when she had taken to wearing hats.
“Like it?” she said, adjusting its fit. “It’s an original.”
“I’ll bet.”
She kissed him with luscious red lips, almost overwhelming his celibate resolve. “I’ll call you this afternoon,” she said, leaving the suite. “And don’t worry about this place. I’ve already paid the bill.”
Hat Weather
The house togs that the closet produced for Fred included a hat. It was made from crushable felt and shaped somewhat like the all-weather headgear for outdoor enthusiasts, with an extra-wide brim for protection against sun and sleet. Not exactly urban fashion and, besides, Fred had never been a hat-wearer. Except for security visor caps, and then only while on duty. So he left the still-warm field hat in the closet, along with his duffel bag, and went out for breakfast.
Fred took an elevator and pedway to the nearest outdoor cafe, the Senator’s Cafe on the 300th floor. On the way, he bought a disposable slate at a Handinook.
The outdoor deck of the Senator’s was flooded with dazzling yellow glare from the side of the neighboring gigatower. Fred chose a table in the shade of a deflector screen, but he could still feel the sun’s insistence.
Fred’s waiter, a jack, was wearing full-face spex, not the usual attire for a cafe, as well as a wide-brimmed hat. Everyone on the deck wore a hat of one sort or another, including a lot of hats like the one he’d left in the closet. Fred seemed to be the only hatless one there. It was amazing — go to prison a mere nine months, and the world is different when you get out. The waiter was standing next to the serving station peering up into the sky, daydreaming it would seem, and Fred had to raise his voice to get his attention. Coffee. A cheese Danish. If you don’t mind.
While waiting for his order, Fred browsed the apartment listings that his slate demon had collected. There seemed to be no shortage of one-bedroom units with their own null rooms. The rent, however, was astounding, pure fantasy for a guy like Fred, yet he knew from this morning’s little lecture at the bathroom mirror that Mary could afford it.
Fred noticed two bees keeping station near the balcony of the floor above him. They were too far away for him to identify without a visor. Even as he watched, the two bees were joined by dozens of others.
Fred returned his attention to his slate and apartment hunting. He found a unit in the Lin/Wong gigatower, which loomed over his left shoulder and dominated the local skyline. The Lin/Wong was the corner post of a giant fence where two major crosstown pickets met.
Fred found less costly units in Indianapolis, closer to Mary’s work. Did he want to leave Chicago? While he was browsing, a background buzz grew imperceptibly louder until Fred noticed it and looked up to see scores of media bees right overhead.
