can shift the stuff around from account to account to create, er . . . virtual money? Temporarily?'
'Virtual money?' Her lips curled in loathing.
'To save the fleet. Just like in combat. Mercenary accounting. . . .'he clasped his hands together, between his knees, and smiled up at her hopefully. 'Of course, if it's beyond your abilities …'
Her nostrils flared. 'Of course it's not. But the kind of thing you're talking about relies mostly on time lags. Earth's financial network is totally integrated; there are no time lags unless you want to start working it interstellar. I'll tell you what would work, though …' her voice trailed off. 'Well, maybe not. …'
'What?'
'Go to a major bank and get a short-term loan against, say, some major capital equipment.' Her eyes, glancing around by implication through the walls to the
And what would Commodore Tung say when he found out that Miles had mortgaged his command ship? But Tung wasn't here. Tung was on leave. It could be all over by the time Tung got back.
'We'd have to ask for two or three times the amount we really needed, to be sure of getting enough,' Lieutenant Bone went on. 'You would have to sign for it, as senior corporation officer.'
Admiral Naismith would have to sign for it, Miles reflected. A man whose legal existence was strictly— virtual, not that an Earth bank could be expected to find that out. The Dendarii fleet propped his identity most convincingly. This could be almost the safest thing he'd ever done. 'Go ahead and set it up, Lieutenant Bone. Um . . . use the
She nodded, her shoulders straightening, as she regained some of her accustomed serenity. 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Miles sighed, and shoved to his feet. Sitting down had been a mistake; his tired muscles were seizing up. Her nostrils wrinkled as he passed upwind of her. Perhaps he'd better take a few minutes to clean up. It would be hard enough to explain his disappearance, when he returned to the embassy, without explaining his remarkable appearance as well.
'Virtual money,' he heard Lieutenant Bone mutter disapprovingly to her comconsole as he exited, 'Good God.'
Chapter Four
By the time Miles had showered, groomed, and donned a fresh uniform and glossy spare boots, his pills had cut in and he was feeling no pain at all. When he caught himself whistling as he splashed on after-shave and adjusted a rather flashy and only demi-regulation black silk scarf around his neck, tucked into his grey-and-white jacket, he decided he'd better cut the dosage in half next round. He was feeling much too good.
Too bad the Dendarii uniform did not include a beret one could tilt at a suitably rakish angle, though. He might order one added. Tung would probably approve; Tung had theories about how spiffy uniforms helped recruiting and morale. Miles was not entirely sure this wouldn't just result in acquiring a lot of recruits who wanted to play dress-up. Private Danio might like a beret . . . Miles abandoned the notion. Elli Quinn was waiting patiently for him in the
'I suspect it's already a lost cause,' Miles said, strapping himself in beside her. In light of the warnings on the pain pill packet about operating equipment, he let her take the pilot's seat again. The little shuttle broke smoothly away from the side of the flagship and began to drop through its orbital clearance pattern.
Miles meditated morosely on his probable reception when he showed up back at the embassy. Confined- to-quarters was the least he might expect, though he plead mitigating circumstances for all he was worth. He did not feel at all like hustling back to that doom. Here he was on Earth on a warm summer night, with a glamorous, brilliant woman friend. It was only—he glanced at his chronometer—2300. Night life should just be getting rolling. London, with its huge population, was an around-the-clock town. His heart rose inexplicably.
Yet what might they do? Drinking was out; God knew what would happen if he dropped alcohol on top of his current pharmaceutical load, with his peculiar physiology, except that it could be guaranteed not to improve his coordination. A show? It would immobilize them for a rather long time in one spot, security-wise. Better to do something that kept them moving.
To hell with the Cetagandans. He was damned if he would become hostage to the mere fear of them. Let Admiral Naismith have one last fling, before being hung back in the closet. The lights of the shuttleport flashed beneath them, reached up to pull them in. As they rolled into their rented hardstand (140 GSA federals per diem) with its waiting Dendarii guard, Miles blurted, 'Hey, Elli. Let's go—let's go window shopping.'
And so it was they found themselves strolling in a fashionable arcade at midnight. Not just Earth's but the galaxy's wares were spread out for the visitor with funds. The passers-by were a parade worth watching in their own right, for the student of fad and fashion. Feathers were in this year, and synthetic silk, leather, and fur, in revival of primitive natural fabrics from the past. And Earth had such a lot of past to revive. The young lady in the— the Aztec-Viking outfit, Miles guessed—leaning on the arm of the young man in faintly 24th-century boots and plumes particularly caught his eye. Perhaps a Dendarii beret wouldn't be too unprofessionally archaic after all.
Elli, Miles observed sadly, was not relaxing and enjoying this. Her attention on the passers-by was more in the nature of a hunt for concealed weapons and sudden movements. But she paused at last in real intrigue before a shop discreetly labeled, CULTURED FURS: A DIVISION OF GALACTECH BIOENGINEER-ING. Miles eased her inside.
The display area was spacious, a sure tip-off to the price range they were operating in. Red fox coats, white tiger carpets, extinct leopard jackets, gaudy Tau Cetan beaded lizard bags and boots and belts, black and white macaque monkey vests—a holovid display ran a continuous program explaining the stock's origins not in the slaughter of live animals, but in the test tubes and vats of GalacTech's R&D division. Nineteen extinct species were offered in natural colors. Coming up for the fall line, the vid assured them, were rainbow rhino leather and triple-length white fox in designer pastels. Elli buried her hands to the wrists in something that looked like an explosion of apricot Persian cat.
'Does it shed?' Miles inquired bemusedly.
'Not at all,' the salesman assured them. 'GalacTech cultured furs are guaranteed not to shed, fade, or discolor. They are also soil-resistant.'
An enormous width of silky black fur poured through Elli's arms. 'What is this? Not a coat. …'
'Ah, that's a very popular new item,' said the salesman. 'The very latest in biomechanical feedback systems. Most of the fur items you see here are ordinary tanned leathers—but this is a live fur. This model is suitable for a blanket, spread, or throw rug. Various sorts of outerwear are upcoming from R&D next year.'
'A live fur?' Her eyebrows rose enchantingly. The salesman rose on his toes in unconscious echo—Elli's face was having its usual effect on the uninitiated.
'A live fur,' the salesman nodded, 'but with none of the defects of a live animal. It neither sheds nor eats nor,' he coughed discreetly, 'requires a litter box.'
'Hold on,' said Miles. 'How can you advertise it as living, then? Where's it getting its energy from, if not the chemical breakdown of food?'
'An electromagnetic net in the cellular level passively gathers energy from the environment. Holovid carrier waves and the like. And every month or so, if it seems to be running down, you can give it a boost by placing it in your microwave for a few minutes on the lowest setting. Cultured Furs cannot be responsible, however, for the results if the owner accidentally sets it on high.'
'That still doesn't make it alive,' Miles objected.
'I assure you,' said the salesman, 'this blanket was blended from the very finest assortment of
