Queen of Angels by Greg Bear Page B

chimes century old corroded brass antiques bumbled and belied against each other. Richard imagined them shaking off dust; they were seldom disturbed. He collapsed the chair and strode hunched to the door to peer through the verdigris stained peephole. Female, black hair, long gray and orange shift, clutching a woven reed handbag. Nadine Preston. Hi to you, she said, bending to eyeball the peephole. I thought you might be feeling down. Richard opened the door. Come in, he said voice mortician deep and resigned. He coughed and shook his head to clear the somber tone. Please come in. He had always come to her, not the other way around, to control his exposure to her bad times. He wondered whether he should feel touched by her concern. Are you down? she asked brightly. A little, he confessed. Then you need company. Actually, I do, I guess, he said. Such enthusiasm. Have you eaten? He shook his head. She opened her handbag and brought out a suckwrapped package of forever meat. I can do wonders with this, she said. Have any potatoes? Dried, he said. Well have shepherds pie. Thank you for coming over, he said. Im not always good for you, Nadine said demurely looking down at the carpet. But I know when you need somebody and you shouldnt sleep alone tonight. The shepherds pie tasted decently of salt and garlic and potatoes which reminded him of Nadine, a salt and garlic woman. As they ate she talked about the shade vid industry as she had known it and as she still came in touch with it. His mind was nudged away from the problem of the day until a gap formed between him and recent memory and he listened to her, so tired that he saw the pale ghosts of hallucinations. Blue raincoated figure in the corner of his eye. They did this scene with music, Nadine said, talking about some vid production ten years past. The director needed to show that now the musician a cellist was really playing much better than before, and the scorer said but we have soundtrack thats already the best we can get. He plays the cello and its the best cellist in the world playing behind him but there was no contrast. The director says then Get a fruity cellist.. Just that. Fruity. When the best isnt good enough you go a step beyond, into the frankly bad. Isnt that marvelous? She smiled broadly, hand frozen in a demonstrative wave and he chuckled politely nodding yes thats the way of it. Richard could not help being polite and kind to her when she was in this mood, and it was a good story. He ate and contemplated contrast. His mind went back to Goldsmith like a chained dog circling an iron spike. What to do when youre the best and you need contrast or else all is gray. + Relief through grand melodrama. Was that it. The blue figure was smiling; he knew that without seeing it clearly. His daughter. He could not avoid trying to look at the figure directly. It vanished every time.
    (The Examiner, having finished his work on the guilty of ten worlds, suddenly finds on his desk the folders of curriculum vitae for a number of terrestrial greats. He sighs and looks them over one by one. This great human being, by inventing such and such, has destroyed a hundred million; this other, by philosophizing, has misled billions. They are in his charge now, and he is growing increasingly weary.) EXAMINER: Please, my Father, enough! I have judged the guilty. Why must I judge the best and brightest? (No answer.) (The Examiner drops the folders on the desk, perhaps resigned.) EXAMINER: (Murmurs) The least you could do is give me a computer.
    1100-11000-111111111111
    12
    At six hundred, Mary Choys home manager woke her up with a persistent chiming. She ascended from a dream of swimming in the surf off Newport Beach with her mother and sister. Jesus. What is it? Supervising Inspector D Reeve. What time? Morning? Six hundred, Mary. Put him on. No vid. She sat up in bed, lifted her arms over her head and stretched to force blood into her brain. Shook herself vigorously. Threw one leg over