The door swung inward and she led him
into the smell of dust. They stood in a clearing, dense tangles of junk rising on
either side to walls lined with shelves of crumbling paperbacks. The junk looked like
something that had grown there, a fungus of twisted metal and plastic. He could pick
out individual objects, but then they seemed to blur back into the mass: the guts
of a television so old it was studded with the glass stumps of vacuum tubes, a crumpled
dish antenna, a brown fiber canister stuffed with corroded lengths of alloy tubing.
An enormous pile of old magazines had cascaded into the open area, flesh of lost summers
staring blindly up as he followed her back through a narrow canyon of impacted scrap.
He heard the door close behind them. He didn’t look back.
The tunnel ended with an ancient army blanket tacked across a doorway. White light
flooded out as Molly ducked past it.
Four square walls of blank white plastic, ceiling to match, floored with white hospital
tile molded in a nonslip pattern of small raised disks. In the center stood a square,
white-painted wooden table and four white folding chairs.
The man who stood blinking now in the doorway behind them, the blanket draping one
shoulder like a cape, seemed to have been designed in a wind tunnel. His ears were
very small, plastered flat against his narrow skull, and his large front teeth, revealed
in something that wasn’t quite a smile, were canted sharply backward. He wore an ancient
tweed jacket and held a handgun of some kind in his left hand. He peered at them,
blinked, and dropped the gun into a jacket pocket. He gestured to Case, pointed at
a slab of white plastic that leaned near the doorway. Case crossed to it and saw that
it was a solid sandwich of circuitry, nearly a centimeter thick. He helped the man
lift it and position it in the doorway. Quick, nicotine-stained fingers secured it
with a white velcro border. A hidden exhaust fan began to purr.
“Time,” the man said, straightening up, “and counting. You know the rate, Moll.”
“We need a scan, Finn. For implants.”
“So get over there between the pylons. Stand on the tape. Straightenup, yeah. Now turn around, gimme a full three-sixty.” Case watched her rotate between
two fragile-looking stands studded with sensors. The man took a small monitor from
his pocket and squinted at it. “Something new in your head, yeah. Silicon, coat of
pyrolitic carbons. A clock, right? Your glasses gimme the read they always have, low-temp
isotropic carbons. Better biocompatibility with pyrolitics, but that’s your business,
right? Same with your claws.”
“Get over here, Case.” He saw a scuffed X in black on the white floor. “Turn around.
Slow.”
“Guy’s a virgin.” The man shrugged. “Some cheap dental work, is all.”
“You read for biologicals?” Molly unzipped her green vest and took off the dark glasses.
“You think this is the Mayo? Climb on the table, kid, we’ll run a little biopsy.”
He laughed, showing more of his yellow teeth. “Nah. Finn’s word, sweetmeat, you got
no little bugs, no cortex bombs. You want me to shut the screen down?”
“Just for as long as it takes you to leave, Finn. Then we’ll want full screen for
as long as we want it.”
“Hey, that’s fine by the Finn, Moll. You’re only paying by the second.”
They sealed the door behind him and Molly turned one of the white chairs around and
sat on it, chin resting on crossed forearms. “We talk now. This is as private as I
can afford.”
“What about?”
“What we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
“Working for Armitage.”
“And you’re saying this isn’t for his benefit?”
“Yeah. I saw your profile, Case. And I’ve seen the rest of our shopping list, once.
You ever work with the dead?”
“No.” He watched his reflection in her glasses. “I could, I guess. I’m good at what
I do.” The present
into the smell of dust. They stood in a clearing, dense tangles of junk rising on
either side to walls lined with shelves of crumbling paperbacks. The junk looked like
something that had grown there, a fungus of twisted metal and plastic. He could pick
out individual objects, but then they seemed to blur back into the mass: the guts
of a television so old it was studded with the glass stumps of vacuum tubes, a crumpled
dish antenna, a brown fiber canister stuffed with corroded lengths of alloy tubing.
An enormous pile of old magazines had cascaded into the open area, flesh of lost summers
staring blindly up as he followed her back through a narrow canyon of impacted scrap.
He heard the door close behind them. He didn’t look back.
The tunnel ended with an ancient army blanket tacked across a doorway. White light
flooded out as Molly ducked past it.
Four square walls of blank white plastic, ceiling to match, floored with white hospital
tile molded in a nonslip pattern of small raised disks. In the center stood a square,
white-painted wooden table and four white folding chairs.
The man who stood blinking now in the doorway behind them, the blanket draping one
shoulder like a cape, seemed to have been designed in a wind tunnel. His ears were
very small, plastered flat against his narrow skull, and his large front teeth, revealed
in something that wasn’t quite a smile, were canted sharply backward. He wore an ancient
tweed jacket and held a handgun of some kind in his left hand. He peered at them,
blinked, and dropped the gun into a jacket pocket. He gestured to Case, pointed at
a slab of white plastic that leaned near the doorway. Case crossed to it and saw that
it was a solid sandwich of circuitry, nearly a centimeter thick. He helped the man
lift it and position it in the doorway. Quick, nicotine-stained fingers secured it
with a white velcro border. A hidden exhaust fan began to purr.
“Time,” the man said, straightening up, “and counting. You know the rate, Moll.”
“We need a scan, Finn. For implants.”
“So get over there between the pylons. Stand on the tape. Straightenup, yeah. Now turn around, gimme a full three-sixty.” Case watched her rotate between
two fragile-looking stands studded with sensors. The man took a small monitor from
his pocket and squinted at it. “Something new in your head, yeah. Silicon, coat of
pyrolitic carbons. A clock, right? Your glasses gimme the read they always have, low-temp
isotropic carbons. Better biocompatibility with pyrolitics, but that’s your business,
right? Same with your claws.”
“Get over here, Case.” He saw a scuffed X in black on the white floor. “Turn around.
Slow.”
“Guy’s a virgin.” The man shrugged. “Some cheap dental work, is all.”
“You read for biologicals?” Molly unzipped her green vest and took off the dark glasses.
“You think this is the Mayo? Climb on the table, kid, we’ll run a little biopsy.”
He laughed, showing more of his yellow teeth. “Nah. Finn’s word, sweetmeat, you got
no little bugs, no cortex bombs. You want me to shut the screen down?”
“Just for as long as it takes you to leave, Finn. Then we’ll want full screen for
as long as we want it.”
“Hey, that’s fine by the Finn, Moll. You’re only paying by the second.”
They sealed the door behind him and Molly turned one of the white chairs around and
sat on it, chin resting on crossed forearms. “We talk now. This is as private as I
can afford.”
“What about?”
“What we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
“Working for Armitage.”
“And you’re saying this isn’t for his benefit?”
“Yeah. I saw your profile, Case. And I’ve seen the rest of our shopping list, once.
You ever work with the dead?”
“No.” He watched his reflection in her glasses. “I could, I guess. I’m good at what
I do.” The present
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