approximately the same price as a high-end camcorder. Early versions were remote-controlled, but later models had the benefit of newer technology. They could be programmed to automatically track someone by his or her body-heat signature and voice pattern and follow them around, during which time they would record everything he or she did and spoke, with the data being transmitted to a nearby datanest. Bill figured that Joanne had probably parked the nest in the kitchen, or perhaps under the lunch counter.
“It’s a net show, Tom.” Chet watched Joanne perform for another pair of truckers seated at the counter. Now she was playing the coy vixen while she took their orders; she had loosened the top button of her blouse, and she was letting them get an eyeful of pink cleavage as she freshened up their coffee. The drone waited overhead, its mike and lenses catching everything. “She’s got that fly-thing following her around while she works, and when she’s done at the end of the day, she takes it home and makes it into another episode.”
“Like for a TV show, you mean.”
“The net.” Chet gave him an arch look. “Don’t get out much, do you? No one watches TV anymore ’cept old duffers like us.”
“Hey, did anyone catch
“See what I mean?” Chet waggled a finger at Garrett, cutting him off. “We’re used to shows about make- believe characters in make-believe stories, but that’s not where it’s at anymore. Now you can go out, buy one of those things, hook it up to your DVD and your home computer…” He snapped his fingers. “You’ve got your own show.”
“My wife really likes that stuff.” Garrett had surrendered; no sense in trying to talk about an old cop show in perpetual rerun on a local cable station. “Every night, she sits down in the den and just searches back and forth, looking for the newest shows people have put on.”
“On her computer?” Slowly, Tom was beginning to catch on. “You mean, like on… whatchamacallit, web sites?”
Bill nodded. “Sort of like that.” He didn’t add that the web sites were old tech; no sense in confusing him any further. “The net has all these different nodes, millions of them, and you can rent time there, put in your own program. Anything you want.”
“Anything?” Tom’s eyes widened. “Like… you mean… anything you’ve recorded with one of those…?”
“Yes. Anything.”
Yes, anything. Bill had his own desktop system, a decrepit old Mac he had been nursing along for years with mother boards and internal modems bought from online junkyards or cannibalized from CPUs purchased at flea markets. Slow as autumn sap from a maple tree, but it was enough to let him patch into the net if he didn’t mind waiting a few extra minutes.
He didn’t mind, although there wasn’t much worth looking at, really. Too much homemade porn, for one thing; every fool with a flycam seemed to think he was king stud of the universe when he got in bed with his wife or girlfriend, and wanted to share his glory with the world. Only slightly less prevalent were the boatloads of fanatics who sincerely believed that they had stumbled upon vast conspiracies involving crashed UFOs, biblical prophecies, and political assassinations; their flycam caught them standing outside military bases, government offices, or ancient Egyptian ruins, delivering rants fascinating only for the width and depth of their meaninglessness.
Those shows were easy to ignore, yet they were also the ones made by thousands of ordinary people during the course of their daily lives. They modeled their shows after the TV programs of their youth-
Joanne disappeared into the kitchen, pausing for only a moment to carefully hold open the door for the flycam. “There she goes,” Chet murmured. “Probably going to check the system, maybe put in a fresh disk, put a fresh battery in the ’cam. When she gets home, she’ll look at everything she got today, edit it down, maybe add some music and a laugh track. Then she’ll put it on the net.
He picked up his coffee cup, saw that it was empty, put it back in its saucer. “Jesus H. Christ. And all I wanted was…”
The door swung open again and a lean young man in a cook’s apron carried out a couple of plates of food. “There’s Ray Junior now,” Garrett said. “Let’s see if we can get him over here.” He raised a hand. “Hey! Ray!”
Ray acknowledged him with a nod of his head before he went to the two drivers who had complained about their breakfast. He delivered the re-orders and spent a minute apologizing for the foul-up, then scurried around the room, pouring coffee for other disgruntled patrons. Bill couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him. Ray Junior had taken over the diner a little over a year ago when his dad retired and moved to Florida; he had done well to keep the family business going, especially on this part of the interstate where nearly every other truckstop cafe was owned by one restaurant chain or another, but he couldn’t afford to lose regular customers.
“Ray, what’s going on with Joanne?” Chet asked when Ray finally got to their table. “I’ve been here nearly a hour now and she hasn’t taken our orders.”
“I’m really sorry about this.” Ray had fetched a cup for Bill and was pouring coffee for everyone. “I’ll get her over here as soon as she comes off break.”
“She’s taking a break.” Chet glanced meaningfully at the others. “At least the second one she’s had since I’ve been here.”
“I’ll get her back here.”
“You ought to fire her. She’s more concerned with that damn toy of hers than with doing her job.”
“Well…” Ray Junior absently wiped a rag across the table. “Y’know, Chet, I really can’t do that. Joanne’s been here for nearly eighteen years. She’s like family. And…”
He hesitated. “And?” Garrett prompted.
Ray shrugged. “Well, y’know, we’ve never been able to afford so much as a billboard. All we’ve ever had was word-of-mouth. Meanwhile we’ve got competition from all the chain operations down the highway. But this show she’s doing… well, she always puts the name of the place in the credits…”
“So it’s free advertising,” Bill finished. “You’re hoping it’ll draw more customers.”
Ray nodded. “The ones that get popular… y’know, get a lot of hits… and, well, y’know, if it gets picked up by one of the major net servers, AOL or someone like that, then it could make us…”
“Famous,” Chet said. “Famous across the whole country. Soon you’ll be taking down the old sign, put up another one.” He raised his hands, spread them open as if picturing a brand-new fiberoptic sign. “I can see it now. ‘World-Famous Joanne’s Place.’ Maybe you can even sell T-shirts and bumper stickers.”
“You know I’d never do that,” Ray Junior said quietly.
Chet scowled. “Naw, I’m sure the notion’s never occurred to you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Bill said quickly. “Thanks for the coffee, Ray. Sorry to keep you.”
“On the house. Same for breakfast,” he added as he moved away from the table. “I’ll get her out here to take your orders.”
“Hear that?” Tom said as Ray Junior beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. “Breakfast on the house! Not bad, huh?”
“No,” Bill said. “Not bad at all.”
THERE was an uncomfortable silence at the table. “So…” Garret said at last. “Anyone seen today’s paper?”
That was how the Old Farts usually spent their Friday meetings: discussing what they had read in the paper. Baseball season was over, so now it was time to talk football. Sometimes the subject was politics, and how those damn liberals were destroying the whole country. Or maybe it would be about what was going on in Russia, or the people who were about to go to Mars, or someone famous died last week, and pretty soon it would be close to eleven and it was time for everyone to go home and do whatever it was that country gentlemen do in their golden years. Check the mailbox, feed the dogs and cats, putter around the yard, make plans to have the kids over for Thanksgiving. Take a midafternoon nap and wait for the world to turn upside-down again, and hope that it didn’t fall
