Justine and Victor pretended not to listen to the audible portion of this conversation. Samson’s face was as dark as a blood blister. “Drop the hack!” he shouted. “I don’t need it. I’ll squeeze through these straps and fall to my death. I gotta hand it to you, Hubert, you brought me to the right place. Maybe you can convince Alison to come back and jump with me. We could screw on the way down and still have enough time for my eulogy.”
Sam, slo-mo is a vid technique. Your actual descent would take only five seconds.
“I know that, you brainless knickknack!”
Sam, I perceive that you are upset with me, but I don’t understand why.
THEY SAT IN silence. Murphy came to sit on the cushion behind Samson’s head. Full darkness settled upon the stadium. Samson said, “Forgive me. I seem to have become a mean drunk in my old age.”
“I’m sure it’s due to the pain you suffer, and not to any meanness on your part,” said Justine.
“Don’t bet the farm on that,” Samson said. “In any case, it’s only fair to warn you that I will soon become an object of public scrutiny, not to mention a fire hazard. You know what happens to the seared when they expire, don’t you? You may want to find more distant seats.”
Starting from the field and lower bleachers, blue-white stadium lights ignited, tier by tier, up the stadium well.
Victor said, “It’s not in my nature to meddle, Myr Kodiak, but are you sure there’s not some path for you other than the one you’re contemplating? At the very least, wouldn’t you rather spend your last moments with your loved ones?”
The lights hit them, and they winced in the brilliance. The rest of the seats on their tier came out, assembling themselves into rings of bleachers. Placeholder spectators appeared in the seats and began to cycle through their pregame repertoire of restlessness, gaiety, and chatter. The great space hummed with fake excitement.
“Yes, frankly, I would,” Samson said, straining to speak over the noise, “but this is my fate.”
“Forgive me for arguing, but is it?” said Victor. “There is no doubt that the seared suffered a great injustice, but that time is long past. You’re too late to make a difference one way or another.”
“That may be so,” Samson said, “but at least I can remind the world of its crime. At least I can go out in blazing testimonial.”
“By providing a—excuse the expression—a freak show?”
“It was my valet’s error to bring me here, but it’s too late to go anywhere else. Here will have to do. My mind is made up.”
“Tell us,” said Justine. “Tell us about your life. Wouldn’t that be better? We care about you.”
On cue, Murphy, the cat, stepped lightly down the armrest and curled up in Samson’s lap. Victor said it was a sign, and Justine said that Murphy was an impeccable judge of character. Samson didn’t know how to react to the cat, his lap having been barren of any creature for so long.
The first continent-sized billboard of the orbital Skytel crested the stadium rim. It was broadcasting some sort of variety show. Another hour would pass before the Skytel was in place for Hubert’s hack. Samson tentatively stroked Murphy’s head and was startled by the immediate purring.
“I’ve got the time, and since you asked,” he said, “I’ll tell you the abridged story of my life. But then I’ll ask you and your Murphy to remove yourselves to a safe distance.
“First off,” he began, “before I was a Kodiak, my name was Harger.”
2.20
Arrow, Meewee said, where is Ellen?
I do not know, replied the mentar.
Meewee had gotten out of bed and put on house togs. He’d gone out to the living room again and sat in his favorite armchair. He felt light-headed, and his whole left arm tingled fiercely. Wee Hunk explained it as merely a side effect of his new brainlette temporarily hijacking the efferent pathways of his brachial nerves. It would pass.
Arrow, do you know how to find her?
Negative.
This isn’t working, Meewee complained.
Wee Hunk said, Let’s try something different. Talk to Arrow about anything except Ellen while at the same time you are thinking about finding her.
“Huh?”
An indirect approach, Merrill. Talk to it about an unrelated topic while thinking about Ellen.
About what topic?
For pity’s sake, use your imagination.
So Meewee nestled into the armchair and thought about Ellen’s head and where it might be at that moment and said, “What’s the time and temp?”
“Eighteen forty-six,” Arrow replied. “Twenty-eight degrees Centigrade outdoors and twenty-two degrees indoors.”
Meewee said, Well?
I didn’t hear anything.
I need a break.
Later! Wee Hunk snapped.
But Meewee ignored him and told Arrow to fetch a snack.
I HAVE AN idea, Meewee said, brushing crumbs from his togs. You and Arrow have challenged each other. I’ll have it challenge me.
Wee Hunk, who had reduced his display to a flat frame in order to conserve attention units, said, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.
Why not?
If it challenges you, and your ability to use Starkese is not up to the task, I frankly don’t know how it would react.
Let’s find out, Meewee said and told Arrow to challenge his identity.
Complying. “Myr Meewee, do you have a shipping address for your household goods, or shall I place them in storage?”
“In storage, I would suppose,” Meewee answered.
Immediately, the three Orange mechs raced into the living room and took up attack positions around Meewee’s head, so close he could feel the backwash of their wings and hear their tiny laser cannon powering up.
Don’t move a muscle, Wee Hunk said. I told you it was a dicey idea.
Meewee held his head perfectly still. A microcannon was aimed at each temple. Seconds dragged by, and then Arrow said, as though for the first time, “Myr Meewee, do you have a shipping address for your household goods, or shall I place them in storage?”
I suggest you get it right this time, Wee Hunk said.
A bead of sweat trickled down Meewee’s forehead. “I—uh—that is,” he began.
“My household goods—I mean—place my household goods—no wait—check that.” He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth.
Don’t try to think it, Wee Hunk prompted him. Just feel your undying loyalty to Eleanor and say whatever comes out of your mouth.
Meewee thought about Eleanor that morning at the board meeting, about the image of the tumbling yacht, about the Garden Earth Project and frozen colonists crossing the heliopause. “Storage,” he said. “Except for several changes of spring seasonal clothes and my ecumenical files.”
The cannon powered down, and the mechs flew away. Meewee gulped air. His heart rattled against his rib cage.
You are Merrill Meewee, Arrow said.
Excellent, said Wee Hunk. Maybe now we can get somewhere with this.
But they tried for another half hour with no success. Finally, Wee Hunk came up with a suggestion: Simply tell Arrow to tell you how to tell it in Starkese to locate Ellen’s head.