“You’re talking about the searing,” Bogdan said, somewhat relieved, and went to sit on the cot, “and you’re going to torch yourself as a public protest.”
The speaker was silent for several moments, then Samson said, “I see I’ve mentioned this before.”
“Only a few hundred times.”
“Well then, it should come as no great shock, and I’m glad for that. I was a pawn in someone’s big game, Boggy, and though I may never know who was responsible, in the end it was an act that society condoned by its silence. So it’s up to me to show society its error in the only way I can.”
“But all that stuff happened ages ago, Sam, and no one even cares anymore.”
“Well, I’m going to remind them anyway.”
Bogdan discovered the paper envelopes under the pillow and sorted through them. Each was scrawled with a ’meet’s name, one with his own. He dropped the envelopes and jumped to his feet. “I’m telling Kale.”
“Go ahead. It won’t do any good. They can run all over town and still not find me. Best not even to mention it. Promise me you’ll keep this to yourself, Boggy.”
“No! Tell me where you are.”
“Oh, Boggy, this is hard enough to do as it is. Do you think I’ve made this decision lightly?”
“I don’t care.”
I’ll tell you what; if Hubert fucks things up and I need someone to bail me out, he’ll contact you. Agreed?”
“Where are you?”
WHEN SAMSON FINALLY hung up on Bogdan, he thought that Soldier Field must be filling with spectators, for his seat was surrounded by a dozen others. It didn’t take him long, though, to see that he and his immediate neighbors were the only ones there. They were a little island of interlocked seats, like the jammed keys of an antique typewriter, dangling over the chimney of the vacant stadium.
There was a man in the seat to his right—a tall, lean fellow with a bony old face and a neatly trimmed black mustache. “You’re awake, then!” the man boomed. “Splendid! Good evening to you, sir!” His voice had a nasal quality due to large purple plugs stuffed into his nose.
A woman sat in the seat to Samson’s left. She, too, wore nose filters, which gave her a piggy look. She, too, showed the signs of long-deferred body maintenance: papery skin and thin hair. In addition, she was plump. On her lap sat a gray and white cat, who eyed Samson warily.
All of the other seats were occupied by children, from toddlers to tweens. It occurred to Samson to wonder how there were so many children. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen so many, a whole school bus load of them. Then he noticed that unlike the two adults, none of the children were strapped into their seats. They must be commercial children, not real children at all. The cat, on the other hand, was tethered to the woman’s seat with a harness and leash, so it was real.
The man offered Samson his hand in greeting. “Victor Vole,” he said. “And this is my beloved, Justine. These,” he added with a wink and flourish of his hand, “are the brats. Brats, say hello to Monsieur Kodiak.”
“Hello. Monsieur. Kodiak!” chorused the children with startling verve.
“How did you know my name?” Samson said.
“Oh, we were having a fine chat with your valet while you were napping. Haven’t we, Justine?”
Justine nodded and smiled shyly, displaying brownish teeth.
Samson didn’t know what to say. He was quite overcome. The children were standing on their seats to see him better. Surely Hubert wouldn’t have spilled the beans to strangers.
“I hope we’re not disturbing you, Myr Kodiak,” Victor said. “It’s just that no one has bought a ticket to a seat this high up in years. This whole section is usually closed—at least to people. Justine noticed you up here, all by yourself, in the middle of the afternoon, on a day when there’s no game scheduled.”
“I’m here for the canopy ceremony.”
“Oh, that,” Justine said and waved her hand dismissively.
“What Justine means to say is that the ceremony will take place at the very bottom,” Victor said, pointing straight down. “Most likely, it won’t originate in Chicago. They just like to use the old place as a backdrop these days.”
Samson looked at him blankly.
“That’s all Soldier Field is ever used for anymore, as a backdrop—and for suicides.”
Samson flinched. “Suicides?”
“That’s Moseby’s Leap,” Justine said and pointed to a railed parapet on the other side of the stadium. “That’s where it all started.”
“Where all what started?”
“Moseby’s suicides, of course.”
Samson looked from one to the other without comprehension.
“Beer?” Victor said and handed him a cold pouch. It had been years since Samson had indulged in beer. Victor and Justine raised their own pouches in a toast, and Victor said, “To our unexpected guest. Welcome to our home.”
Samson raised his pouch and said, “To my unexpected hosts.” He took a sip. Naturally, he couldn’t taste the beer, hadn’t been able to taste anything for forty years. He noticed that all the children suddenly had ice cream sodas. “You say this is your home? You live here?”
Victor winked again. “Let’s just say we came to watch the track events of the ’28 Olympics, and we haven’t left yet.”
Samson was impressed. Hubert said to him, Sam, they have a clever subem that hides them from security and has cracked concession kiosk codes. I’m studying it for pointers.
“Dog?” Victor said and handed Samson another pouch, this one warm. Inside was a hot dog, heavy with green relish, chopped onions, and bright yellow mustard in a poppy seed bun. Steam assaulted Samson’s nostrils, and for a moment he imagined he could smell this delicious Chicagoland delicacy of his youth.
“Thank you, don’t mind if I do.”
2.14
After Cabinet’s visit to his office, Meewee packaged his few personal belongings in archival wrap. The wrap asked for forwarding and shipping addresses, and he had to admit to it that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Shortly after noon, when there was nothing more to do, he left for the last time, leaving behind Arrow’s small ceramic container of paste. Meewee didn’t even thank it for its service. At the first opportunity, he planned to undergo a terminus purge to eliminate his inbody connections to the aloof, unhelpful so-called mentar.
There was no one present in the Heliostream suite of offices to say good-bye to. The offices were usually bustling, even at night. But this afternoon the rooms were vacant, and the hallway checkpoints were staffed entirely by machines. Perhaps with the announcement of Eleanor’s tragedy, everyone was sent home early.
Meewee strolled to the dispatch bay, in no special hurry. From there it was a short ride by bead car to his apartment in Slab 44, but he took a lift up to the surface instead. It was Meewee’s habit to walk home from work each evening through the fields. The lift he boarded was a studio car, designed to carry three hundred, but it was also deserted.
On the ground floor, he passed the boardroom suite where they had met that morning and witnessed Eleanor’s undoing. With his position at Heliostream terminated and Eleanor’s daughter missing, there was little chance that he’d ever pass this way again.
When Meewee exited through the great crystal doors of the reception building and stepped outside, he savored delicious lungsful of soupy, tangy, pollen-soaked air. The ten-thousand-acre campus of Starke Enterprises stretched out before him, rolling Indiana hills planted in soybimi and troutcorn and dotted with fish ponds. Except for the reception building, there were no buildings in sight. Virtually all of the industrial complex and residential housing was buried in an underground arcology.