rooms than hairs on a heper. I wondered the same thing myself. But I just do what I’m told. And so should you.
Besides, there’s a perk that comes with being housed here.”
I wait for him to continue. But he shakes his head. “When we get there. Not right now. You’l like it, I promise. And you wil want me to demonstrate how to use it, of course, won’t you?”
Each brick of the path thrums with a vibrant red, like translu-cent containers of fresh blood. “This path was put down two days ago,”
he says, “to make this walk a little more pleasant for you.” He pauses for effect and then says, “You’l never guess who did the job.”
“I have no idea.”
He turns to look at me for the fi rst time. “Hepers.”
I resist the impulse to widen my eyes. “No way,” I say, snapping my head to the side a little. Click.
“Absolutely,” he says. “We set them to work. In the daytime, of course. Our guys worked the night shift; but once it became clear we couldn’t get it ready in time, we got the hepers to help out.
They THE HUNT 47
worked in the daytime for two days straight. We rewarded them with some extra food. Those things wil do anything for food.”
“Who supervised them? Who could have . . . you let them just roam freely?”
My escort just shakes his head with a “you’ve got a lot to learn, kid” look.
He pushes open the front doors and walks in. The interior is surprisingly spacious and airy. But the conversion from library to guest room is incomplete. It’s realy stil a library, the only modifi cation being a set of sleep- holds newly attached to the ceiling.
Otherwise, the whole library looks virtualy untouched: shelves stil ful of books, old, yelowed newspapers hung in cherrywood holders, and reading desks positioned evenly about the fl oor. A musty smel hangs over everything.
“The sleep- holds,” he says, gazing upward. “Just instaled yesterday.”
“Hepers?”
He shakes his head. “That one we did. Hepers would never come inside. Too afraid of a trap. They’re dumb, but not stupid, know what I mean?”
He shows me around at breakneck speed, pointing out the reference section, the mercuric light switches, and the closet fi led with clothes for me and explaining how the shutters work automaticaly by light sensors. “They’re super quiet, the shutters,”
he tels me.
“They won’t wake you.” He speaks hurriedly. It’s obvious he has something else on his mind. “You want to try out the sleep- holds?
We should try them, make sure they fi t.”
“I’m sure they’re fi ne, I’m not fussy that way.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, folow me, you’re going to like this.”
He leads me down a narrow aisle, his footsteps quick and eager, then turns sharply to the back of the library. Lying on a bureau 48
ANDREW FUKUDA
next to a smal, square window is a pair of binoculars. He picks it up and peers out the window, his mouth open, drool sloshing audibly in his mouth. “I’m demonstrating how to use these binoculars because you asked me to. I’m only responding to your request,” he says roboticaly, his index fi nger turning the zoom dial.
“It’s only because you asked me to.”
“Hey,” I say, “give me a look.”
He doesn’t respond, only continues to peer intently through the binoculars. His eyebrows are arched like the wings of an ea gle.
“You can adjust the zoom by turning this dial,” he mumbles.
“Up and down, up and down, up and . . .” His voice drifts.
“Hey!” I say, louder.
“And on this side is the focus dial,” he mumbles, his slim fi ngers sliding over the control. “Let me explain to you how this works.
Since you asked. It’s complicated, let me explain carefuly. This might take a while.”
Finaly, I snatch the binoculars out of his hands.
His hand snaps around my forearm. I don’t see it happen, he moved too fast. His nails pierce my skin, and for one horrible, moved too fast. His nails pierce my skin, and for one
Besides, there’s a perk that comes with being housed here.”
I wait for him to continue. But he shakes his head. “When we get there. Not right now. You’l like it, I promise. And you wil want me to demonstrate how to use it, of course, won’t you?”
Each brick of the path thrums with a vibrant red, like translu-cent containers of fresh blood. “This path was put down two days ago,”
he says, “to make this walk a little more pleasant for you.” He pauses for effect and then says, “You’l never guess who did the job.”
“I have no idea.”
He turns to look at me for the fi rst time. “Hepers.”
I resist the impulse to widen my eyes. “No way,” I say, snapping my head to the side a little. Click.
“Absolutely,” he says. “We set them to work. In the daytime, of course. Our guys worked the night shift; but once it became clear we couldn’t get it ready in time, we got the hepers to help out.
They THE HUNT 47
worked in the daytime for two days straight. We rewarded them with some extra food. Those things wil do anything for food.”
“Who supervised them? Who could have . . . you let them just roam freely?”
My escort just shakes his head with a “you’ve got a lot to learn, kid” look.
He pushes open the front doors and walks in. The interior is surprisingly spacious and airy. But the conversion from library to guest room is incomplete. It’s realy stil a library, the only modifi cation being a set of sleep- holds newly attached to the ceiling.
Otherwise, the whole library looks virtualy untouched: shelves stil ful of books, old, yelowed newspapers hung in cherrywood holders, and reading desks positioned evenly about the fl oor. A musty smel hangs over everything.
“The sleep- holds,” he says, gazing upward. “Just instaled yesterday.”
“Hepers?”
He shakes his head. “That one we did. Hepers would never come inside. Too afraid of a trap. They’re dumb, but not stupid, know what I mean?”
He shows me around at breakneck speed, pointing out the reference section, the mercuric light switches, and the closet fi led with clothes for me and explaining how the shutters work automaticaly by light sensors. “They’re super quiet, the shutters,”
he tels me.
“They won’t wake you.” He speaks hurriedly. It’s obvious he has something else on his mind. “You want to try out the sleep- holds?
We should try them, make sure they fi t.”
“I’m sure they’re fi ne, I’m not fussy that way.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, folow me, you’re going to like this.”
He leads me down a narrow aisle, his footsteps quick and eager, then turns sharply to the back of the library. Lying on a bureau 48
ANDREW FUKUDA
next to a smal, square window is a pair of binoculars. He picks it up and peers out the window, his mouth open, drool sloshing audibly in his mouth. “I’m demonstrating how to use these binoculars because you asked me to. I’m only responding to your request,” he says roboticaly, his index fi nger turning the zoom dial.
“It’s only because you asked me to.”
“Hey,” I say, “give me a look.”
He doesn’t respond, only continues to peer intently through the binoculars. His eyebrows are arched like the wings of an ea gle.
“You can adjust the zoom by turning this dial,” he mumbles.
“Up and down, up and down, up and . . .” His voice drifts.
“Hey!” I say, louder.
“And on this side is the focus dial,” he mumbles, his slim fi ngers sliding over the control. “Let me explain to you how this works.
Since you asked. It’s complicated, let me explain carefuly. This might take a while.”
Finaly, I snatch the binoculars out of his hands.
His hand snaps around my forearm. I don’t see it happen, he moved too fast. His nails pierce my skin, and for one horrible, moved too fast. His nails pierce my skin, and for one
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