The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year - Volume Eight by Jonathan Strahan [Editor] Page A
Authors: Jonathan Strahan [Editor]
Tags: Fiction
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they might recognise the equipment and start asking questions of their own. She plugged in one of the cable winders and put it through a test sequence, watching the nimble motorised arms blur as they rehearsed on thin air.
One machine would unpick, while the other two wove – and for every kilometre of cable that came into the factory, two kilometres would emerge. With half as many strands as the original, the new version would need to be bulked out from within to retain the same diameter. The pellets of ceramic wound in among the steel and aluminium wouldn't form a contiguous electrical path, but these superconducting inclusions would still lower the overall resistance of the cable, sharing the current for a large enough portion of its length to compensate for the missing metal.
So long as the cable was fit for use, the Iranian contractors who bought it would have no reason to complain. They'd pocket the difference in price, and the power grid would be none the worse for it. Everyone would get paid, everyone would be happy.
Latifa checked her watch; she'd missed another two classes. All she could do now was write the whole day off and claim to have been sick. She needed to chase down the heat-resistant moulds that would give the ceramic pellets their shape, and try again to get a promise from the chemical suppliers that they could deliver the quantities she was going to need to keep the kilns going day after day, week after week.
"D o you have this in size sixteen?" the woman asked, emerging from the changing room. Latifa looked up from her homework. The woman was still wearing the oversized sunglasses that she hadn't deigned to remove as she entered the shop, as if she were a famous singer afraid of being mobbed by fans.
"I'm sorry, we don't."
"Can you check your storeroom? I love the colours, but this one is a bit too tight."
Latifa hesitated; she was certain that they didn't stock the blouse in that size, but it would be impolite to refuse. "Of course. One moment."
She spent half a minute rummaging through the shelves, to ensure that her search didn't seem too perfunctory. It was almost six o'clock; she should close the shop and relieve her grandfather at the factory.
When she returned to the counter, the customer had left. The woman had taken the blouse, along with two pairs of trousers from the rack near the door. Latifa felt a curious warmth rising in her face; most of all she was annoyed that she'd been so gullible, but the resentment she felt at the brazen theft collided unpleasantly with other thoughts.
There was nothing to be done but to put the incident out of her mind. She looked over her unfinished essay on the Iran-Iraq war; it was due in the morning, but she'd have to complete it in the factory.
"Are these goods from your shop?"
A policeman was standing in the doorway. The thief was beside him, and he was holding up the stolen clothes.
Latifa could hardly deny it; the trousers were identical to the others hanging right beside him.
"They are, sir," she replied. He must have seen the woman emerging, hastily stuffing everything into her bag. Why couldn't she have done that out of sight?
"This lady says she must have dropped the receipt. Should I look for it, or will I be wasting my time?"
Latifa struggled to choose the right answer. "It's my fault, sir. She must have thought I'd given her the receipt along with the change – but she was in a hurry, she didn't even want one of our bags..."
"So you still have the receipt?"
Latifa pointed helplessly at the waste-paper basket beside the counter, full to the brim with discarded drafts of her essay. "I couldn't leave the shop and chase after her, so I threw it in there. Please forgive me, sir, I'm just starting out in this job. If the boss learns what I've done, he'll fire me straight away." It was lucky that the thief was still wearing her ridiculous glasses; Latifa wasn't sure how she would have coped if they'd had to make eye contact.
The
One machine would unpick, while the other two wove – and for every kilometre of cable that came into the factory, two kilometres would emerge. With half as many strands as the original, the new version would need to be bulked out from within to retain the same diameter. The pellets of ceramic wound in among the steel and aluminium wouldn't form a contiguous electrical path, but these superconducting inclusions would still lower the overall resistance of the cable, sharing the current for a large enough portion of its length to compensate for the missing metal.
So long as the cable was fit for use, the Iranian contractors who bought it would have no reason to complain. They'd pocket the difference in price, and the power grid would be none the worse for it. Everyone would get paid, everyone would be happy.
Latifa checked her watch; she'd missed another two classes. All she could do now was write the whole day off and claim to have been sick. She needed to chase down the heat-resistant moulds that would give the ceramic pellets their shape, and try again to get a promise from the chemical suppliers that they could deliver the quantities she was going to need to keep the kilns going day after day, week after week.
"D o you have this in size sixteen?" the woman asked, emerging from the changing room. Latifa looked up from her homework. The woman was still wearing the oversized sunglasses that she hadn't deigned to remove as she entered the shop, as if she were a famous singer afraid of being mobbed by fans.
"I'm sorry, we don't."
"Can you check your storeroom? I love the colours, but this one is a bit too tight."
Latifa hesitated; she was certain that they didn't stock the blouse in that size, but it would be impolite to refuse. "Of course. One moment."
She spent half a minute rummaging through the shelves, to ensure that her search didn't seem too perfunctory. It was almost six o'clock; she should close the shop and relieve her grandfather at the factory.
When she returned to the counter, the customer had left. The woman had taken the blouse, along with two pairs of trousers from the rack near the door. Latifa felt a curious warmth rising in her face; most of all she was annoyed that she'd been so gullible, but the resentment she felt at the brazen theft collided unpleasantly with other thoughts.
There was nothing to be done but to put the incident out of her mind. She looked over her unfinished essay on the Iran-Iraq war; it was due in the morning, but she'd have to complete it in the factory.
"Are these goods from your shop?"
A policeman was standing in the doorway. The thief was beside him, and he was holding up the stolen clothes.
Latifa could hardly deny it; the trousers were identical to the others hanging right beside him.
"They are, sir," she replied. He must have seen the woman emerging, hastily stuffing everything into her bag. Why couldn't she have done that out of sight?
"This lady says she must have dropped the receipt. Should I look for it, or will I be wasting my time?"
Latifa struggled to choose the right answer. "It's my fault, sir. She must have thought I'd given her the receipt along with the change – but she was in a hurry, she didn't even want one of our bags..."
"So you still have the receipt?"
Latifa pointed helplessly at the waste-paper basket beside the counter, full to the brim with discarded drafts of her essay. "I couldn't leave the shop and chase after her, so I threw it in there. Please forgive me, sir, I'm just starting out in this job. If the boss learns what I've done, he'll fire me straight away." It was lucky that the thief was still wearing her ridiculous glasses; Latifa wasn't sure how she would have coped if they'd had to make eye contact.
The
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