Iffy and I have talked about other ways of increasing the amount of money we have, such as depositing everything in a bank several years in the past so that by now it will have earned considerable interest, or even traveling back and investing in stocks that we know will do well over time. But the truth is, I know very little about finance, especially here, and worry that some detail will be missed that will expose us, so taking these steps makes me uncomfortable. I grew up at the bottom of the caste system in my world, where saving money, let alone investing it, was never an option. Perhaps someday we’ll do it, but for now I’m satisfied with putting the cash we collect — cautiously and not all at once, of course — in a bank here in 2015.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning RJ calls Iffy and says he has a few things he’d like to try out and will be here in the evening. My impatience for his return makes the day drag on forever. It doesn’t help that he still hasn’t arrived when the sun begins to set.
Iffy and Ellie are on the couch watching some kind of drama on the television. I try to follow along, but my attention is on the breezeway outside our front door as I wait for the sound of footsteps and the first hint of a knock.
“Maybe you should call him,” I say to Iffy. “What if something happened?”
Without taking her eyes off the screen, she says, “He’ll be here when he gets here.”
“You said early evening. It’s not early anymore.”
“Would you two be quiet?” Ellie says. “I can’t hear.”
Iffy whispers, “I never said ‘early.’”
I take a breath and then try to concentrate on the television, but the images are making no more sense to me now than they were a few moments earlier, so I push off the couch and head for the door.
“Where are you going?” Iffy asks.
“For a walk.” I grab my phone off the dining table. “If I’m not back before he gets here, call me.”
“Shhh!” Ellie says.
Stepping out of the apartment, I look around, hoping I’ll see RJ walking toward our door, but there’s no one else there. I head over to the stairs and down to ground level, then walk out to the street.
The western sky holds only a hint of deep orange as it fights its losing battle against the coming night. I scan the street, once more looking for RJ and once more not seeing him. Disappointed and anxious, I head west toward the beach.
While there are still a few open spaces here and there along the curb, most of the spots have been claimed for the night. If RJ doesn’t arrive soon, he’ll be forced to park several blocks away.
I pick up my pace and tell myself not to think about RJ or why he’s running late or where he’ll park his car. To give my mind something else to do, I focus on the vehicles I’m passing and attempt to determine the make and model of each just from sight. This is one of the subjects I’ve been recently studying. Cars, I have found, are very important to the people here in San Diego. So, gaining more understanding of the automobile culture will, I hope, help in my continuing quest to understand this world. Unfortunately, I’m still very bad at the identification game, and at best succeed in recognizing only one or two cars out of every ten.
I’ve made it down four of the six blocks that separate my apartment from the beach when Iffy calls to let me know RJ has arrived.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her as I whip around and start jogging back the way I came.
When I’m only half a block from our place, movement in a parked car just ahead catches my eye. At first I think I must have been mistaken, but as I near, I notice that a man is in the driver’s seat, and am thinking he probably created the movement I saw. I assume he’s getting ready to start his car and leave, but my caution makes me take a longer look at the driver as I go by. Unfortunately, it’s too dark to see anything more than his shadowy form, but since he doesn’t jump out and try to grab me, I assume he’s not a threat and hurry on to my building.
When I enter the apartment, the others are gathered in the dining area. Two hard-sided suitcases sit on the table — one large and one small, like a fat briefcase. RJ has the larger one open and is pulling out wires and small metal boxes.
When he sees me, he says, “Where’s the chasing machine?”
“Not a chasing machine, a chaser,” I say.
“Chaser, right. You have it?”
I head into my bedroom.
The combination I use for the safe is the date I was accepted into the Upjohn Institute. It’s one I’ll never forget. While I was in training, I thought that day had changed everything for the good. I’m not so sure about good or even bad, but I do know it did change everything, and not only for me, but for everyone.
The chaser sits in a cloth-lined cubbyhole at the top of the safe. In the large section below it are the stacks of cash we took from Munoz. I grab the device, shut the safe, and return to the others.
The thick briefcase is now also open, but instead of containing more bits and pieces of electronics, it holds tools. There are movable dividers, with slots on each side filled with screwdrivers and wrenches and the like. There are also several electronic devices with meters on the front. One of the devices is sitting on the table next to the items RJ had removed from the other case.
“Ah, great.” RJ extends his hands toward me. “May I?”
I touch the spot that unlocks the lid and then give him the device. “Be careful.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry.”
Like he did at our first meeting, he examines every inch of it. When he is through, he sets it down and picks up the black box with the meter on it. There are two wires leading out of it, each ending in a metal tip.
When he starts to move the tips toward the power socket on the chaser, I say, “That’s not going to hurt anything, is it?”
“This? No. It only receives. Doesn’t emit anything.”
Iffy slips her hand into mine and gives me a squeeze. Her message is loud and clear. We asked for RJ’s help, and we should let him do what he needs to do.
For the next several minutes, we watch him take measurements with the meter and write things down in a black-covered notebook. When he finally finishes, he picks up a two-inch-square, clear plastic pouch that is sitting next to the pile of wires. Inside are several small metal items. He opens the top of the pouch and pours the pieces into his hand.
“If I’d had some modeling clay with me last time, I would have taken an impression,” he tells us. “But since I didn’t, I had to make some guesses.”
I’m not sure what he’s talking about until he takes one of the metal pieces and tries to fit it into the chaser’s power socket. He eventually works his way through each piece and then drops all but one back into the bag. He holds up the remaining piece for us to see.
“It’s not perfect and I’m not sure if it’s going to work, but it’s in the right ballpark,” he says.
He demonstrates by placing the selected connector into the socket. It fits well enough, but does appear to be a bit loose.
“Shall we give it a go?” he asks me.
“I don’t know. You’re the expert.”
He laughs. “That was rhetorical. Of course, we’re going to try it.” He sorts through the wires and picks one out. “This is going to take a few minutes. Any chance I can get a Coke or something?”
“I’ll get it,” Ellie says.
In my concern for getting the chaser powered up, I forgot that my sister is also here. The brightness in her voice surprises me, and I’m equally taken aback by the way she seems to almost drift into the kitchen. When she returns a few minutes later, she’s holding a soft drink can.