An arbeitor rolled up to him bearing wine and a cucumber and avocado sandwich, his favorite. At least Arrow knew how to access his upref file. Meewee ate the food quickly, and the wine helped settle his nerves. After the meal he snuggled into the armchair and tried to recall all he knew about Eleanor’s daughter—which wasn’t much.
“Arrow, when and where was the last time I saw Ellen Starke?”
“On September 30, 2133, at the Louis Terkel Center Reception.”
Meewee vaguely remembered the reception, but not the girl. “What did we talk about?”
“Ellen Starke shared news of the McCoy Award nomination for her novella House Guest.”
It was coming back to him. The girl could go on for hours about people and things he’d never heard of. He remembered that she was quite pretty, at least a head taller than he was. She had bony shoulders that men must find attractive. All in all, she seemed to feel comfortable talking to him. Why wouldn’t she help him save her mother’s life work? Especially if he framed it in those terms—her mother’s life work.
Satisfied with his approach, he closed his eyes and told Arrow to place a call to the Roosevelt Clinic in Decatur.
Done, Arrow said.
Meewee opened his eyes to find himself apparently standing near a window that overlooked a lush, spacious lawn beyond a row of ornamental chinaberry trees. On the wall next to him, a coarse fabric arras depicting a sea battle was slowly reweaving itself into something more pastoral. Likewise, beneath his feet the parquet floor was reshuffling its hardwood tiles in kaleidoscopic fantasies. It was the kind of busy decor that would drive someone like him batty.
Incongruously, there was a cooking odor in the air, like fried bananas. Quite yummy smelling, actually.
“May I help you?” said a voice behind him. Meewee turned to see a man with a careworn face in a long white medical jacket. He approached Meewee and raised his hand in a holo salute, which Meewee returned. “Good afternoon, Myr Meewee, and welcome to Roosevelt Clinic, a wholly owned facility of the Fagan Health Group. I am Concierge, the group’s mentar. What can I do for you?”
“Concierge, is it?” Meewee said, tilting his head back to look up at the mentar’s face. As a short man, Meewee was well used to tilting his head to talk to most people, but for the love of Gaia, why did he have to do it for a machine? “Since you know my name, mentar, you must know my business.”
The mentar seemed stumped, genuinely so. “I assume you’re here to see one of our guests, but I do not find your name on any of our guests’ FDO list.”
Meewee was tired of the same old power game. And it was doubly hard to take coming from a soulless construct. “I’m here to check on the condition of Ellen Starke,” he said mildly. “I understand she has been brought here. Please bring me to her.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that we have such a guest, Myr Meewee, and it’s not our policy to act as social intermediaries. I suggest you deal with your acquaintances directly. When they put you on their FDO list, and if they are here, I will readily admit you.”
Arrow! Meewee said. Call Ellen Starke’s mentar—and remind me what its name is.
Its name is Wee Hunk, and I have it on the line.
The scene around Meewee changed abruptly; he and Concierge were standing in a darkened room, joined by a third man. Wee Hunk was a cartoonish Neanderthal in an animal skin anorak. Beetle brow, bowed legs, impossibly bulky muscles. Meewee didn’t recall this mentar at all, as he surely would have.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Concierge said. The white-jacketed mentar raised his hand to both of them and left the room.
Wee Hunk raised his hand too and said, “Myr Meewee, thank you for coming.”
“I came as soon as I was free.”
“That was considerate of you.”
Meewee glanced at the mentar to see if it, too, was mocking him. But its features were so pronounced, its expressions so large, it was hard to tell. He replied, “I need to speak to Ellen as soon as she’s awake. Please take me to her.”
“At once,” the caveman said and turned and walked away. Meewee hastened to follow, but they went only two steps before Wee Hunk stopped short in front of a wall of slanted windows. “There she is,” he said, gesturing to a surgical theater below.
Meewee looked down into the brightly lit room expecting to see the young woman, but what he saw was a chromium table and three people in sterilewrap gowns. On the table lay a scorched and badly dented safety helmet. He had forgotten that she was recovered in a helmet.
“They don’t have her out yet?” he said.
“The doctors aren’t sure how best to unclench it,” Wee Hunk said. “It took quite a beating in the crash. Two of its cryonics coils failed, as well as its first responder interface. Ellen’s life signs are strong, however.”
“That’s good to hear,” Meewee said, momentarily distracted by a new scent in the air—vanilla and almonds? What strange odors for a scape like this. “It’s nothing serious then? No lasting brain damage?”
Wee Hunk said, “Let’s wait until the surgeons have had a chance to look at her before we make medical pronouncements.”
“Yes, of course,” Meewee said.
“A safety helmet can’t prevent all trauma to the brain,” Wee Hunk said, “and they do a certain amount of damage all by themselves. Fortunately, most of it is correctable. Ellen’s doctors are concerned about the less than optimal level of life support her brain has endured and the length of time it has endured it.
“Now, Myr Meewee,” the animal skin man continued, “was there something in particular that you wanted to discuss with Ellen?”
“Yes, there is, but it’s confidential. Put me on her FDO list and inform me as soon as she regains consciousness.”
The caveman inspected his thick fingernails and said, “With all due respect, I don’t think so.”
“Sorry?”
“Myr Meewee, Ellen has never had much of a personal relationship with you. You are neither friend nor family. If you like, however, I’ll put your name on the invitation list for a reception to celebrate her recovery, but that’s all.”
“You don’t understand!” Meewee said. “I have urgent Starke Enterprises business. It’s not up to you to decide whether or not I can see her.”
“On the contrary,” the mentar said, crossing its bulging arms, “Ellen is solely my responsibility. The court has appointed me guardian ad litem until she recovers. And as for Starke Enterprises business, Cabinet informs me that your tenure there will shortly come to an end. I suggest you put whatever it is you wish to tell her in a memo that I will see she gets as soon as she’s strong enough to deal with business matters.”
Meewee wagged his finger at the ridiculous cartoon. “You have no right! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Commotion in the surgical theater below caught their attention. A technician rolled a vat of clear liquid next to the procedure table where two surgeons were initiating the helmet’s unclenching sequence. The helmet blossomed like an eight-petaled flower, and in the center, where Ellen’s head should have been cradled, sat a plastic mannequin head instead.