unmistakable odors of disinfectant and animal droppings.
Panel lights charted the descent into the building's midsection. When the doors opened, he found himself gazing into the spectacled eyes of a smaller man, lab-coated, drooping tabby asleep in the cradle of his arms.
"Should I stick around, Mr. Isidore?" Andersson held the elevator door from reclosing.
"No . . . I don't think that'll be nuh-necessary." Scratching behind the tabby's ears, the gnomish figure tilted his head, brow wrinkling. "I'm sure our guh-guh-guest will behave himself."
"I have a choice?"
"Well . . ." Isidore mulled, frowned. "Probably nuh-not."
"Don't," whispered Andersson into Deckard's ear, "do anything stupid." He stepped back into the elevator, hit the buttons, and disappeared behind the stainless-steel doors.
"Not to worry." The tabby stirred and yawned. "They're puh-paid to act like thuh-that. It's all an act. You should nuh-know."
Deckard followed the man. "Sometimes it's not an act."
"Oh, yes . . ." Isidore glanced over his shoulder. "You know that tuh-tuh-too. That's when people -- and other things -- thuh-that's when they get hurt." He held the tabby closer against his chest, as though protecting it.
The concrete-floored space narrowed to a corridor lined with cages, stacked three or four deep, and larger kennels. The air beneath the bare fluorescents was laced with mingled animal scents. As Isidore passed by, the small creatures -- cats, rabbits, toy breeds of dogs, a few guinea pigs -- pressed against the wire doors, mewing or yapping for the man's attention.
Deckard turned his head, getting a closer look. Some of the animals in the cages weren't animals. Not real ones.
A partially disassembled simulacrum suckled a row of squirming kittens; its white fur had been peeled back to reveal the polyethylene tubes and webbing beneath aluminum ribs; the optic sensors in its skull gazed out with maternal placidity. A wasp-waisted greyhound danced quivering excitement, front paws flurrying at the kennel gate; all four legs were abstract steel and miniature hydraulic cylinders.
A headless rabbit bumped against a water dish. Its mate -- flesh and blood as far as Deckard could tell -- nuzzled against its flank.
"Wuh-what's wrong?" Isidore had caught a hiss of inhaled breath behind him.
"These things give me the creeps."
" Really? " Isidore stopped in his tracks. He looked amazed; even the tabby in his arms blinked open its eyes. " Why?"
"They're not real." He had seen plenty of fake animals before, out in the dealers' souk, and they'd never bothered him. But those had had their skins and pelts intact. These, with their electromechanical innards exposed, flaunted a raw nakedness.
"Guh-gosh." It seemed to come as news to Isidore. He looked down at the tabby for a moment. "I guess I duh-don't see it thuh-that wuh-wuh-way. They all seem real to me. I mean . . . you can tuh-touch them." Leaning toward Deckard, lifting the tabby closer to him. "Here."
He scratched the cat's head, getting an audible purr in response. It might have been real. Or well made, well programmed.
"You suh-see? It must be real." Isidore managed to open one of the empty cages and off-loaded the tabby into it. "There you go, tuh-Tiger." The cat complained for a moment, then curled nose to tail and closed its eyes. "Come on. My office's juh-just over here. I'll close the door . . . so you won't huh-have to see anything you don't want to." The gaze behind the glasses narrowed, then he turned and started walking again.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh . . . nothing . . ." Turning a key in a lock, Isidore directed a thin smile at him.
"Juh-just that I wouldn't have thought you'd be so . . . suh-sensitive." He stepped through the doorway. "Given your domestic arrangements and all."
"Got a point." Deckard walked into a low-ceilinged, windowless cubicle, walls covered with freebie calendars and thumb-tacked photos of pets and their owners; satisfied clients, he
Panel lights charted the descent into the building's midsection. When the doors opened, he found himself gazing into the spectacled eyes of a smaller man, lab-coated, drooping tabby asleep in the cradle of his arms.
"Should I stick around, Mr. Isidore?" Andersson held the elevator door from reclosing.
"No . . . I don't think that'll be nuh-necessary." Scratching behind the tabby's ears, the gnomish figure tilted his head, brow wrinkling. "I'm sure our guh-guh-guest will behave himself."
"I have a choice?"
"Well . . ." Isidore mulled, frowned. "Probably nuh-not."
"Don't," whispered Andersson into Deckard's ear, "do anything stupid." He stepped back into the elevator, hit the buttons, and disappeared behind the stainless-steel doors.
"Not to worry." The tabby stirred and yawned. "They're puh-paid to act like thuh-that. It's all an act. You should nuh-know."
Deckard followed the man. "Sometimes it's not an act."
"Oh, yes . . ." Isidore glanced over his shoulder. "You know that tuh-tuh-too. That's when people -- and other things -- thuh-that's when they get hurt." He held the tabby closer against his chest, as though protecting it.
The concrete-floored space narrowed to a corridor lined with cages, stacked three or four deep, and larger kennels. The air beneath the bare fluorescents was laced with mingled animal scents. As Isidore passed by, the small creatures -- cats, rabbits, toy breeds of dogs, a few guinea pigs -- pressed against the wire doors, mewing or yapping for the man's attention.
Deckard turned his head, getting a closer look. Some of the animals in the cages weren't animals. Not real ones.
A partially disassembled simulacrum suckled a row of squirming kittens; its white fur had been peeled back to reveal the polyethylene tubes and webbing beneath aluminum ribs; the optic sensors in its skull gazed out with maternal placidity. A wasp-waisted greyhound danced quivering excitement, front paws flurrying at the kennel gate; all four legs were abstract steel and miniature hydraulic cylinders.
A headless rabbit bumped against a water dish. Its mate -- flesh and blood as far as Deckard could tell -- nuzzled against its flank.
"Wuh-what's wrong?" Isidore had caught a hiss of inhaled breath behind him.
"These things give me the creeps."
" Really? " Isidore stopped in his tracks. He looked amazed; even the tabby in his arms blinked open its eyes. " Why?"
"They're not real." He had seen plenty of fake animals before, out in the dealers' souk, and they'd never bothered him. But those had had their skins and pelts intact. These, with their electromechanical innards exposed, flaunted a raw nakedness.
"Guh-gosh." It seemed to come as news to Isidore. He looked down at the tabby for a moment. "I guess I duh-don't see it thuh-that wuh-wuh-way. They all seem real to me. I mean . . . you can tuh-touch them." Leaning toward Deckard, lifting the tabby closer to him. "Here."
He scratched the cat's head, getting an audible purr in response. It might have been real. Or well made, well programmed.
"You suh-see? It must be real." Isidore managed to open one of the empty cages and off-loaded the tabby into it. "There you go, tuh-Tiger." The cat complained for a moment, then curled nose to tail and closed its eyes. "Come on. My office's juh-just over here. I'll close the door . . . so you won't huh-have to see anything you don't want to." The gaze behind the glasses narrowed, then he turned and started walking again.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh . . . nothing . . ." Turning a key in a lock, Isidore directed a thin smile at him.
"Juh-just that I wouldn't have thought you'd be so . . . suh-sensitive." He stepped through the doorway. "Given your domestic arrangements and all."
"Got a point." Deckard walked into a low-ceilinged, windowless cubicle, walls covered with freebie calendars and thumb-tacked photos of pets and their owners; satisfied clients, he
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