where they should be. The only appliance was a dishwasher built into the base cabinets. He turned on the lights and the overhead fluorescent pinged a dozen times before coming on full.
He walked over to the sink and his left foot slipped. He looked down and saw that one of the linoleum tiles— some faded abstract geometric pattern on it— FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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had come loose from the floor in a small cloud of dust. The adhesive was no more than crumbling yellow powder. He slid it across the floor with his foot and it hit in the corner of the room, shattering into a half-dozen brittle pieces.
He stopped at the sink. Its stainless steel was covered with a thin layer of dust. He turned on the water. There was a banshee scream from the plumbing, and a hard knocking shook the faucet. It sputtered twice, splattering rust-red water speckled with black muck, and settled into a shuddering stream. Nohar killed it.
He opened drawers, but there wasn't much to see. One drawer held a five-centimeter-long mummified body—a mouse or a bat.
The house was empty. The place had the same smell as the boxes in Manny's attic—dry and dusty. Any odor with texture to it had faded long ago to a nothing-smell. Even the little mouse corpse smelled only of dust.
There was a newspaper—a real newspaper, not a fax—lining a drawer. He pulled out the sheet. The date on the paper was January 12th, 2038, fifteen years ago. The headline was ironic, considering Bobby's view on recent events. According to the paper, NASA had just gotten appropriations to test the nuclear engines for its deep-probe project. The original plan was to have a dozen probes going to all the near star systems. Now, fifteen years later, Congress was going to scuttle the project before the first one was even launched.
The end of the Pan-Asian war was news, even two years after the fact. The paper had a rundown on the latest Chinese atrocities in occupied Japan. It also contained the latest 2038 reshuffling of the boundaries within a balkanized India. The Saudis had finally killed off their last oil fire, and found their market gone along with the internal-combustion engine. Even the sheikhs were driving electric. Israel hadn't yet been driven into the sea, but most of the occupied territory was now radioactive. Russia had signed peace treaties with
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Turkmen and Azerbaidzhan—finally. And the INS released new figures on annual morey immigration. In 2037, it topped at one-point-eight million. Putting the new, 2038 moreau population at over ten million. The United States had the largest moreau population in the world—with the possible exception of China from which no figures were available.
A candidate for the state senate named Binder was adding his voice to the growing concern about moreau immigration. Bobby was right about Binder's radical shift. Binder spoke before the Cleveland City Club about the moral imperative to allow moreau refugees across the border. Poor tired huddled masses and all that. Five years later, Moreytown would explode into an orgy of violence, and Binder would be in the House as the congressman from the 12th district of Ohio with promises to ban moreau immigration altogether.
He balled up the depressing paper. It crinkled and disintegrated like an old brown leaf. He dropped the remains and kicked the pieces away as he entered the living room.
The living room had wall-to-wall carpeting, an old comm, nothing else. Nohar walked to the comm, kicking up dust and loose pieces of carpet. Worth a try. 'Comm on.'
It must have heard him. He could hear a click from inside the machine. Nohar looked over the relic as it began to warm up. It was a Sony, and that meant old, at least five years older than the paper. Probably came with the house. The picture was wavy, and the 'message waiting' signal had carved a ghost image into the phosphor. The voice the comm used was obviously synthetic. It tried to sound human, but it sounded more fake than Nohar's own comm. 'Comm is on.'
At least the commands were standardized. He asked it for messages, and there were one hundred and twenty-eight of them. The comm's memory was filled, and had been for quite some time. Each new message FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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was erasing an older one—stupid system, Nohar's home comm erased anything more than a month old to avoid memory problems.
Nohar wondered what kind of messages were waiting on the comm. It was clear now the intended recipient didn't exist.
'Play.'
Static, then a digital low-resolution picture with every tenth pixel gone to volatile memory heaven. 'Kathy Tsoravitch, I wish—bzzt—in person. Even so I wish to give my personal—bzzt—for your generous contribution— bzzt—''
Hell, it was Binder. Saturday, July 19th. The last night Stephie had seen Johnson alive.
Nohar smiled. She had last seen Johnson at a fundraiser—that Saturday. On that same night, Binder was thanking the nonexistent Kathy Tsoravitch for her generous contribution. A contribution that must form part of that missing/not-missing three million dollars.
Now he had something to play with. He wondered how well Thomson or Harrison could stonewall if he threw this in their faces.
However, this was only one message. He played the next one. 'Play.'
'My dear friend, K—bzzt—Tsoravitch. Even though I am unable to thank you in—bzzt—I am giving you my personal promise that I will jus—bzzt—your con-fid—bzzt—I intend to fulfill my promises of law and order—bzzt— waste in government, and humane laws to promote huma—bzzt—and I am glad there are still people like you in this—bzzt—'
Someone named Henry Davis in Washington D.C. Nohar didn't believe in coincidence. The first two messages were thanks for political contributions— 'Play.'
Berthold Maelger from Little Rock, Arkansas, a month ago. Thanks for helping his run for the Senate, appreciating the fact transplanted natives still took an interest in Arkansas politics. He promised his best to
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try and eliminate pork-barrel politics and to legislate the Hot Springs federal moreau community out of existence.
'Play.'
Prentice Charvat, Jackson, Mississippi, same week as Maelger. Running for the Senate. Nohar knew him. The vids portrayed him as the most abrasive and vocal anti-morey congressman in the House. He let it be known he wouldn't stop at sterilization. He wanted to deport the moreys—by force if necessary.
Nohar played every single message. With a few exceptions for junk calls and wrong numbers, the entire message queue consisted of thankful politicians. The queue went back for nearly two years. Even with the repeats, Nohar must have counted over ninety different congressmen—only two or three Senators—that owed Kathy Tsoravitch thanks for her contributions.
Between taxes and donations, it was a good thing Kathy didn't exist. Her salary barely covered her expenses.
Nohar walked back to the cab, dazed. He let himself in the back and sat in silence for a few minutes. The cabby didn't seem to mind, though after a while she asked, ' 'We gonna sit here, or you got somewhere else in mind?'
'Get on the Midtown Corridor, go to the end of Mayfield. There's a parking garage behind the Triangle office building.'
She nodded and started gabbing again as the Tory left Shaker. Nohar was ignoring her. Zips or not, cops or not, he had to empty his apartment. There were things he needed to wipe off his comm, there was the remaining ammo for his gun, and, of course, there was his cat. He was going to have to take Cat over to Manny's, since he didn't know when, or if, he'd get back to his apartment again.
Fortunately, there was more than one way in.
They rounded the Triangle and Nohar saw his Jer-FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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boa. His car was now a burned-out effigy at the base of the pylons under the old railroad bridge. He thought
