That’s all right—we have the one in the NanoJiffy. We don’t need another. One thousand square meters of indoor lawn—where would we put it? A thousand liters of Sara Lee Gourmet Ugoo—well, yes, let’s win that one. It’ll feed us for six months. Let’s—that’s all right.
A slew of lesser prizes followed, and then one of the hourly premium prizes—a brand-new 2.5 index General Genius houseputer, including installation. Here was a prize worth winning. Here was a prize the Kodiaks deserved to win, must win. It would go a long way in reversing their lousy streak of misfortune.
Bogdan set his empty dish on the floor and closed his eyes and prayed. Please, oh please, oh please.
Installers arrive at the door and say, Where do you want it? In here, in here. Tear this old one out. Put cam/emitters in every room, including the stairwells, including Sam’s shed. Hello, I am your new GG Expressions. Please assign me a name.
A name, a name. Lisa is already taken. There’s a whole planet named for her, don’t you know. How about—
Bogdan opened an eye and peeked at the frame. The winning charter was flashing, but it was not Kodiak. Bogdan slumped in his chair.
Just then, Troy Tobbler walked by the quiet nook. “Hey you!” Bogdan yelled and pushed himself to his feet. “Stop!” But by the time Bogdan exited the nook, Troy had melted into the crowd. Bogdan dashed after him, dodging pokey people. At the end of a corridor, he peered left and right. No Tobb in sight. He doubled back and checked the ballrooms along the way. They were holding some kind of meeting in one, boxing in another. In a third they were waltzing, trancedancing in a fourth. In a fifth he spied April standing alone against a wall. She was swaying in time to the music and clapping her hands to the beat, as though she were a temporarily sidelined dancer.
When she saw him, she got a guilty look. Stubbornly, she continued to clap to the music and said to him, “It’s amazing how many hundreds of men can go by without noticing me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bogdan said. “Everyone notices you. You’re beautiful!” And she was, warm and alive with love. The house would collapse without her. She is our heart. But suddenly the picture drops away like a cardboard cutout, and we see April as any guy might. We see her with the same eyes we use to see Annette Beijing, and the comparison is not kind. April has a long, horsey face, as though it got stretched while it was still soft, and her eyes are too small and set too far apart. Her torso, by contrast, is too compact. Her chin rests on her hips with not much in between. Her legs are long, but bandy, and her toes point in opposite directions. We shudder from the sight of her, but only for a moment before her warm, loving picture snaps back into place.
“You’re wrong, April,” Bogdan said. “You are freakin’ gorgeous.”
“Oh, Boggy.”
Just then a woman in a brick-black-apricot pantsuit, Charter Saurus, approached them. “Happy Rondy, April Kodiak,” she said and offered her hand.
“Do I know you?”
“Sally Saurus,” the woman said. She glanced at Bogdan and added, “I wonder if I could have a moment alone with your housemeet, young man. I have something of a personal nature to discuss with her.”
“Sure thing,” Bogdan said. “I was looking for someone anyway.”
A JERRY AND belinda team had thrown a holo cordon around the lifechair and the queue of well-wishers surrounding it. They rerouted foot traffic around them. The jerry said to Fred, “We wanted to clear him out of here, but this guy is covered by so many conflicting laws and treaties there’s no clear protocol. Gilles told us to leave ’im be till you got here.”
“That’s good,” Fred said. “MC, can you create a spot filter of negative pressure around the stinker with about a twenty-meter radius?”
I’ll do my best, the mentar replied.
“And get this,” the jerry went on. “He’s under modified house arrest. He’s got his own monitor bee.”
“He’s a criminal?”
He’s Samson Kodiak, Gilles said in his ear, the joker in the Skytel the other night.
Fred had missed the hack but had heard about it. “Say the name again.”
Samson Kodiak.
It was too much of a coincidence for there to be two stinkers still alive, both named Samson. Fred consulted his visor to view the man’s doss. Samson P. Harger Kodiak. How the mighty had fallen. Fred couldn’t imagine what would cause an aff, even a seared one, to join a charter. The lifechair was too distant for him to see its occupant clearly, but his odor alone was enough to bring back a flood of memories.
“Gilles, register Myr Kodiak for VIP status.”
Sir?
“You heard me.”
VIP he is.
With the situation well in hand, Fred lingered outside the cordon. He, too, wanted to greet Samson—for old times’ sake—but there were too many people ahead of him, and the line advanced too slowly. A chartist at the tail of the line said, “Good evening, Myr Russ. There’s no need for you to stand in line. Go to the head. People, let the good russ through.”
Fred demurred, but the chartists insisted, and he advanced to the front of the queue. Here, Samson’s odor assaulted him. After all these years, Fred had not forgotten the tang of Samson’s vile fragrance, only its potency. He had nose filters in a utility pocket but felt it would be discourteous to use them. Especially since none of the chartists did.
Soon it was Fred’s turn to greet Samson, but the chair said, “Myr Kodiak has fallen asleep. He’s bound to reawaken at any moment. You’re welcome to stay and wait, or if you must go, I would be glad to convey any message you wish to leave him.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Belt Hubert, a pithy remnant of Sam’s mentar, Hubert.”
Fred said, “Well, Belt Hubert, Myr Kodiak probably won’t remember me, but please tell him I dropped by to say my regards. My name is Fred Londenstane. I worked for him once long ago.”
As Fred spoke, he noticed a pretty little girl scrutinizing him from the other side of the lifechair. She wore a flower print jumpsuit with brown-yellow-white trim, the same colors as Samson’s clothes. She had long, lustrous mahogany hair that was worked into an intricate braid. When he returned her look, her hazel eyes did not flinch but continued to stare at him with the unnerving directness of a child.
Samson stirred in his chair. “Yes, officer?” he said. Samson had awakened, though his eyelids drooped. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, Myr Kodiak,” Fred said, “there’s nothing wrong. I stopped by to say hello. You may not remember me, but I once worked for you. It was many years ago.” Samson’s eyes grew heavier and heavier until they were shut again.
Fred continued. “It was in the Starke household when she was a governor. Right after you were seared.”
Samson’s sleepy eyes opened a slit, and he said, “You’re the russ who used to visit me in the basement. You brought me mouth mints and deodorant.”
“Yes, that was me.”
Samson struggled with the chair, trying to free a hand. “Let go of me!” he complained, and the blanket rolled back a little. He raised a skeletal arm and reached out to shake Fred’s hand. Renewed stench rippled in the air (and the hidden blue bee made a special note of this apparent iterant ally).
“You haven’t changed a bit, Fred. How was Mars?”
Mars? Fred had left the Harger household to do a five-year stint at Mars Station.
“And your wife, Corrine?” Samson said. “How is she?”