He was plump, even for a non-co, pink-skinned, and wrapped in a curious multicoloured patchwork coat that made him look like some tubby wizard. He glanced at the book; his eyes narrowed and his grip suddenly tightened. He pulled the book back.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘Not for sale.’
Suze gave him her best innocent-tourist look.
‘Oh? That’s a shame. Why not?’
‘I’ve been asked to save anything by this bloke Wheeler for the professor. ’
‘Sure,’ said Suze. ‘Professor Malley, isn’t it?’ She seemed to forget the matter, leaning forward and pouncing on a copy of the rare Home Workshop Nanotech (Loompanics, 2052). ‘Hey, look at this!’ She passed it to me and looked again at the stall-holder, eyebrows raised.
‘Yeah, Malley,’ he said. ‘He comes by now and again. Ain’t seen him for a few weeks, though.’
‘He’s still running a school down Ealing way, ain’t he?’
‘That’s right,’ said the stall-holder. His accent blended in with the local speech, but his diction was clearer, at least to me. Suze glanced at the price pencilled on the book’s inside cover, and passed the man a gold coin, without her customary haggling. He seemed to take this as a payment for a little more than the book (I was beginning to grasp how these people’s minds worked, I thought smugly) and went on:
‘Funny you should be asking after him.’ He scratched the stubble on his upper chin. ‘Couple of your lot—’ he coughed ‘—uh, Union members were through the other day, looking for him.’
I felt a jolt of surprise.
‘Yes, he’s quite famous really,’ Suze responded lightly. ‘I’m sure lots of people want to talk to him. I wonder if they’re anyone I know?’
He shrugged. ‘Hard to say, you people all—what I mean is, they were two blokes, right, about your age—real age—and about her height.’ He indicated me. ‘Tall, dark, but not—uh, more sort of Indian-looking than you ladies, if you know what I mean.’
‘Did you notice,’ I asked carefully, ‘anything unusual in the way they moved?’
His face brightened. ‘Yeah! That’s it! Something about them bothered me. Couldn’t put me finger on it. But one of them had a funny way of hanging on to the edge of the table, like what you’re doing now—’ I let go and straightened up, self-consciously ‘—and they both had a way of dropping things. Books they’d picked up.’ He took a pencil from behind his ear and demonstrated, mimicking someone absently putting the pencil down a foot above the table, then turning back and looking for it where it wasn’t. We all laughed.
‘I think I know who they are,’ I smiled. ‘When exactly did you say they were here?’
‘Must’ve been Sunday,’ the man said. ‘Weekend market. Today’s midweek. ’
Today was—I had to think for a moment—Wednesday. I nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Be seeing you,’ the stall-holder said.
‘Cheers, Tommy,’ Suze said, and we left, Suze intent on the old book she’d bought, pointing out to me its appallingly accurate instructions for building nanotech replicators using only a primitive computer, a scanning tunnelling electron microscope made out of television parts, and a few chemicals likely to be found under the kitchen sink in which the results could be ‘safely isolated’ according to the book’s demonically irresponsible author, one Dr Frank N. Stein (probably a pseudonym, Suze told me solemnly).
‘“Sold for informational purposes only”,’ she said, incredulously quoting the publisher’s disclaimer. ‘You know, the stuff in this book is still dangerous! You could start your very own outbreak with it!’
‘Just as well you’ve got it out of the non-cos’ hot little hands,’ I said.
She glanced at me. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘That’s a point. Never thought of that.’
We had reached the end of one of the aisles of stalls. I walked on, until we’d reached the edge of the clearing. Suze followed
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘Not for sale.’
Suze gave him her best innocent-tourist look.
‘Oh? That’s a shame. Why not?’
‘I’ve been asked to save anything by this bloke Wheeler for the professor. ’
‘Sure,’ said Suze. ‘Professor Malley, isn’t it?’ She seemed to forget the matter, leaning forward and pouncing on a copy of the rare Home Workshop Nanotech (Loompanics, 2052). ‘Hey, look at this!’ She passed it to me and looked again at the stall-holder, eyebrows raised.
‘Yeah, Malley,’ he said. ‘He comes by now and again. Ain’t seen him for a few weeks, though.’
‘He’s still running a school down Ealing way, ain’t he?’
‘That’s right,’ said the stall-holder. His accent blended in with the local speech, but his diction was clearer, at least to me. Suze glanced at the price pencilled on the book’s inside cover, and passed the man a gold coin, without her customary haggling. He seemed to take this as a payment for a little more than the book (I was beginning to grasp how these people’s minds worked, I thought smugly) and went on:
‘Funny you should be asking after him.’ He scratched the stubble on his upper chin. ‘Couple of your lot—’ he coughed ‘—uh, Union members were through the other day, looking for him.’
I felt a jolt of surprise.
‘Yes, he’s quite famous really,’ Suze responded lightly. ‘I’m sure lots of people want to talk to him. I wonder if they’re anyone I know?’
He shrugged. ‘Hard to say, you people all—what I mean is, they were two blokes, right, about your age—real age—and about her height.’ He indicated me. ‘Tall, dark, but not—uh, more sort of Indian-looking than you ladies, if you know what I mean.’
‘Did you notice,’ I asked carefully, ‘anything unusual in the way they moved?’
His face brightened. ‘Yeah! That’s it! Something about them bothered me. Couldn’t put me finger on it. But one of them had a funny way of hanging on to the edge of the table, like what you’re doing now—’ I let go and straightened up, self-consciously ‘—and they both had a way of dropping things. Books they’d picked up.’ He took a pencil from behind his ear and demonstrated, mimicking someone absently putting the pencil down a foot above the table, then turning back and looking for it where it wasn’t. We all laughed.
‘I think I know who they are,’ I smiled. ‘When exactly did you say they were here?’
‘Must’ve been Sunday,’ the man said. ‘Weekend market. Today’s midweek. ’
Today was—I had to think for a moment—Wednesday. I nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Be seeing you,’ the stall-holder said.
‘Cheers, Tommy,’ Suze said, and we left, Suze intent on the old book she’d bought, pointing out to me its appallingly accurate instructions for building nanotech replicators using only a primitive computer, a scanning tunnelling electron microscope made out of television parts, and a few chemicals likely to be found under the kitchen sink in which the results could be ‘safely isolated’ according to the book’s demonically irresponsible author, one Dr Frank N. Stein (probably a pseudonym, Suze told me solemnly).
‘“Sold for informational purposes only”,’ she said, incredulously quoting the publisher’s disclaimer. ‘You know, the stuff in this book is still dangerous! You could start your very own outbreak with it!’
‘Just as well you’ve got it out of the non-cos’ hot little hands,’ I said.
She glanced at me. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘That’s a point. Never thought of that.’
We had reached the end of one of the aisles of stalls. I walked on, until we’d reached the edge of the clearing. Suze followed
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