“Leave it here,” said a girl’s voice from behind the holo curtain.
“Come again, myr,” the bodyguard said, trying to discern the source of the voice. “You want the little one’s mess?”
An open kit bag was pushed from behind the curtain. “Yes, the mess,” the girl said. “You thought I meant the dog?”
The russ wrapped up the diaper into a neat little leakproof package and dropped it into the kit bag. He winked at Fred and said, “Such a deal,” before returning to his own client.
Fred wanted to tell him he had the wrong idea, that Fred wasn’t working for this girl, but the opportunity had passed. The kit bag was pulled back through the curtain, and again Fred was alone, confused, and tongue-tied.
Myr Londenstane? a voice said. It was Marcus.
Fred took several steps away from the curtain and said, “Yes, Marcus.”
I’m afraid I have some troubling news. Your test results rule out HALVENE poisoning.
Fred knew it had been too easy to be true.
Your health signs are nominal, the mentar continued. We’ll have to explore other avenues for the source of your recent behavior. May I schedule a psychological evaluation for you?
Fred sighed. “Yeah, go ahead.”
Mary and the chair approached, and Mary said, “Fred, what’s wrong?” Kitty stepped out through the curtain, a towel draped over her sharp shoulders, and the chair introduced her to Mary. Mary grasped the girl’s small hand, and there followed an awkward moment when no one knew what to say. Samson had fallen asleep.
Mary broke the silence. “I was watching you from over there,” she said to Kitty. “You are a marvel.”
“Thank you, I’m sure,” the girl said and curtsied. She pointedly avoided looking at Fred, and Fred pointedly avoided looking at her.
Mary said, “Well, it’s been a lovely time. We should visit the park more often.”
On the way back to the APRT, Fred said, “Did you get what you came for?”
“Time will tell.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“That goes for you too, Fred.”
Friday
3.13
Before dawn, with four hours yet to go before the attempt to spring Ellen from the clinic, Meewee sat on a mat on the floor of his shelter bedroom with the lights dimmed, practicing tantric stretch and breath exercises to try to quiet his nerves. He had been up half the night visiting the toilet to excrete all the dead machinery his cells had flushed into his bloodstream. Ordinarily, he would have waited a few days before starting the process of reestablishing his implant ecology, but with the impending rescue, he felt he could not wait. So he had swallowed a comm package at midnight, and now his brain was full of buzzes and flashes as the tiny radio sets unpacked and calibrated themselves.
A diorama of the clinic cottage ran in the corner of his room with its audio muted. All therapy on Ellen had been suspended, and the night evangelines were keeping what was by all appearances a death vigil. Then, out of the blue, Wee Hunk showed up in the cottage and told them to go home.
Meewee jumped to his feet. “Wee Hunk,” he said. “I need to speak to you.”
The mentar appeared at once. Over the last few days, Meewee had noticed Wee Hunk’s habit of frequently changing the appearance of its persona. Sometimes it was life-size, sometimes a Tom Thumb, sometimes realistic, sometimes cartoonish. This morning it appeared in super-realistic detail. Every pore on its broad nose stood out sharply.
Meewee said, “Is that you at the clinic?”
“Yes.”
“You’re discharging the ’leens?”
“That’s right.”
“But why? That wasn’t part of your plan.”
“What plan?” the Neanderthal said.
Meewee began to reply, but changed his mind and returned his attention to the diorama. The two evangelines took their dismissal with equanimity, but did not leave the cottage. They had learned the night before not to trust mentars in the cottage. “Did you dismiss all the other shifts as well, all the young evangeline women?” he said, slipping in a challenge in Starkese.
“Don’t worry, I will, at a more decent hour. There’s no point in attending to Ellen any longer. Don’t you agree?”
Meewee listened hard, but heard no response to his challenge. Arrow, he glotted, challenge Wee Hunk’s integrity.
A moment later, his mentar responded, Identification failure.
It was what Meewee expected, but still the fact of it shocked him.
“Was there anything else?” Wee Hunk said. “I have funeral arrangements to attend to.”
MARY ROSE EARLY to download the odor specimen she had captured in the park. She was in the shower when the houseputer informed her of an urgent call from Wee Hunk. She left the stall and wrapped herself in a robe. Fred seemed asleep as she hurried through the bedroom. She was closing the door when she stopped and whispered, “Are you awake?”
“Yes, I am,” he whispered back. “Good morning, darling.”
“Good morning to you too, Fred. I have a call. Shall I close the door?”
“Yes, please,” he said.
Standing in the living room, Mary composed herself and said, “Use my business persona and put the call through.”
Wee Hunk appeared as a full-sized man wearing an anorak made of blond fur. The fine detail of his projection, the crisp treatment of every strand of fur, struck Mary as unusual. His smallish, thick face was impassive, and he said, “Mary Skarland, it is my unpleasant task to terminate your services at this time, since they are no longer required. Thank you for your conscientious work. Do not report to Roosevelt Clinic today.”
The Neanderthal was swiping off when Mary said, “Wait!” She startled herself. “I mean, is she irretrievable, then?”
“Myr Starke’s condition is no longer your concern,” the mentar said and dissolved.
MARY CREPT BACK into bed. She was crying. Fred gathered her into his arms and said, “DCO?” She nodded her head. “Oh, well,” he went on consolingly, “it couldn’t last forever. You got a good run out of it, nearly a week. And there’s probably severance pay in it too.”
“Please shut up, Fred.”
“At once.”
When she seemed all cried out, Fred ventured, “Feel like talking about it?” She shook her head against his chest. “Feel like breakfast?” She nodded. “Good, so do I.” He struggled to hide his glee at her bad news. “I’m going down to the market for real blueberries for my special blueberry pancake recipe.” He got out of bed and grabbed a package of tower togs off the shelf. “Don’t get up; it’ll be breakfast in bed.”
In the foyer, Fred asked for his tower shoes, and the slipper puppy retrieved them from the far reaches of the closet. As he stood there putting them on, balancing on one leg and then the other, he caught a whiff of Samson Harger. His nose led him to Mary’s tote bag leaning against the closet door, all ready to go. Hating himself, Fred rummaged through it and found a paper napkin that was double-sealed in kitchen pouches. Two layers of hermetically sealed film were not enough to contain the old man’s indomitable essence. So that was what she had been up to. He had wondered about their trip to the park. Still, he wasn’t sure why she’d want a sample of Harger’s stench, but with the phone call, it was no longer an issue. Thank goodness.
Fred slipped the smelly package back into the tote and left the apartment feeling a lot better than he had for days. He mentally crossed off one item on his trouble list.