DYDEETOWN WORLD

© 1989 by F. Paul Wilson

Foreword

Dydeetown World began back in 1984, inspired by an opening hook that had lain fallow in my notebook for years. The plot, characters, tone, milieu, just about everything in the story sprang from that one sentence. (It opens section 4 of Part One, if you're interested.)

I originally intended it as a short story—five, maybe six thousand words, tops—a quiet little SF tribute to Raymond Chandler whose work has given me such pleasure over the years. I was going to use all the clichés—the down-and-out private eye, his seedy friends, the tired, seamy city, the bar hang-out, the ruthless mobster, the whore with the heart of gold.

The working title was "Lies" because that's mostly what it's about. We all say we revere the truth, but sometimes a lie can be stronger than the truth, better than the truth. There are vital lies—the ones that can give you hope, can give you the strength to keep going when the truth would break you. And sometimes, under the right circumstances, a lie can become the truth

I set it in the far future, one I had developed for the LaNague Federation science fiction series (four novels* and a handful of shorts). But "Lies" was going to be different. Rather than bright and full of hope like its predecessors, this story was going to be set on the grimy, disillusioned underbelly of that future. I wanted to move through the LaNague Earth at ground level, take a hard look at the social fall-out of the food shortages, the population-control measures, the wires into the pleasure centers of the brain—things I'd glossed over or mentioned only in passing before.

But despite the downbeat milieu, the story would be about freedom, friendship, and self-esteem. Beneath its hardboiled voice, its seamy settings, and violent events (Cyber/p-i/sci-fi, as Forry Ackerman might have called it) were characters trying to maintain—or reestablish—a human connection.

I disappeared into the story, so much so that it came in at three times the projected length, with a new title: "Dydeetown Girl."

A novella. One that none of the sf magazines wanted because it was too much like detective fiction; and which the detective mags rejected because it was "sci-fi." I began to fear that my ugly-duckling hybrid would be doomed to perpetual orphanhood. But thanks to Jim Baen and Betsy Mitchell it found a home in one of the Far Frontiers anthologies. From there it went on to reach the Nebula Awards final ballot for best novella of the year. It didn't win, but just seeing it listed was sweet vindication.

Betsy Mitchell prodded me into writing more in the "Dydeetown milieu. Her simple suggestion, "Why don't you do something with those urchins," sparked two more novellas, "Wires" and "Kids" (oh, those plural nouns). She also suggested splicing them into a single story.

The result was Dydeetown World

Although written for adults, the novel wound up on the American Library Association's list of "Best Books for Young Adults" and on the New York Public Library's recommended list of "Books for the Teen Age."

The ugly duckling had become a swan.

One scene in "Dydeetown Girl" involves a Tyrannosaurus rex used as a guard animal. That’s right: in a story written in 1985 I used a dinosaur cloned from reconstituted fossil DNA, but I tossed it off as background color.

If only I’d thought to stick a bunch of them in a park…

DYDEETOWN WORLD

Part One

Lies

If your sister were a clone, would you want her working in Dydeetown. (datastream graffito)

-1-

Jean Harlow.

Or rather, Jean Harlow-c.

Couldn't place her face at once, but you don't hardly ever see white skin like that. Then it came to me. Seen her before in the flesh. The too-blond hair, the too-white skin, the puggish face. Hard to forget her even if, like me, you weren't particularly attracted to the look despite the way she filled out the dark blue clingsuit.

"You're Mr. Dreyer, aren't you?" she said in a tinny voice as the door slid closed a couple of centimeters behind her.

Suddenly became interested in my desktop where a few cockroach droppings adhered to the surface. Flicked one off as I told her, "You can find your way back out the way you came in."

"I want to hire you."

Held my temper and kept after the roach chips. Was tired from a long string of long days sitting here waiting for something to do.

"Don't work for clones."

Not completely true, but didn't advertise the truth.

Her breath made a raspy sound as she sucked it in.

"How—?"

"Never forget a face," I said, finally looking up at her.

Did a search for a Dydeetown girl a while back. Cued up the library for background and watched a vid on them and the history of Dydeetown. Got to know a lot of their faces and the stories behind them during the search. This Harlow was a big thing in her day, which was Way Back When. The clone before me wasn't a perfect match—they never are—but pretty damn close. Couldn't see what anyone saw in her, but maybe tastes were different then. Why anyone would want to hunt up her leftovers, steal a piece, and clone out a new Jean Harlow was beyond me.

But then, I don't waste my thumb in Dydeetown.

"You worked for Kushegi. She told me."

The roach dung became interesting again.

"That was a special case."

"What was so special about it?"

"None of your dregging business."

Truth was, I'd been more broke than usual then—my thumb was getting more red lights than Dydeetown's east wall. My stomach was used to at least one meal a day and the rest of me had other appetites. Briefly put, I was what you call desperate back then. Hadn't come a long way since.

"Hear me out," she said.

"I'll let you out." Still had my pride.

Something clunked heavily amid the poppyseed droppings on the desktop. Didn't even have to look up to see it. Rolled right under my nose—round, flat, and gold.

"Talk," I said.

She glanced back at my cubicle door as if to make sure it was closed good and tight, then sat in one of the pair of chairs on the other side of my desk.

"I thought you'd have a bigger office than this."

"Not a materialist," I said, picking up the coin and leaning back.

"It's Kyfhon."

Weighed it in my hand. Cool and heavy. Twenty-five grams heavy. Point nine-nine-nine fine if up to the usual Kyfhon standards. Illegal, of course, but who's going to tell those Eastern Sect toughos they can't mint their own coins? Not me, brother. Not me.

"Get many Kyfho-types as clients in Dydeetown?"

"Some."

Said nothing more, just sat there and worked a little crease into the surface of the coin with my thumbnail.

Finally, she went on, as I knew she would.

"Occasionally I'll do business with a Kyphon, but mostly I get coin from people who don't want to leave any thumbprints in Dydeetown."

"Nobody likes to leave a trail to Dydeetown."

"Yet they do," she said, lifting her chin and meeting me eye to eye. "Every night they come around with fat groins and fat thumbs—"

"—to find 'the most beautiful women and the handsomest men in all history,' " I said, mimicking the slogan.

"You are so right, Mr. Dreyer."

Not a trace of shame in her voice. But why should there have been? She was only a clone. She didn't know any better; it was her customers who should have been ashamed.

"So what can I do for you?"

Galled me to be sitting here talking business with her like she was a Realpeople, but this was real gold in my hand, and I needed it real bad.

"I need to find someone."

Oh, bloaty. Another missing Dydeetowner.

"Why come to me?"

"Kushegi said you were good."

Bristled at that. How could the clone of a Twenty-First Century holo sex star judge my work? By what—?

Doused it. Fruitless path. Waste of energy.

"She didn't get what she wanted," I said.

"True. Raquel was dead when you found her. But you did find her."

"And so I'm supposed to find your lover now?"

She nodded. Timidly.

Flipped the coin back onto the desk.

"No thanks."

"Please?"

If the plea in her voice was supposed to melt my heart, it failed by a lot of degrees.

"Whoever it is, let the owner go after him. Or her. Or let the owner hire me. Not you."

"This is a Realpeople I'm talking about."

"Oh."

Picked up the coin again and leaned back in my chair. Still didn't like the sound of this but I had nothing better to do.

"What's the name?"

"Kyle." Her voice quavered and her eyes glistened. "Kyle Bodine."

Thought she was going to cry, but she managed to hold it in, thank the Core.

"Look. If this guy hurt you or robbed or cheated you, get your owner on it."

"Nothing like that," she said through a sniff. "We were going to be married."

Almost went over backwards in my chair with that one.

"You were going to be what?"

Guess I must have shouted because she jumped back like I'd pulled a blaster on her.

"M-married. We were going to be married."

Couldn't help laughing. People talk about clones being dumb, but you never really appreciate how dumb until you talk to one. They know how to look good, how to smile real nice, how to give maximum pleasure to a human body, but something must happen when they're cultured out. Something must get lost along the way. Because they are dumb.

Her face reddened. "Why are you laughing?"

"No Realpeople's going to marry a clone!"

"Kyle is! He loves me!"

"He's lying."

"He isn't!" Her voice jumped a couple of notches as she rose from the chair and leaned over the desk. "I mean something to him! I'm somebody to him—not like the dirt I am to almost everybody else!"

"Hey…easy there," I said. Didn't want her burning out of here along with her gold coin. "Nobody's calling anybody names here. It's just that Realpeople don't marry clones. Not my fault it's that way—just a fact of life."

"And just the way you like it, right?"

"Don't hate clones, but I'm no oozer, either."

Gold or not, I wasn't going to lie to her. I don't like clones. Truth of the matter is I can't think of many Realpeople I like much either. But especially don't like collections of cells grown from a tissue culture parading around like real human beings.

"Bet your 'fiance—'" I said the word out of the corner of my mouth—"oozes real good, though. Probably one of those jogs clustering in the tubes shouting 'Free the clones' or 'Ban the Chlor-cow' or 'Adopt an urchin!' or some other impossibility. Probably wants to marry you to use you as a bloaty trophy. Show how dregging sincere he is."

"I wasn't going to be his trophy—we were moving away."

"Where to?"

"The outworlds."

Leaned back in my chair again—slowly this time—and studied her. This was getting nasty. Like I said, I'm no clone-lover—matter of fact, I wish there were no such things as clones. But that doesn't mean I think they should be mistreated. Realpeople made them, that makes us responsible. And some dregger had been dealing this especially dumb one a dirty hand. Like them or not, I can't condone cruelty to clones.

"Look," I said slowly, hoping she'd be able to catch onto what I was going to tell her. "Don't know how to tell you this, but there are a few things you should know. Such as, there's no way you can get to the outworlds. Only Realpeople can go. You need a greencard, and clones don't get greencards. You're Unpeople. You're property. You belong to someone—either to a person or a corporation. Clones can't even have credit accounts, so it stands to reason that they can't just wander off to the stars when they please."

Watched her open her beltpurse as I tried to figure out how I was going to explain the workings of CenDat to her in terms she would understand.

"You see, when you were born…or hatched, or whatever—"

"Deincubated," she said, still working at the beltpurse.

"Whatever. They took a little piece of tissue and recorded your gene structure into the Central Data banks. Your genotype will remain on record there until you die. Just like mine. Just like everybody's."

She nodded. "I know. And they can't clone another of me until I'm dead—the One Person/One Genotype law."

"So you know about that." Puzzled me. "Then what made you think you could get off-planet?"

She looked around like I might be hiding someone behind the

desk or somewhere else in this shoebox-size cubicle.

"Is what we say here secret? Really secret?"

"The word is 'confidential.' And yes, everything's secret. What've you got in your hand there?"

She pulled something out of her beltpurse and laid it on my desk.

"This."

A greencard.

Speechless for a moment. Clones get redcards. Never get greencards. Never. It was impossible—but there it was on my desk.

"A fake. Got to be."

She shook her head. "No. It's real."

"You've tried it out?"

"I don't have to. I know it's real."

Picked it up. Sure looked real. This was getting stickier and stickier by the minute.

"You could wind up at the South Pole shoveling chlorcow manure for having this, you know."

She nodded. "I know. But it won't matter when we get Out Where All The Good Folks Go."

Always hated that expression. Everybody seemed to refer to the outworlds that way. Everybody but me. Didn't like what it implied about us who stayed behind on Earth, although I couldn't deny that it might be true.

But I stuck to the subject at hand: "You need more than a card, you know. Unless someone's changed your status in CenDat from clone to Realpeople, this is nothing but green plastic. When they stick it and a skin scraping into their little machine at the shuttleport it'll read out that there's no such Realpeople as you and you'll be arrested there and then for exporting stolen property—yourself."

She gave me a half-vacant smile. "I know. But that will never happen."

"How can you be so…?"

She shrugged and smiled. "Kyle fixed it. He took a skin sample and came back a few days later with the card. He loves me."

Looked at the greencard again. Seemed as real as my own. Couldn't figure it. A man who would go to this extreme for a clone must really…love her.

Nah.

But my face remained a picture of professional blandness.

"How long has this Kyle Bodine been missing?"

"Five days. We were supposed to meet at L-I Port by the shuttle dock Friday night. I haven't heard from him since Friday morning."

"Where do you think he is?"

"I don't know." Her eyes began to glisten again. "I don't know! And I'm worried about him!"

"Maybe he just changed his mind."

She shook her head. Violently. "No! Never!"

"Okay, okay. Don't get excited."

Got up and walked to the viddow behind my desk. Wished I could have looked out a real window instead of at this transmission from the outer wall, but I could barely keep up the rent on an inner cubicle let alone afford one on the perimeter. Kept turning the gold coin over and over in my right hand while the greencard lay cool and still in my left. Something wrong here. Something crazy.

"Can I have my card back?"

Turned and gave it to her. Real important to her, that card.

A cockroach—a big one—ran across my shoe then. Squashed it with a satisfying crunch when it got back to the floor. Ignatz was going to have to make another sweep of the place.

"All right. Let's find out what you know about this guy."

Turned out she didn't know all that much.

Was what you call a whirlwind romance. Kyle Bodine worked for an import-export firm. Had contracts in the outworlds who’d welcome him and his new wife. Anti-clone laws were big out there, but no one would have to know she was one. She said she'd last seen him in Dydeetown on Friday morning. He had a medium-size compartment in one of the high-rent districts in Manhattan. The door was keyed to her. She'd already been there after many unanswered calls. No Kyle. No sign of foul play.

That's where I'd start.

"Okay," I said. "The fee is 200 a day plus expenses."

"Filamentous with me," she said, nodding.

Held up the gold coin. "This thing's worth more than a week in advance."

"If you find him before that—even if it's tonight—it's all yours."

She really wanted this guy back.

Told her I had some errands to run and would meet her at Bodine's compartment in a tenth.

Waited a while after she left, then took the downchute to street level. Wanted to get rid of this gold before tubing over to Manhattan. Not only illegal to possess, but it might get stolen before I could turn it into credit.

Knew I could do that at the usual place, no questions asked.

-2-

Never knew what Elmero's was going to look like week to week. Most businesses strove for a consistent exterior. Elmero strove for the opposite. Never knew when he was going to change the holographic front. Today it was suddenly the Bar-X Saloon in old Tucson, Arizona. Even had a couple of horses drinking from a trough in the bright noonday sun.

The sun never shone down here at ground level.

The usual crowd was holding up the bar inside, however. The usual mix of aimless chatter and straying vapors filled the air. And as usual, the datastream was playing in the near corner where I recognized Newsface Seven's features as she doled out the latest tidbits from CenDat. A howl came from the enclosure in the dimmest of the dim corners where someone was playing Procyon Patrol. Whoever he was—never saw him before—he spun out of the enclosure and rolled on the floor, all the while swatting at his left shoulder where the fabric of his jacket was burning. He got the fire out, stood up, shook himself, then re-entered the enclosure. People had been paying extra to play Procyon Patrol at Elmero's since he partially disabled the dampers on the enemy lasers. When those aliens shot back, they really shot back. You could get hurt real bad in that game. That's why altered machines were illegal.

Elmero's specialized in illegalities.

Doc waved at me from his table. Minn spotted me from behind the bar. She held up a vial of Dewar's green—my usual—and raised her eyebrows. Waved her off. Wasn't in the mood for a whiff right now. Needed to talk to the boss. Pointed toward the back room and she nodded.

"Busy, Elm?" I said, sliding the pocket door open a bit and poking my face through.

"Sig! Come in!"

Did, shutting the door behind me.

"You're looking unhealthier than usual, Sig."

He never passed up an opportunity to take a shot at my sallow complexion.

"Thanks, Elm. You're looking as roguey and robust as ever yourself"

Elmero pushed two meters heightwise and was as lean as he was long. His legs uncoiled from around each other as his polyform recliner straightened him up. Envied that recliner. Supposed to be the most comfortable chair in Occupied Space. Some day, if I ever got rich…

"What can I do for you?"

"Need an exchange on this," I said, tossing him the coin.

He rode his chair over to the corner console and dropped the coin in a little cup-like analyzer that weighed it, factored in the day's spot price for gold, and came up with a figure only he could see. Elm liked gold. He had lots of dealings outside the usual credit lanes and gold was universally accepted as barter.

"Give you sixteen hundred for it."

It was worth a good 2K and we both knew it but Elmero loved to haggle.

"Was figuring maybe seventeen or eighteen before taxes."

He smiled. Warned him about that—an ugly sight. He said, "Why don't we settle on a net of fifteen?"

"Filamentous," I said. That was what I'd wanted when I walked in.

He reached over to his employer's wageboard and punched in some data. He knew my ID number by heart.

"Okay, Sig," he said. "I just paid you eighteen hundred for a week's work. Which week you want it to be?"

Shrugged. "Last is as good as any."

He entered it. We waited a couple of seconds, then I went over to his credit terminal and stuck my thumb in the hole. A press of the status key rewarded me with a credit readout of 1522—post automatic deduction of the taxes. At least I wouldn't be getting any more red lights and could stop making up excuses about my thumb transponder acting up and needing replacement. Gets embarrassing after a while.

"Say, Elm…saw a phony greencard today."

"Phony how?" He seemed mildly interested.

"Well, it really didn't belong to this person."

"If the holder's genotype doesn't match the card’s, and if those two don't jibe with CenDat, what good is it? Only a real jog would carry it around."

He wasn't getting my meaning.

"I'm talking about CenDat—the change was made there."

Elm shrugged. "It can be done. Not on a routine basis, of course, but if you know the right people and have the right amount of barter, changes can be made—criminal records erased, credit histories altered. Don't tell me that's news to you."

"No, that's not news. But have you ever heard of a clone being recategorized as Realpeople?"

At last a reaction from Elm: his eyebrows lifted.

"That might be difficult. The people in position to make such a change might refuse, no matter what price offered." He smiled that smile again. "They'd refuse on the grounds of 'principle,' I'm sure."

"But it could be done?"

"Of course—as long as you had a tissue sample to identify the genotype and your middleman was someone devious and roguey and subtly ingenious."

"Like you, for instance?"

He leaned back and steepled his Fingers. Elmero liked to think of himself as an extralegal mastermind.

"It is not outside the realm of my capabilities."

Now the big question: "Ever had occasion to arrange something like that?"

"No," he said with a slow shake of his head, "but I wouldn't be averse to the opportunity."

Couldn't believe it.

"You'd help a dumb, walking tumor pass itself off as Realpeople?"

"Business is business. Besides, a clone’s as much a tumor as an identical twin. And as for dumb, if your education had been limited to self-grooming and sexual techniques and little else—which it obviously wasn't—you'd be duller company than you already are."

"Thank you, Elmero," I said with a laugh and headed for the door. "Didn't know you'd become an oozer."

"You're welcome, Sigmundo, and don't insult your elders."

-3-

The complex's holographic envelope was that of a cliff-dweller's adobe village, complete with dwellers, dinner fires, ladders, and all. Great job. Could hardly tell it wasn't real.

Don't know why they named it the Central Park Complex, though. No park here. Except for moss, wasn't much of anything green left at groundlevel in the whole megalops—only on the rooftop gardens. Maybe there'd been a park here once. Gone now. And who cared anyway?

Don't know why I bother myself with these questions.

As we’d agreed, the clone was waiting at the ground level entrance on Fifth. I was dodging puddles on my way across the mossy street when I spotted her squatting beside a little boy who couldn't have been older than two or three. She was holding the kid's hand, smiling and talking to him. Her face was very animated and the kid must have thought she was funny because he was laughing like she was the best thing since Joey Jose.

Knew the kid wouldn't be alone. Looked around for his guards and found them—three ten-year-olds standing off to the side, eying the passers-by. The urchingangs liked to use the little ones for begging. Guess it was a kind of symbiosis. Illegal live births—those over and above the self-replacement quota—get left in the undergrounds. The urchingangs take them in, raise them, teach them begging, and train them in the care of the next infants to come along. A self-perpetuating cycle.

Wondered what the toddler's guardians would have done if they'd known he was holding hands with a clone. "The clones'll getcha!" was my mother's favorite threat when I'd act up as a kid. Scared me for a long time. It's common knowledge how all clones get sterilized as soon as they're deincubated. Mandatory. So it made sense for clones to steal children because they can't have any of their own. Never heard of a real case of child-stealing, but the myth persists.

The older kids spotted me crossing toward the clone and the toddler. Must have thought I looked like trouble because they swept the little guy from the clone's grasp and spirited him away before I got within ten meters.

The clone watched them run down the street, a look of such longing on her face that I stopped in my tracks. Maybe it's not a myth—maybe clones do want kids bad enough to steal them.

We entered the Park Complex together. Good to get out of the October chill and the groundlevel dampness. As we walked along the central mall, I noticed her face contorting, like spasms.

"What's wrong with you?"

Her expression immediately reverted to normal. "Nothing."

"Don't give me that. You had your face all twisted up."

She smiled—sheepishly, I thought. "Just a little game I play." She pointed ahead of her. "See this lady over on the left here? Look at her expression: like she just bit into a lemon."

Looked. True enough, the middler in question did have a puckered face. Glanced at the clone. Her face was set in an excellent lemon-sucking imitation of the lady's.

"You working at trying to pass as Realpeople?"

"No. It's just fun. What do you do for fun, Mr. Dreyer?"

Opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. None of her business. And realized with a spiky kind of disquiet that I couldn't think of an answer. Had to be something I did for fun.

"Don't go to Dydeetown, I can tell you that," I said finally. Sounded lame. Was glad we came to the upchute to Bodine's subsection then.

We got off at the twenty-seventh level and went to Bodine's door. The clone keyed it open with her palm. She stepped in but stopped dead so abruptly that I stumbled against her back.

Was ready to swear at her but a glimpse of the automatically lighted room cut me off.

The place had been torn apart.

"Well, isn't this bloaty," I said.

Left the clone at the door and wandered through the apartment. Lighting fixtures, cushions, furniture, the rug—any possible hiding place had been ripped open and gutted. Thorough job. Very thorough. Whatever the searchers wanted, they wanted bad.

"You said he was in the import-export business?"

Still mute, she nodded.

"Import-exporting what?"

"I—I don't know."

She was a rotten liar.

"Somebody else is looking for your friend."

"Why would they…?"

"You tell me."

She shook her head. "If I could, I would."

Didn't believe that, either.

"Let's get out of here," I said. "The folks who did this may come back. We don't want to be here when they do."

Hurried her out to the hall, letting the door slide closed behind us.

"You could handle them, couldn't you?"

"Of course, but it gets so messy explaining all the bodies."

Hoped that sounded sufficiently tough. Actually, I was more than a little uneasy about this whole affair. One look at that apartment and I knew there was more to this than a missing boyfriend. Didn't have a clue as to what else was going on, but wanted to a few quick klicks between myself and this complex and not run into anyone unfriendly in the process.

As usual, I was unarmed. Not that it would have made much difference if I was carrying—I'm not a great shot. Lousy, in fact. Lousy at hand-to-hand stuff, too. Haven't found what I'm really good at yet, but know it's not shooting and punching.

We stepped off the edge into the downchute and drifted dutifully to the center lane as the draft sank us toward the lobby. We were passing the 15th floor when two roguey types, big and burly in loose-fitting jumpsuits, caught up to us by pulling themselves down to our level using the hand rungs. Noticed a slight bulge in the left armpit area of each jump. The pair could have been brothers except that the fellow on the right had a big red nose and the one directly to my left was missing the little finger on his right hand. Takes a certain kind of person to refuse a transplant or a prosthesis for a missing piece. Not the kind of person I’d want to argue with.

Didn't like this at all. Touched the clone's arm and spoke in as conversational a tone as I could manage.

"Let's get off at the fifth and see if your mother's in."

She gave me a startled look but before she could reply, a meaty four-fingered hand clasped my left shoulder and a gravelly voice said in my ear: "Your next stop's Ground Level."

"Filamentous," I said. "Never did like your mother, anyway."

"What's wrong with you?" the clone said.

"Nothing. Just do what these nice men tell you."

She glanced right and left and suddenly looked frightened rather than curious. Which confirmed my suspicion that she knew a lot more than she was telling.

Duped by a clone! Set up, maybe. Bad enough to have to work for one, but to be fooled by one. What a jog I was.

As we swung out of the chute at mall level and gravity took hold again, I took her arm like she was Realpeople. Couldn't see how anyone knowing she was a clone would help me.

"Where we going?" I said to our new escorts.

"Not far," Fourfingers replied.

They guided us across the mall toward the express upchute to the roof parking lot. We glided up in silence for eighty floors. A luxury model Ortega Scarlet Breeze idled a half meter off the roof, waiting. A third fellow sat at the controls. We settled in and zoomed off toward where the late afternoon sun was sinking in the haze.

"Who wants to see us?" I said in a nice relaxed tone.

Fourfingers must have been the spokesman for the trio. He gave one of his involved, long-winded answers.

"Yokomata."

"Ah," I said through a suddenly tight throat. "Yokomata. How perfectly bloaty."

Yokomata. Big name in the Bosyorkington megalops underworld. Not superbig like Esterwin or Lutus, but she ran a glossy operation that was a long way from ground level.

Glanced pointedly at the clone as I spoke. "All this comes as a big dregging shock to you, I suppose."

The clone said nothing, but her frightened eyes spoke volumes.

-4-

I gathered from the medium-size Tyrannosaurus rex running loose in her yard that Yokomata discouraged drop-in company.

The house itself was a miniature Taj Mahal—holographic, of course. Could see a slight shimmer around the edges. No telling what the actual building looked like. Probably a steel box.

As the pilot came in low and slow over the wall, the ten-meter-long dinosaur came for us, its powerful hind legs kicking up clumps of grass as it charged. When it was almost on us, its big red wet mouth open and salivating, six-inch teeth glinting in the reddening sun, the driver kicked up the altitude in a stomach-tugging lurch. The snap of those jaws closing on air was audible through the insulated walls of the flitter.

Rednose gave the driver a none-too-gentle tap on the back of his head.

"You're getting to be a real jog, y'know? One of these days you're gonna cut that too close!"

Looked out the rear window. The tyrannosaurus followed all the way to the house and watched us with its hard black eyes until we sank out of its line of sight onto the roof. From there we walked down a short stairway and into the presence of Yokomata herself, seated behind a desk.

She studied us with dark eyes no warmer than her pet carnivore’s. Big woman with a wide yellow face. Looked like a retired sumo wrestler who'd been on a soy-water diet for a while.

"I don't want to take up any more time with this than is necessary," she said in a silky, world-weary voice as she held up two printouts. "I know who you both are: Jean Harlow-c, a Dydeetown girl; and Sigmund Dreyer, a small time—very small time—investigator." She fixed on me. "I want to know what you were doing in Kel Barkham's apartment."

"'Kel Barkham?" the clone said. "That's Kyle Bodine's apartment."

Yokomata glanced at Fourfingers who nodded. "He rented it under that name a few months ago."

Yokomata kept her eyes on Fourfingers. "Ask her why she was in his apartment."

"Looking for him," the clone said before Fourfingers could open his mouth. "He was supposed to meet me Friday night but he never showed up."

"So she hired Dreyer here to find him?" Yokomata said to Fourfingers. "Is she that interested in all her customers?"

"Of course not," the clone replied in a huff, and I knew she was going to say it, but there was no way to stop her. "We're going to be married."

Utter silence in the room for a second or two. Then Rednose cracked—made a choking sound, then burst out laughing. Fourfingers and the driver followed. The clone reddened and set her jaw.

Only Yokomata remained impassive.

Which worried me most of all. Yokomata was interrogating us herself. That meant the whereabouts of Kyle Bodine/Kel Barkham were so important to her that she didn't trust any of her underlings with the job.

As the laughter finally died away, she turned her gaze on me and the knot in my stomach tightened. But I didn't squirm visibly; just stood there.

"And what is it that you've learned since this Dydeetown girl took you on as a client?"

Gave her a casual shrug. "Not too much, other than the fact that your men do sloppy searches—could've hidden a body in the mess they made—and that you're interested in finding this guy, too."

"Nothing more?"

"Only been on it since after lunch. I'm good, but I'm not that good."

Yokomata rose from behind her desk and came toward me. She was taller than I'd originally thought.

"You're not good, Mr. Dreyer. The few people who've heard of you say you used to be, but now you're strictly a third-rater living off other eyes' leavings. I wouldn't know what the clones think of you."

"They think he's honest," said the clone.

We both ignored her—Yokomata didn't recognize her presence and I wouldn't allow a clone to speak up for me.

"Over here," Yokomata said, gesturing me toward the wall. "I want to show you something."

The wall cleared as we approached, giving us a broad view of the backyard.

"Nice grass," I said. "Don't suppose you cut it yourself."

"Watch," she said. "It's almost time."

So I watched. Watched the grass, watched the trees and their long shadows sway in the breeze. Was about to turn away when something darted out of the bushes near the house—brown on top, light below, thin legs, graceful neck. Seen pictures of something like that before. A deer. Hornless. A doe.

It zigzagged out into the yard and then froze, remained statue-like for a few heartbeats, then broke into a frenzied dash. But it didn't have a chance. A gray-green juggernaut shot into view, overtook it, and bit its head off.

Heard the clone cry out behind me as twin jets of blood sprayed into the air from the neck stump. The body ran on. For a few steps it looked as if it might just run off without its head. Then the legs buckled and it collapsed to the grass. The tyrannosaurus grasped the front end of the carcass with its jaws and hoisted it free of the ground. A quick jutting move of its head, a convulsive swallow, and the doe was gone.

"Bloaty," I said.

"Makes one think, doesn't it," Yokomata whispered at my shoulder.

"And realize," I said with a slow nod, "that if that deer knew anything, it's not talking now. And never will."

Yokomata was silent a moment, then said, "Come with me."

We all trooped downstairs to another suite of rooms more sparsely furnished than the one above. She directed me to a cushioned recliner.

"Make yourself comfortable. I have some questions I want to ask you."

So I sat—

—and was trapped. Metal cuffs popped out of the fabric and snapped around my wrists and ankles.

In a voice that sounded like she was ordering breakfast Yokomata said, "Give him a dose of Truth."

Panic shot through me and I arched myself away from the chair, trying to break those cuffs. Knew they wouldn't give, but had to try.

"Already told you all I know!" I shouted. "This won't get you any more!"

Yokomata ignored me. She wanted to be sure I'd told her everything. If I could have come up with some other way to convince her—any way—I would have tried it. Anything to avoid a dose of Truth. But my mind was a blank.

"What about the clone?" Rednose said.

Yokomata smiled for the first time. Her voice dripped with disdain.

"Barkham gave her the wrong name and said he was going to marry her."

Enough said.

"What's happening?" the clone said.

Fourfingers popped a drawer out of a wall and pulled a dose gun from it. He came toward me. Off to my right side I heard the clone say: "What are you going to do?"

Didn't want this. More than anything in the world—maybe even death—I didn't want this. But not a damn thing I could do to stop it. Everything I had went into keeping my sphincters from letting go as he casually pressed the end of the barrel against the hollow of my shoulder and pulled the trigger. A phhht! and a sting as the drug shot through my shirt and skin.

And that was that. Slumped in the chair and tried to keep from crumbling. In a very short while everything I knew would be anyone's for the asking.

"Call me when he's ready," Yokomata said as she walked out.

The clone started toward me. "Are you all—?"

Rednose yanked her back by the arm. "Stay away from him!" Touching her seemed to give him an idea. He glanced at Fourfingers. "Isn't this perfect—time to kill and a Dydeetown girl to kill it with."

"Sounds good to me," Fourfingers said.

"I'm not open for business," the clone told them.

Rednose shoved her toward a back room. "You're gonna be."

"I'll tell my owner!" Her voice was shriller.

"Yokomata probably owns your owner!"

The three of them moved out of my field of vision. Didn't bother turning my head to watch them go. Just sat there and sweated and waited. Somewhere in the house the datastream was playing. Then some noise from the back room—sounds of protest, and maybe a meaty slap, a cry of pain. Wasn't really listening. All I could think of was soon they'd come back and start asking me questions, and no matter what they asked—no matter what—I'd tell them the truth.

Eventually, Yokomata returned. She glanced around the empty room and toward the back room with annoyance, then came toward me.

"Your full name?" she said.

The words came out on their own: "Sigmund Chando Merlandry Dreyer."

"Where do you live?"

Gave her my compartment number in Brooklyn followed immediately by my office address in the Verrazano Complex because I sometimes sleep there. Couldn't hold anything back!

The sound of our voices must have alerted Rednose and Fourfingers that their boss was back. As they hurried into the room, adjusting their clothing along the way, she rewarded them with an icy glare.

"Are you married?" Yokomata said to me.

Tried to protest, but the answer forced its way out first.

"Was—not anymore—and that has nothing to do with you!"

Yokomata smiled. "I think you're under enough. Now tell me: Are you withholding any information about Kel Barkham?"

"No."

"What about his aka, Kyle Bodine?

"Nothing."

"When was the first time you ever heard the name Kel Barkham?"

"A few minutes ago."

Yokomata gave a perfunctory nod to her men. "Good enough. Bring them upstairs. Directly upstairs."

Began to relax. That hadn't been so bad. None of the questions had been personal. All Yokomata was interested in was this Barkham/Bodine character. I was relieved enough to start wondering why.

"I'll get the clone," Fourfingers said after Yokomata was gone.

"And I'll free our friend here. But first…" He glanced at his partner's retreating form, then back to me. A nasty smile spread over his face like slime. "'Was' married? Where's your wife? She run off 'cause you're clone crazy?"

Tried to sing, to recite a poem, to scream and howl some gibberish, but my mouth ignored me and answered him without hesitation.

"Gone," I heard myself say. "Eight years ago. Out Where The Good Folks Go."

"Left you for some starfarmer, huh? Must be rough. So you just do it with clones now?"

"No."

"Who then?"

"No one."

"No one? Everyone does it with someone. Where do you get your jolts?"

Wanted to cry, wanted to shout, Don't do this to me! Couldn't, so I bit my upper lip until I thought my teeth were going to punch through it, but the word escaped—

—just as the clone ran up and shouted.

"Hey! That's not fair!"

Rednose's expression didn't change as he half turned and swung the back of his left hand hard against the clone's face. She staggered back and fell. Landed on the floor and sat there looking dazed. Blood began to trickle from the comer of her mouth. The blood was very red against her too-white skin.

Rednose turned back to me. "Repeat what you said." Helpless, I couldn't stop the word.

"Buttons."

His jaw dropped as his eyes lit with a kind of maniacal glee.

"He's a buttonhead!" he shouted. "A dreggin’ buttonhead!"

He leaped to my side and began to paw through my hair. Didn't take him long to reach the rear midline of my scalp and find what he was looking for.

"Here it is! He's a buttonhead, all right." He came around in front of me again. "Wifee find out and leave you? That it?"

"No!"

"Why'd she fly, then?"

Tried to vomit, anything to put a stop to this, but my voice ran on without me.

"Couldn't give Maggs what she needed emotionally or physically or any other way so she took Lynnie and left me eight years ago."

"So you got buttoned after, huh? What'sa matter? Can't get it from the real thing? Gotta get it from a button?"

"No!" Wasn't he ever going to stop?

"Then why, buttonhead?"

"Because it's easier and neater and more convenient and better and because there's no before and no after and nobody there but me and I don't have to be with anybody and I don't want to be with anybody ever again!"

Heard my voice saying things out loud to strangers that I'd never even said to myself. Would have killed Rednose there and then if I'd had the means. But my wrists and ankles were cuffed to a chair. Unable to look anyone in the eye, was using all my will to keep from blubbering with shame.

-5-

Back before Yokomata's desk, only this time the clone was leaning on me. Guessed her legs were still a little wobbly from that clout in the face from Rednose. Let her lean and kept my eyes straight ahead. Wanted only one thing right now: out of here.

"…and so we're going to return you to the city," Yokomata was saying. "As far as I'm concerned, I've never heard of you and you've certainly never been here. If you wish, you may continue to search for the man you know as Kyle Bodine. I doubt there's much chance either of you will find him before I do."

"That's for sure!" Rednose said with a snorting laugh.

Her eyes narrowed. "But should you stumble across some useful information, you are to bring it directly to me, is that clear? If it leads me to him, you will collect the bounty on him. If you withhold anything…"

She glanced toward the now opaque wall that overlooked her yard, the place where the tyrannosaurus roamed.

We were led to the roof and prodded into the back seat of the Ortega. Fourfingers and Rednose stayed behind and left the driver to take us back by himself. No threat in a buttonhead and a Dydeetown girl, especially with a glassette partition between the front and rear sections.

As we lifted into the darkening sky and swung east, he asked where we wanted to be dropped. Told him the Verrazano Complex for me and Dydeetown for the clone.

"I'll get off with you," she said.

"No."

"I have to talk to you."

"No!"

"Why not?"

The Truth was still in my brain and the words tripped out in a rush. "Because you've lied to me enough today and because I want to be alone and don't want you looking at me and if you ask me another question I'll throw you out the door!" My voice took on an hysterical edge toward the end.

"I'm sorry," she said in a quavering voice that crumbled into a sob. She buried her face against my shoulder and began to cry. "Why me?" I heard her moan. "Why doesn't anything ever go right for me?"

"You're getting my jump all wet," I told her.

She pulled away. Could see tears glistening on her cheeks, running down and mixing with the blood from the comer of her mouth. She’d left a dark splotch of tears and blood on my front. Realized with a twinge that the blood was there because she'd tried to interfere with Rednose's peeping into my life. Much as I hated the idea, I owed her for that.

She dropped her head back down on my shoulder and I let it stay there. The jump was already a mess, anyway.

-6-

Locked the compartment door behind me and slumped against it. Alone, thank the Core. Alone at last. This one room had never felt so good, so much like a home.

Had the Truth worn off? Didn't know. And it didn't matter now that I was alone. But felt so dirty. Had since I'd answered those questions Rednose put to me. Scummy, rotten thing to do. He got a look into places he had no right to look, exposed areas of me never meant for the light of day…areas even I never looked into. He…

Thought I was going to explode…

But didn't. And wouldn't. No percentage in that.

Tore off my bloodstained jumpsuit and got into the shower stall. Hot water and enzymes sprayed over me, but not long enough. My allotment ended and the fans came on, sucking up any moisture that hadn't gone down the drain, returning it to the recirc system.

Flopped onto the rumpled bed and listened to the gray background noises typical to any large complex. All quiet in my compartment until I heard a clawed and leathery scrabbling noise in the kitchen area followed by a brittle crack!

Lifted my head and saw Ignatz over in the corner contentedly chewing on a cockroach. Good old Ignatz—always on duty. Never lets me down. The roaches had learned to feed on the poisons, to turn a deaf ear to the ultrasonic repellers, but none had yet built up a tolerance to being chewed, swallowed, and digested by a hungry iguana.

Got up and used what little pacing room I had. Felt better but still felt rotten. Didn't want to go anywhere or be with anyone…not even me. Especially me.

The holo of Lynnie on the shelf to the left of the bed snagged me for a moment. Maggs had had it made for me before she ran off. A special holo, programmed to age the image with each passing year.

Lynnie had been five when Maggs took her away. She was thirteen now and probably looked almost exactly like that teenage girl on the shelf. I've spent years wondering if Maggs left it for me out of compassion or vindictiveness.

If only…

Found myself standing by the button drawer.

Somewhere during the trip back from Yokomata's I’d promised myself never to use a button again. Promised to get my head unbuttoned. Knew what they said: Once a buttonhead, always a buttonhead. That no matter what you did there would always be a part of your brain that would compare the real thing to the button and find the real thing wanting.

But I had to stop. Especially now that people like Yokomata and her men and the clone knew. Had to get unbuttoned. Couldn't face again the kind of humiliation I'd faced today. Had to stop—

But not tonight.

More than any other time in the past few years, tonight I needed a button. Reached in the drawer, pulled out one at random and hurried toward the bed. As usual, I took the holo of Lynnie off the shelf and dropped it in a drawer—didn't want her watching—and flopped down on the mattress. Snapped the button into place on my scalp and lay back, waiting for the impulses to start running down the wire into my brain.

Slowly at first…light touches, little shudders of pleasure and anticipation, her on him, him on her, pleasure from both sides, building, building, encircling and encircled, searing ecstasy every place and in places where there was no place but which the brain found ways to interpret and pass on…building and building toward the inevitable that seemed so near and yet so elusive…building and bending the body into an arch with only heels and occiput touching the mattress…building forever until the final cataclysm…

…and then sleep.

-7-

Was back in Elmero's before noon. Much of yesterday seemed far away, but parts lingered, clustering around the button at the back of my head. Got the usual nods from Doc and the crowd of regulars at the bar. No jeers or catcalls or cries of "Buttonhead!" Don't know what I'd been expecting. Because a few people knew, seemed like everyone must know.

Elmero smiled his awful smile as I came through the door. "More gold?"

"Soon maybe. Right now I'm looking for info on a guy named Kyle Bodine—ever heard of him?"

"Never."

"How about Kel Barkham?"

He laughed. "Don't I wish I could find him!"

"What y'mean?"

"At 50k dead and lOOk alive, everybody's looking for Barkham!"

Had forgotten about the bounty Yokomata had mentioned. Big bounty. Yokomata wanted him real bad.

"What did he do to Yokomata anyway?"

Elmero shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure, but I've heard it had something to do with a Zem deal."

Figured. Yokomata was reputedly big in the drug trade and Zemmelar was the latest rage.

Wanted to try Zem some day, but had enough problems for now. Already hooked on buttons, and Zem was the most potent, addictive, tightly controlled synthetic narcotic in Occupied Space. But when I was cashing in, that was the way I wanted to go.

After all, that was what it was made for—so the terminally ill could spend their last days and weeks in pain-free, euphoric hallucinations. No one was surprised, though, when Zem addicts popped up all over Occupied Space within a few standard years after its release. Zemmelar analogs were now manufactured on lots of planets, but Styx Corp. band name Zem from Earth was reputedly the best.

"Tell me what you know about Barkham."

That smile again. "It'll cost."

"If I find him, you get twenty-five percent of whatever I get. Consider it an investment."

"Make it fifty."

"Too much. Can find out whatever you can tell me in the tubes." Jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "Probably in the barroom."

"Don't count on it."

He was right. Shrugged. If I got to Barkham first, half of fifty or a hundred thousand Sol Credits was more than I'd ever seen at once in my entire life. The money wasn't my primary concern, anyway. Yokomata had called me a third-rater. She was going to eat those words.

"Deal."

"How do I know I'll ever see you again if you get the bounty?"

Offered him the only collateral I had: "My word."

He stretched his considerable length. "With anybody else I'd laugh. But you, Sig…deal."

We shook hands and then he leaned forward.

"Hear: Barkham came out of the tubes and up through the ranks of Yokomata's organization real quick. He's been Yokomata's right-hand man for the past two years. He's got a reputation for dealing dirty whenever he can, even when there's no good reason. He likes working that way. But if you try to deal him the same, nobody ever hears from you again."

"Real dregger."

"Too true. He was a perfect first-in-command for Yokomata, kept everything running smooth, kept everyone in line—until he doubled Yokomata."

This was the jog who got Harlow-c a greencard and was going to run off to the outworlds with her? Were we talking about the same guy?

"How'd he do that?"

Elmero sighed. "Been trying to find out. Not easy. Yokomata's clamped a tight lid on the affair—which means she'll probably look real bad if the details hit the tubes. What I do know is this: Yokomata's crew stole a hundred vials of Zem concentrate right off the production line."

Until now I had been leaning up against the front of his desk. Now I took a seat. A hundred vials of concentrate. It could be cut again and again before it hit the brains of the addicts.

"How much is that worth?"

"Mucho millions at user level, but word is that Yokomata was wholesaling it for a quick return. And Barkham was handling the sale."

"And he's gone."

Elmero nodded. "With the Zem. And the couple million payoff from the sale."

No wonder Yokomata had posted a big reward.

"No sign of him since?"

Elmero shook his head.

"How about CenDat?"

"I had a contact there trace his credit trail—something I'm sure Yokomata's already done—but Barkham hasn't used his thumb since Friday."

Which meant he was using barter to move around. Only a stellar-scale jog would use his thumb on the run. Anytime he bought or sold something, the transaction would be recorded in CenDat—where, when, how much, and with whom. One of the unsung benefits of Earth's cashless economy.

The only way around it was barter. And bartering would be easy if you had a hundred vials of Zem concentrate within reach. He could go anywhere. He could be anywhere by now.

So why the charade with the Dydeetown girl?

Maybe I'd never know.

"Anything else you can tell me?"

"That's it. Except there's a whisper about The Man From Mars being involved in the deal."

Laughed. "Sure! And I'm a Boedekker heir!"

Elmero shrugged. "You asked me what I'd heard, not what I thought was sensible."

Got up and headed for the door.

"Thanks, Elm."

"De nada—as long as you remember my cut."

-8-

Was back in my office cubicle, whiffing some tay. Had just let Ignatz loose to start gobbling up the cockroaches and was watching Newsface Six doing this interesting interview with Joey Jose when some graffiti about inhumane treatment of chlor-cows warped into the holochamber. Wondered if they had this much datastream graffiti in the Western Megalops or Chi-Kacy or Tex-Mex. Annoying at times, especially when the datastream was interviewing my favorite comedian.

Turned the set off when a stranger walked through the door. Short, strutting, roosterish creature, slightly older than me, with curly blondish hair banged in front, wearing a worn, dark green pseudovelv jump. Figured him for a client.

Luckily, I was wrong.

"You Dreyer?" he said in a nasal voice.

"That's me." Already didn't like him.

"Where's my clone?"

"Don't know. Never seen anyone who looks like you before."

"Not me, you jog! The Harlow clone!"

"Oh. Who are you?"

"Ned Spinner. Her owner."

Neither of us offered to shake hands.

"Never heard of her."

"Don't give me that dreg! She didn't work last night like she was supposed to. I found your name and address in her room."

Shrugged. "So?"

"So she's mine and she's missing and if you're trying to steal her, you're as good as dead!"

Getting mad now. Gave him one of my best glares.

"Going to say this once, then you can leave: The only thing I like less than clones are people who own them. Goodbye."

He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. Seemed to believe me. He stalked out without another word.

Easy to see why he wanted Harlow-c back. He'd given up his right to have a child and invested a load of credit to buy a clone gestated from Jean Harlow's DNA, then he'd set her up in a Dydeetown cubicle and proceeded to live off her earnings. Without her he was broke.

My heart was breaking.

Wasn't too much later that Harlow-c herself walked into the office. Saw how the left side of her mouth was swollen and discolored and got a queasy tug inside.

"What did you tell Spinner?"

"That I never heard of you."

"You did? " She looked shocked. "Thanks."

"Why'd you miss work?"

"I can't work. I'm too worried about Kyle. I've got to talk to you!" she blurted, her words tumbling over each other. "It's important. It's about Kyle."

"Sure," I said. "Sit down."

She stood and stared at me, obviously taken aback. "I thought you'd throw me out."

"Now why would I do that? Just because you lied to me about your boyfriend? Don't be silly!"

Knowing what she knew about me made me want to crawl under the desk. But I couldn't let her see any of that. Had my position to maintain. Couldn't let myself feel lower than a clone. So I washed out yesterday. It never happened. That was the only way I could sit in front of her.

"I promised him I'd never tell anyone what I knew about him. But I'm going to tell you everything now."

"You mean that his real name's 'Kel' and that the 'exporting firm' he works for is really Yokomata?"

"His real name's Kyle Bodine—and he works for the R.A."

Almost choked on my tay. Kel Barkham working for the Rackets Authority—this I had to hear.

"Sit down and tell me all about it. All about it."

She sat and began doing just that.

"Kyle is an R.A. agent. He's been working his way up through the ranks of the Yokomata organization for years, waiting for the fight moment to run the whole gang in."

All I could do to keep from laughing in her face—clones are so dumb.

"Why didn't he?" I said. "Understand he's been Yokomata's right-hand man for years."

"He was waiting for the fight moment. And then an undreamed-of opportunity presented itself."

"He met you."

Never thought of myself as a subtle sort, but she flashed me a very genuine smile as the remark whooshed right by her left ear.

"Oh, how nice of you to say that! But the truth is that he had an opportunity to catch The Man From Mars."

Stiffened in my chair. The Man From Mars—second time in as many tenths that his name had come up. Didn't take to the idea of the most notorious smuggler in Occupied Space having a hand in this.

But it made a sort of sense. Earth-produced Zem had a premium value on the Sol worlds, and a triple premium on the outworlds—except on someplace like Tolive where I'd heard it was legal and could be bought over the counter.

Who better to get it off-planet than The Man From Mars?

Had a bad feeling that I was getting further and further out of my depth there. But I couldn't stop now.

"Where do you fit into all of this?"

"I told you: We were going to married and move—"

"—Out Where All The Good Folks Go. Bloaty. But didn't you play any part in the plot?"

"Why…yes. How did you know?"

"Lucky guess. What did you do for Barkham?"

"Bodine—Kyle Bodine."

"Whatever. Talk."

"I delivered a package to The Man From Mars for him."

"You saw him?"

Far as I knew, nobody had ever seen The Man From Mars.

"Not…not exactly. I heard a voice. It told me to put the package down and go. So I went."

"Where and when was this?"

"Friday morning. In a cave on the Maine Coastal Preserve."

"And when did you last see Bar—Bodine?"

"That morning."

"And he was supposed to meet you Friday night?"

She nodded. "We were supposed to leave for the outworlds right away. Kyle said his life in Sol System wouldn't be worth a soupbowl in freefall after he turned in The Man From Mars. We had tickets for the Friday night shuttle."

"How come you waited until Wednesday to come to me? Why didn't you go to the R.A. first?"

"I did. But they said they'd never heard of Kyle. Which was what I expected—Kyle told me his cover was so deep that only a privileged handful in the government even knew he existed."

"Fewer than that even, I'm sure," I said.

She nodded. "Probably. But I was getting so worried when there was no news release from the R.A. about the capture of The Man From Mars…I thought something might have gone wrong. And since he told me never to go to the Officials about him, I came to you."

"My lucky day. Can you find your way back to that cave?"

"Yes. I have the co-ords written down."

That startled me.

"Clones can't write."

Actually, most Realpeople can't read or write, either. But I'd never heard of a clone who could.

She drew herself up. "I'm teaching myself. For Kyle."

Felt a wave of disgust. Poor dumb thing. Led on and lied to by this dregger, teaching herself to read just for him, thinking he was going to take her to the outworlds. Realpeople shouldn't treat clones like that…

But on the other hand, what if he'd been straight with her? If he did work for the R.A., he'd have to get off-planet real fast after blowing his cover. And being with the R.A., he'd be in a position to wrangle a nice new greencard for anyone, even a clone.

Curiouser and curiouser.

"Please find him for me!"

"All right," I said. "I'll stick with this, but only on the condition that you've told me everything you know."

"I have."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Believed her. But then, I'd believed her last time.

"Give me your greencard."

Her reaction was instantaneous: She clutched at her belt pouch. "No!"

"It may help me trace him."

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

Not definitely, really, but I had a feeling I could learn a lot about Kyle Bodine/Kel Barkham/Whoever when I learned a little more about Harlow-c's greencard.

"I don't know…"

"It might be important."

"It's already important to me. It's…" Her lower lip trembled. "It may be all I have left of him."

"And it may be the key to finding him."

She thought about that for a while, then: "All right."

She fished it out and handed it over to me like she was entrusting me with her only child.

"But take good care of it. It means a lot to me."

"Sure. Guard it with my life."

-9-

"Check this out for me, will you?"

Elmero took Harlow-c's greencard and looked it over front and back.

"Check it out how?"

"Want to know if it's real."

"Easy enough."

He rode his chair over to his all-purpose console.

I’d used the excuse of renting a flitter to get away from Harlow-c. Told her I'd pick her up in half a twentieth on the roof of my office complex.

Instead I'd come to Elmero's.

"Fake," he said, pulling the card out of a slot and sailing it across the room at me.

"That bad, huh?"

Had a feeling Elmero saw more than his share of greencards, real and otherwise.

"Worst fake I ever saw. Too thick, for one thing, and they didn't even bother to encode it with a genotype."

No genotype on the card…and it figured that if Barkham hadn't bothered to make a decent fake of a card, he certainly hadn't made any changes in CenDat.

Poor Harlow-c—that dumb, trusting clone hadn't even bothered to give the card a try-out. She was walking around thinking she could pass for Realpeople, but was still a clone as far as CenDat was concerned.

"By the way," Elmero said. "Heard something new on Barkham. Word is he tried to sell ten vials of the Zem to Lutus on Friday. And Lutus, being a fond, trusting competitor, called Yokomata to ask her what was up. The bounty on Barkham's head hit the tubes a twentieth later."

Interesting. A lot of information was accumulating but none of it was piecing together. Barkham was looking more and more like tube slime, nothing like the clone pictured him. Figured I had nothing to lose by asking a stupid question.

"Say, Elm…any chance of Kel Barkham being an R.A. agent?"

If Elmero was merely ugly when he smiled, he was hideous when he laughed.

"That motherless dregger? If Barkham's R.A., so am I!"

Tucked the worthless greencard away and stood up.

"But about that card," he said, still smiling. "For what it's worth, there is something encoded on it. Nothing to do with greencard information, but there is something. I can find out what if you want."

"Maybe later. Right now I need some firepower."

"You? You couldn't hit the side of Boedekker North at fifty meters. You're better off running."

"Know that. But may not get the chance. Need an edge."

"This have anything to do with looking for Barkham?"

Nodded. "It might."

He rubbed a long-fingered hand along his jaw. "Guess I'd better protect my investment. Got just the thing for you. Strip to the waist…"

-10-

Once we had settled into the cab of the rented flitter, Harlow-c wanted her greencard back right away but I told her I needed it just a little bit longer. She didn't like the idea but I didn't give her much choice.

The console asked for our destination and Harlow-c handed me the coordinates she'd written on a slip of paper. Thrust it back at her and told her to read them off, saying I probably couldn't read her handwriting.

Which was true. Also true that I couldn't read most writing unless the words were few and simple and block printed. Never learned. Great with numbers but reading was a useless skill. Like most people, had little need for it. But here I was with a clone who could read. Saw no reason to let her know I couldn't.

She read them off, the flitter rose, and we were on our way.

Except for my skin itching me under the wrist contacts that went along with the chest zapper Elm had fitted me with, it was a comfortable trip. We didn't say much, and when we did, I made sure we avoided the subject of yesterday's stay at Yokomata's. She talked about some of the books she had read recently. Wondered if she was showing off or just trying to make conversation. For a dumb clone she seemed to know a lot.

Less than two tenths after leaving Brooklyn, we were hovering over the Maine Coastal Preserve. Can't imagine why anyone would want to live in Maine. Cold rocks, cold wind, cold water. And trees, lots of trees. The megalops hasn't crept this far north and probably never will. The cave was below—a black hole in the coastal rocks, well above the tide line.

Settled the flitter down and turned to her.

"Once more: What did you do here?"

"I took the box Kyle gave me and carried it down to the cave."

"How big was the box?"

"About this big." She measured out a 25-by-10 centimeter space in the air—just the right size to hold a hundred amps of Zem. "I took it in and a voice from somewhere in the dark told me where to put it. I put it and left."

"And that was it? Nothing more?"

"Nothing. I got back into the flitter that brought me here and let it take me back to L-I Port where I was supposed to meet Kyle for the shuttle out."

"And he never showed."

She shook her head sadly. "No."

Beginning to get the picture now, but needed to explore the cave to confirm a suspicion that had been growing all day.

Left Harlow-c in the flitter—I'd brought a coat, she hadn't—and made my way to the cave mouth with the flit's utility lamp under my arm. The salt-stinking wind off the water was like a vibe blade against my face. Strange to think that everything I was looking at was really there. No holos. Found it disorienting in a way. Also, the wide-openness of the Maine coast left me feeling naked and unprotected. Was glad to get into the comfortable dark confines of the cave.

Didn't take me long to find him. Just followed the whimpers.

Not sure how they did it to him. Must be something the Martian colonists developed. I knew The Man From Mars was involved—he'd left his mark scratched in the dirt next to Barkham's remains: a big circle with four little circles lined up inside along the equator.

Only Barkham's head remained untouched. It sat upright, open mouthed and glassy eyed on a transparent box, blinking in the glare of my light.

Except for the spinal cord and major nerve trunks, his torso was completely gone: skin, muscles, bones, guts, all eaten away or chewed away or melted away, I don't know which. But gone. The lower halves of his arms and legs still had flesh on them but were connected to the rest of him by nerve bundles alone. All the nerves seemed to have been coated with something to keep them viable and then stretched to their limit over the rocks and debris on the cave floor. Where his chest had once been now sat a heart-lung machine, hissing softly as it drew air in and out of the tube jammed into the lower stump of his windpipe, chugging softly as it pumped bright red blood up through his arteries and drew the darker stuff down from his jugulars.

He yelped with every step I took toward him.

At first I thought he was afraid I was one of his torturers come to do more damage, but then realized he could feel every little vibration I made as I approached across the cave floor, and each and every one was translated into pain for him.

Came up and looked him in the eyes. Whatever kind of mind he'd had was pretty much gone. Having his entire nervous system laid bare to the chill Maine air had pushed him into mental subspace.

His pupils constricted as he looked up into the light.

"God?" he said in a voice so hoarse from screaming it was barely recognizable as human. "Is that…you, God?"

Realized he couldn't see me behind the light. He was talking to the light, timing his words with the exhalations of the machine sitting below the stump of his neck.

"Yeah. God. That's me."

"Can I die…now God?…I've had e…nough take me…God I'm ready."

"Not yet. First you answer a few questions."

His eyes squeezed shut. "After I'm…dead God after…I'm dead."

"Now." Didn't give him time to protest again. "You shorted The Man From Mars, didn't you?"

His voice keened, his eyes rolled, his face contorted in a spasm of horror at the mention of that name. Had to let it run its course.

"Didn't you?"

It looked like he was trying to nod but he couldn't, not with his neck muscles detached from the rest of him.

"Yes but on…ly a few…vials."

"So he came for the rest of it."

A sob: "Gave it…to him."

"But still he did this to you."

Another attempt at a nod, then a wail. "Lesson!"

Right. A good lesson.

The Man From Mars already had a ruthless reputation, and when word about this got out, no one would ever try to short him again.

"So he winds up with the Zem and his money."

"Not money…thinks Yoko…has it."

Which meant that as far as The Man From Mars was concerned, the deal was done. Yokomata's lieutenant had tried to short him—Barkham had probably slipped ten dummy vials into the case—but that had all been taken care of. The Man From Mars had all the Zem he had paid for, and was no doubt well on his way to Mars at this very moment.

But Yokomata didn't have the payment. She'd never received it. And she wanted it before word got out about her Number One Man doubling her. She'd lose lots of face if she got left with no Zem, no payment, and no Barkham.

"Where is the payment?"

"Don't you…know, God?"

"Of course. But it's good for you to confess these sins. Cleanses the soul."

"In L-I…Port locker…had it…routed there."

"And the key?"

A grunt—an attempt at a laugh?

"Hidden where…only you can…find it!"

"Where's that?"

"Not of…your making."

Then he began to gurgle and roll his eyes. The more I asked, the more he rolled and gurgled. Was tempted to flick a finger against one of his exposed nerves to get his attention but didn't want to touch him.

Changed the subject.

"What about the Dydeetown girl?"

The eyes widened. "Truly you…are God!"

"We've already established that. Where did she fit in?"

His upper lip curled into a sneer. "Meatbag clone…too stu…pid to know."

"Yeah. You used her to make the drop for you here while you were trying to sell the ten stolen vials to Lutus. Told her you were going to marry her. She loves you."

He made a noise like, "Glah!…stupid clone…going to…leave her stan…ding at the gate."

Said nothing.

"God can…I die…now?"

Turned and started walking back toward the cave mouth.

"Don't think so. You've still got some time coming to you."

His voice rose to a shrill squeak, see-sawing up and down with the in-and-out of the machine's respirations.

"Youuuuproooomiiiised!"

Stopped. Had promised, hadn't I. As he wailed and keened, I turned and walked back toward his set-up, careful to make sure every footstep landed as hard as it could. Was reaching for the power switch when I heard Harlow-c's voice cry out behind me.

"No—don't!"

So I didn't.

Watched the look of horror on her face as she stumbled forward. She had her fist crammed halfway into her mouth and her whole body was shuddering like a vaporbrain in withdrawal. Was afraid she was going to fall apart completely. But she held up until she reached the heart-lung machine, then crumpled to her knees in front of it. Her voice was a low moan.

"Kyle-Kyle-Kyle! What've they done to you? What've they done!"

But Barkham had finally gone over the mental edge. Maybe it was the sound of her voice that finally pushed him over. He said nothing, just rolled his eyes and made squeaky noises.

Heard her begin to retch and pulled her away.

"There's nothing you can do for him now."

"I can stop the machine!"

"Was just about to do that when you barged in. Stand over there while I—"

"No! I'll do it. It's the least I can do for him."

That was a laugh. "You don't owe him anything."

She turned on me like some sort of wild thing.

"I do! He's the only Realpeople who ever really cared for me and treated me decent. I owe him everything!"

Said nothing. Just stood there and bit my tongue as she went over and reverently pushed in the power switch. She was irrational on the subject and probably too dumb to see the truth even if I drew her a picture. So I dropped it. Watched her turn away as Barkham's face turned a dusky color and went through its final spasms.

"It's over," I said after a while.

She stuck her chin out and strode ahead of me, leading the way back to the flitter, seemingly oblivious to the cold and the wide open spaces.

After a long silence during which I told the console "Home" and we took to the air, she spoke without looking at me:

"Did you see what they did to him?"

Of course I'd seen. That wasn't what she wanted to know.

"Yeah. Too bad. Really tore me up."

She turned to me. "Don't you ever feel anything?"

"None of your business, but I'll tell you this: I don't feel anything for guys like Barkham."

"Because he was going to marry a clone?"

"He wasn't. And even if he was, that has nothing to do with it."

"How about for me, then? You know me. We've been together all afternoon and you know how I felt about him. How about feeling something for me?"

"As a rule, I tend not to feel too much for clones, either."

"How about for your wife, then? Ever feel much for her? Or your daughter? You ever feel anything for anyone?"

Did feel something then: anger. Wanted to hit her. She had no right even knowing about Maggs and Lynnie, let alone talking about them. But I bottled it up. Good at bottling. Dangerous to show what's going on inside. People get to know your weak spots, your vulnerabilities, they can get to you.

"That's me," I said lightly. "Feel-nothing Sig."

"Maybe that's why she left you behind when she went Out Where All The Good Folks Go. Maybe she wanted someone who's alive rather than a walking corpse."

"Maybe."

Knew the clone was trying to get a rise out of me. Just leaned back and looked straight ahead at the darkening landscape.

"Well, I'll tell you this, Feel-nothing Sig: I'm sneaking home and scraping up everything of value I can find and I'm getting a ticket on the first shuttle out tomorrow morning."

"Why sneak?"

"Ned Spinner. Remember?"

"Oh, right. Your classy owner."

"We clones have a saying: You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your owner. With luck, I'll be far into subspace before he misses me tomorrow night."

"You can't buy a ticket. Clones don't have credit."

Her smile was humorless. "How long do you think it'll take me to barter someone into buying me one?"

"No Realpeople will buy a shuttle ticket for a clone. It'd be like leaving your name and address at the scene of a felony."

"I have my—hey! You've still got my greencard." She stuck out her hand. "Give it back right now!"

"Don't have it with me."

"What?" If she hadn't been belted into her seat, I believe she would have leaped on me.

"Don't worry—it's safe. I told you"—thinking fast as I could now—"I left it with someone to see if it could lead us to Barkham. Didn't think we'd find him up here."

That seemed to mollify her a bit, but not much.

"I want that card back, Mr. Dreyer, and I want it soon."

"Don't worry. I'll get it back to you before the first shuttle tomorrow morning."

But I was going to put it to good use before then.

"You'd better. Because I don't intend to be anybody's property after tomorrow. I'll drop the -c from my name and be a free citizen of the outworlds. And nobody had better try to stop me."

She looked at me defiantly, as if daring me to protest.

"Fine with me," I told her. "Means one less clone on Earth."

She leaned back in her chair. "Maybe I'll run into your wife out there. Should I say hello for you?"

Didn't reply. Just stared straight ahead and whistled through my clenched teeth.

-11-

Dropped her off in Dydeetown.

Don't know why they call it a town. It's just an old, old building on a short strip along the East River. Not a very imaginative building—big rectangular slab with lots of windows. Striking at night with all the red lights in the windows. Could have dressed it with a holo envelope, but people liked it the way it was. A landmark.

Learned a lot about Dydeetown during my last search. Found out it was named Aphrodite Village before my time. Guess that somehow degenerated into what we called it today. And long before that it had been called "the U.N," whatever that means.

Headed due east along the length of Long Island for the shuttleport that took up most of its eastern end. Glided into the third level of the short-term lot and went directly for the Safe Storage Service.

I’d done a lot of thinking during that long silent flight back, and had Barkham's scheme pretty well figured out now. A neat scheme, one he would have got away with if he hadn't been so greedy.

Or was it greed? Elmero had mentioned Barkham's reputation for burning everybody just for the fun of it. Almost a matter of principle with him. Maybe he hadn't been able to resist one burn too many.

Figured it ran something like this: As Yokomata's Number One Man and the guy in charge of the Zem sale, Barkham had free rein in setting up the deal. He took his time, allowing The Man From Mars to take possession of the Zem where the smuggler would be comfortably anonymous—the Maine coast, for instance. Meanwhile, Barkham had rented space in the Safe Storage Service at L-I Port and was pseudonymously courting a Dydeetown girl who could make the drop for him in Maine and then be forgotten. The Man From Mars would test the Zem concentrate, find out it was the real thing, then authorize transfer of payment to Barkham's unit in the shuttleport Safe Storage Service.

The only possible hitch after that would be picking up the payment from the Safe Storage Service—someone might be watching for him. My guess was that Barkham planned to have his Dydeetown girl pick it up and bring it to him. And then he'd leave her behind in the shuttleport holding her useless greencard as she was led away by the yellowjackets for trying to emigrate under a false identity.

And it would have worked too if he'd been satisfied with limiting his dirty doings to Yokomata and the clone. But no, he had to try and pull one off on The Man From Mars as well. The millions in gold—assumed it was gold—coming his way weren't enough. Had to spice it up by short-counting The Man From Mars. Were me trying something like that, I'd situate the blank vials in a circle around the center of the box, figuring anyone doing random sampling would select from the very center or the periphery.

Had to hand it to Barkham: He must have been either crazy or ultra-driven or the cojoniest dregger there ever was. On top of everything else, he had the audacity to try to sell the pilfered vials to Yokomata's biggest competitor—an added insult to his boss.

But somehow it went all wrong. The Man From Mars found out he'd been cheated; he caught up with Barkham, retrieved the missing vials, dealt with the cheater in his own inimitable way, and headed home. Why not? Had his Zem, and probably figured Yokomata had the payment.

But Yokomata didn't have the payment, and had no idea where to look.

I did. And I had the key to Barkham's unit—right inside Jean's phony, too-thick greencard. Why Barkham hid it there I'll never know. Maybe to keep it off his person and safe—he knew Jean would treasure it—or maybe the irony of it appealed to the same kinks in his synapses that made him want to cheat everybody he knew.

Didn't know and didn't care. The card was mine and that was all that mattered at the moment.

Stepped up to the counter of the Safe Storage Service. The card slipped easily into the slot. Waited for the contents of the designated storage unit to arrive. A standard packing case about the size of my head popped out of a chute a meter or so to my left. Anticipating the extraordinary weight, I picked it up without showing the strain, tucked it under my arm, and headed back to the short term lot.

The weight was pretty much what I'd expected: about 20 kilos. Just about the same weight Lynnie had been when Maggs took her away. Wondered if Maggs had carried her along this same path to the shuttle ramp, telling her about the exciting ride ahead and why her Daddy wasn't there.

Shifted the weight in my arms. Yeah, my five-year-old Lynnie had weighed just this much when she was taken from me. Started thinking of how it used to feel to hold her, and then thought of all the times I hadn't held her when I could have and should have, all the missed opportunities, all the too-busy, shouldered-aside chances to show her how much she was loved by and how much she meant to the emotionally inarticulate fool who pretended to be a father and a husband, chances that would never come again. Never, ever, never—

Stopped and waited for my vision to dear. Didn't know what was wrong with me. Thought I'd shut Lynnie away in my mental closet, the one with the foolproof lock that only failed sometimes in the wee hours of the morning when it popped open and let out all the things I hide away to make everyday life bearable.

Tucked all the loose ends back in—I'm good at that—and hurried on.

Soon as I had the flitter airborne again, I opened the package. Lots of little black statuettes of Joey Jose, my favorite comedian, each about eight centimeters high, forty of them arranged in two double-decker rows of ten. By their weight I knew they were gold. Calculated that forty half-kilo pieces of gold came to a bit over two million Solar credits.

Swallowed hard. A lot of credit. More than I'd ever thought I'd hold in my lap.

Where to go? That was the question. Who did this belong to? By rights, the Styx Corporation had first call since it was the producer of the stolen Zem concentrate. But couldn't go to them—too many difficult questions to answer. Could play the old finders-keepers game but that didn't seem too smart. Yokomata would come calling if I suddenly got rich. Best to turn it over to her and have done with the whole affair. At least I'd collect the 50K bounty and maybe even a bonus for returning the gold too.

But I wanted to test the water first—see what sort of mood Yokomata was in before dropping by with my little present. My office was closest. Headed there.

The roof of the Verrazano Complex was after-hours quiet at this time of night. I’d carried the box halfway to the downchute when a too-familiar voice stopped me.

"What you got there, Buttonhead?"

Looked to my left and saw Rednose, Fourfingers, and Yokomata's driver standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a luxury Ortega. And sitting with her stumpy legs dangling out its right rear door was Yokomata herself.

Didn't like the looks on their faces—like ground-level dogs coming upon a wounded cat. Hoped my voice wouldn't squeak.

"Just going to call you!" I said to Yokomata, ignoring Rednose.

"Really?" she said. "Whatever for?"

"Found Barkham. Wanted to collect my bounty." I hefted the box. "Found this, too. Figured you were looking for it."

"There wouldn't happen to be some statues of Joey Jose in there, would there? I'm terribly fond of his humor."

"So am I," I said, trying to keep the conversation light. "Was hoping you'd let me keep one of the statues as a reward for returning all forty of them—a total of twenty kilos of weight."

The heavies stirred at mention of the weight.

"Think of all the buttons you could buy with that, Buttonhead," Rednose said.

Yokomata continued: "And you were in the process of delivering it to me, weren't you?" Her tone was ominous.

"Of course."

"Strange. It appeared to me that you were going to your office."

"Going to call first."

Her smile would have looked at home on the face of her pet tyrannosaurus. "How polite. By the way, how was my trusted associate, Mr. Barkham, when you found him?"

Her smile broadened as I described his final circumstances.

Then she said, "Put the box down."

"And put your hands over your head," said Rednose.

Did as I was told and when I straightened up I saw the three of them had blasters out and pointed at my midsection.

"No sudden moves," Fourfingers said.

Rednose stepped forward, a smirk on his face. At first I thought he had a blaster in each hand, then I saw the one in his left was the dose gun, the one loaded with Truth.

"I don't think we have to worry about Buttonhead, here. He doesn't carry. Do you, Buttonhead?"

He did a quick frisk of my flanks and found nothing.

"Satisfied?"

"Not quite. First thing we do right now is make sure you're telling the truth about Kel. After that, maybe it'll be interesting to try what The Man From Mars did to Kel on you."

He raised the dose gun. Had to move now or maybe lose my chance forever, so I joined the two contacts on the outer aspect of each of my wrists. The front of my jumpsuit exploded as a staccato series of bluefire energy bolts sprayed out in a horizontal arc, riddling the three—Rednose first and then the pair behind him—sending them twisting, spinning, writhing to the roof surface.

Yanked my wrists apart—seemed they'd been joined for minutes but it had only been a matter of a heartbeat or two—and started toward Yokomata's Ortega. Couldn't see much, what with the dark, the meaty-smelling steam rising from the corpses, the smoke from my scorched jump front, and the blotchy afterimages of bolts from the chest zapper.

My foot struck something and it skittered in front of me with a metallic scrape. Without slowing I stooped and picked it up: somebody's blaster. Dimly saw Yokomata ahead of me, moving within the frame of her flitter door. She could have been trying to get away or reaching for a blaster of her own. Took no chances. Fired off a bolt into the air and shouted.

"Not another move, lady!"

She froze and glared at me as I came up to her. She was unarmed.

Had her.

Bloaty. What was I going to do with her?

-12-

We were airborne, riding low over the sluggish surface of the East River. Dydeetown's rectangle of red lights sparkled on our left. The flitter was on slow autocruise which would keep it moving along the present traffic lane at a leisurely pace. Yokomata sat stiffly in the other front seat. Behind us the corpses of her three dead thugs lay in the rear section where I had forced her to toss them.

Felt strangely calm about killing them. Never killed before, but for the life of me I couldn't dredge up any remorse. Self defense and various other sorts of dreck, but to be frank, it seemed like the chest zapper had done it, not me. Felt removed from the whole incident. And if I wanted to dig way down into my gut, I was glad they were dead—especially Rednose.

Sat facing Yokomata now, blaster in hand, the Truth dose gun on my lap.

A bad situation all the way around. Wasn't sure how to get out of it, so I'd been talking to her in a matter-of-fact tone, playing it by ear, but to no avail. She hadn't uttered a word since I'd cut loose with my chest zapper. Had to break her down some if I was going to get anywhere. And then it occurred to me how.

"What's your procedure for unwanted bodies?"

No reply.

I shrugged and gestured toward the rear door with the barrel of my blaster.

"Then we'll improvise. Get back there and toss one of them into the river. Then we'll find a deserted spot in Brooklyn for the second, and in Manhattan for the third."

"Don't be an idiot!" she said.

Contact.

Figured the last thing she wanted—next to being blasted herself—was to have the bodies of her toughies all over Central Bosyorkington.

"Got a better idea?"

She gave me a level stare. "You saw a demonstration in my yard yesterday."

The dinosaur! Forgot all about that. The perfect garbage disposal.

Told the console, "Home at max."

The Ortega rose toward the upper lanes with a lurch and soon we were streaking northwest.

"Now," I said to her, "let's talk some business. I'm willing to forget your attempted doublecross back on the roof. You forget your three dead men, and we'll start off even again."

She said nothing, merely stared at me with those reptilian eyes.

Gestured to the sack of gold statuettes on the floor between us. "In return for finding your money and getting it to you, I expect a ten percent reward. Add that to what you owe me for finding Barkham dead, and we can round t off to five of the statuettes. We part friends, both of us richer."

She continued to stare at me and I began to get worried. Did not want Yokomata for an enemy. She had a reputation for holding a grudge. Would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for my head to get vaporized.

"Sounds reasonable," she said, finally.

Hid my relief. And my elation. Would have let her haggle me down to two statues

Stuck out my hand. She took and shook.

"Deal."

We made small talk the rest of the trip. She seemed particularly interested in the manner of Barkham's death. Had a feeling she’d’ve liked to have been there to see it herself. She seemed relaxed and affable, but I detected something ugly beneath the surface.

And then the flitter stopped: We were over the Yokomata estate, somewhere between the wall and the softly glowing Taj Mahal holo enveloping her house. All was dark below.

As Yokomata looked out the window on her left, I picked up the dose gun on my lap and gave her a good air-propelled shot of Truth in her upper arm, right through the fabric of her blouse.

She spun around and grabbed at the injection site.

"Wha…?"

Smiled at her. "Just getting even. After all, what's a little Truth between friends?"

Put the flitter on hold at ten meters and popped open the rear door on Yokomata's side. There came a breathy hissing from below, interrupted by loud clacking sounds: jaws with dozens of giant teeth snapping together with bone-crunching force. I made her push the bodies of her dead thugs out the door one by one.

She didn't seem to mind. And as the last tumbled down into that gnashing darkness I said to her:

"Yoko, old girl, tell me true: Did you really mean it when you said you'd let bygones be bygones?"

As her head swung around toward me her face became a mask of unfathomable rage. Spittle flew at me as she screamed.

"You putrid lump of street dung! Do you think I'd let you get away with killing my men and walking away with a percentage of my take? I'd rather sell my ass in Dydeetown! The first thing I'm going to do when I get inside is send a hit squad after you and that clone! You'll both be dead before sunrise!"

Pointed the blaster at her face.

"Jump."

Her eyes reflected the horror she felt. She could hide nothing.

"At least you've got a chance if you jump," I said. "That's more than you were going to give me."

She looked out the door into that hungry darkness, then looked back at me. If she hadn't had the Truth in her, she might have caught me off guard. But her face told the whole story.

Put a deep penetrating blast into her upper chest as she started to leap at me. She reeled back and fell out the door.

Didn't wait to hear the chomping from below. Hit the "All Secure" button, then told the console the coordinates of my compartment building. Had to get a clean intact jumper before I went to Elmero's to turn all this gold into more manageable credit.

-13-

Scanned the L.I. Port mall near the shuttle ramp but saw no sign of Jean. Walked on, passing someone in a Suki Alvarez holosuit, when I heard a familiar voice say, "Hello, Mr. Dreyer."

Suki Alvarez flickered off and there stood Jean.

Didn't recognize her at first, what with her hair cut close to the scalp and all. She was standing by the chute to the shuttle ramp, all her belongings in a single bag on the floor beside her, her face a tight, anxious mask.

"Afraid I wouldn't show?"

"I knew you would," she said with conviction. "Just afraid you'd be late. I'm on the next shuttle."

"Where to?"

"The Bernardo de la Paz platform."

"Oh." That had been Maggs' first stop. It had taken me a while to trace her itinerary, but I finally learned—

"Have you got it?"

"What?" I came back to the present. "Oh, yeah. Here." Had the greencard in my hand. Passed it over.

She grabbed it away like a starving man grabs food, and sighed like he would with his first bite. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you."

"Means a lot, huh?"

A little-girl smile: "Oh, yes!"

"Like what?"

"Somebody believed in me enough to help me pass as Realpeople."

"How do you know it's not a fake? How do you know you won't get red-lighted when they check your genotype as you try to pass through Emigration?"

She looked insulted. "Stop it!"

"How do you know he wasn't going to go up to the screening area and leave you standing there with the alarms going off while he boarded the shuttle and headed out?"

"I just know!" she said in a shocked tone. Guess the thought had never occurred to her.

"He was a crook."

"No! He was an agent"…her face clouded…"and the R.A. will catch up with whoever did such a thing to one of their top men. He believed in me and I believe in this card. It's all I have left of him."

Dumb. Dumb! Had to tell her the truth, whether she believed me or not.

"He was a crook. That's how he got these."

Handed her a small sack containing ten of the little Joey Jose statues. After almost toppling over with the unexpected weight, she looked inside, then looked at me, questioning.

"They were Barkham's and—"

"Bodine—his real name was Kyle Bodine."

"Whatever. I took a share. Figure the rest belong to you. They're worth less on the outworlds than here, but it’s enough to set you up pretty, so take good care of them."

Knew she'd have no trouble getting them out—Earth restricted only the importing of gold.

Her eyes got sort of liquidy. "I don't know what to—"

"Not going to cry are you?" Didn't want a scene here.

She smiled faintly. "Nope. I'm trying to forget how to do that."

"It's easy. I forgot a long time ago."

She was silent for a time, looking around and biting her lip. Then she said: "Well, thanks anyway for giving this to me."

"Fair's fair," I told her. "Anyway, I came out way ahead. Won't have to work for clones again."

"You never ease up, do you?" she said as her face rearranged itself into harder lines. "I was almost hoping you'd…"

"What?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know…change your mind about me…about clones…a little."

Looked away. "You've got about as much chance of seeing that as I have of changing yours about Barkham."

"Bodine," she said mechanically. "And why don't you just leave it alone?"

"Because he was a no-good dregger and that's the truth."

"It can't be. I won't let it be."

"The truth stinks sometimes. Lots of times."

"Not this time. Whatever you or anybody else thinks of Kyle—or whoever he was—I know he loved me and wanted me and no one can take that away."

"We'll see."

"No. You'll see. But in any event—" She smiled stiffly and stuck out her fight hand. "You did your job well and I thank you for it."

"Will you thank me when you find out that card's a fake?"

"Only one way to prove it to you, isn't there?"

Her eyes held mine. She was so sure. Maybe she had to be. Maybe she had to hold onto the belief that someone out of all the Realpeople in all the worlds would do right by her. Too bad she had such lousy judgment.

She picked up her bag and stepped into the upchute. As she rose toward the Emigration platform I moved back so I could watch her be processed. She walked to the counter and inserted her greencard in the slot, then slipped her arm into the tissue sampler.

Stood and watched, repeatedly rubbing my sweat slick palms on my jump while the processor checked the genetic makeup of Jean’s sampled cells against the data in the central bank.

And then with a smile that must have been blinding at close range, Jean was passing through, triumphantly waving the greencard in my direction, and heading for the shuttle.

Gave her an elaborate shrug and turned away.

-14-

Stood at the edge of the platform for the Brooklyn tube and watched the shuttle rise blueward, a black dot against the rising sun. Someone who went in for that sort of thing would probably think it was beautiful.

Thought about that greencard…and the few tense moments I'd had there wondering whether it would work.

Don't ask me why I did it. Don't know. Haven't become an oozer or anything like that. Nothing's changed. Just happened that when I returned to my compartment for a fresh jumpsuit I came across the one with Jean's bloodstains on it and the idea hit me.

The challenge appealed to me. The challenge and nothing more. So after I gave the astonished Elmero twenty of the statuettes—his fifty-percent share of what I'd found—he was more than willing to arrange the fix as a favor for his dear good friend Sigmundo. Said the blood on the jumper would enable his contact in CenDat to locate Jean's genotype and change her status in no time. True to his word, he handed me a new, genuine greencard in a tenth.

Watched the shuttle disappear from view, well on its way to the first stop to Out Where All The Good Folks Go.

Pulled out the bogus card Barkham had given Jean and dropped it over the edge of the platform. It fluttered and see-sawed into the dimness below. Soon it too was out of sight.

PART TWO

Wires

"It's Be Kind To Buttonheads Week. Let your neighborhood wired wonder plug himself into your wall." (datastream graffito)

-1-

The next two years were pretty uneventful until I lost my head.

Literally.

Being decapitated will always rank as my most memorable experience. Not my favorite, but very memorable. Happened right in my own home, too.

Someone had strung a strand of molly wire across my compartment doorway. Neck high. Couldn't see it, of course, so I stepped right through it. Correction: It stepped through me. A submicroscopic strand of single molecules strung end to end. If it hadn't made that faint little skitch as it cut through one of my neck bones, don't know what would have happened.

Yes, I do. Would have died right inside my doorway.

Wouldn't have been pretty, either. A turn to the left or right, or a slight lean forward, and my head would have fallen off in a gaudy spray of red and bounced along the floor.

Didn't feel a thing. But that's supposed to be typical of molecular wire. Could guess what brand it was, too: Gussman Alloy. Hundred-kilo test. Cuts through a human body like a steel-trimming razor through cheesoid.

As the door slid shut behind me, my skin began to burn from a line just below my Adam's apple all the way down to my toes — a million white hot needle pricks. My knees were getting soft. That was on the outside. Panic was roaring to life on the inside. Had to do something — but what?

Gently clamped my weakening fingers around my neck and shuffled across the single room in the direction of the only chair like someone balancing live dissociator grenades atop his head. My legs were starting to give way as I neared it. If I fell or even stumbled, my head would slip and loosen all the connections with the rest of my body and it would all be over. Forced myself to turn slowly, got the backs of my knees against the seat, and lowered myself down as gently as I could. My arms were getting tired from holding my head on, but at least I was seated.

Relief, but not much. Had to stay stiffly erect. Couldn't last like this very long, though. Risked taking a hand away from my neck to press the reform button. Felt the chair move up against my spine and the back of my neck and head, fitting itself to me. Kept the button pressed for maximum fit until the padding had formed forward to my ears and had wormed its way between my arms and body. Thanked myself sincerely for investing in a top-of-the-line polyform recliner like this.

Safe for the moment. Swallowed and felt something tear free in my throat. Got my hand back up there real fast. But how long could I hold it there? Everything was going numb.

At least now I could think. Still alive — but how? Even more pressing — Why and who? Who would want to behead me? Could only be one —

Saw movement outside my door and had the answer to my question. But not quite the answer I had expected. The custom chair and the one-way transparent door were a couple of instances of inconspicuous consumption I'd splurged on since the windfall of the Yokomoto affair. The door had appealed to the voyeur in me, I guess. Mine is an end-corridor compartment and my door faces down the hall. The door lets me get to know all my neighbors without them knowing me. Nice that way.

But the guy coming down the hall now was no neighbor. He was pale and pudgy, had a high forehead, with beady little eyes and a small mouth crowded around a fat nose. Never saw him before. He came up to the door, glanced around, then pulled a tiny aerosol cannister from his pocket. Thought I saw a brief blur of motion back in the hall but my attention was centered on him as he sprayed the air in front of the door at the neck-high level. He waited a couple of seconds, then waved the cannister through the fading spray. The molly wire was gone, its molecular bonds dissolved. The murder weapon was now just a bunch of Gussman alloy molecules floating randomly through the air of the hallway.

The guy didn't leave right away. He stood and stared longingly at the door. Could tell from his expression he wished he could see through it so he could dwell on the end result of his handiwork. Almost wished the door could go transparent both ways so he could see me sitting here looking back at him, giving him the finger. With a sigh and a wistful little smile he turned and walked away.

Who the hell was he? And why had he tried to kill me?

Tried? He hadn't failed yet. Didn't know how I had hung on this long and didn't know how much longer everything in my head would stay lined up with my neck. Needed help, and fast!

Wheeled the chair over to the comm unit and told it to call Elmero's private number. Knew he was there. Just left him.

"El!" I said when his sallow, skeletal face appeared on the screen. My voice was soft and hoarse.

"Sig! Why're you whispering? And why're you holding your throat? Sore?"

"Need help, El. Real bad."

He smiled that awful smile. "What you into now?"

"Trouble. Doc still there?"

"Out in the barroom."

"Send him over. Gonna die if you don't get him here real quick. Molly wire."

The smile disappeared. He could tell I wasn't joking. "Where are you?"

"Home"

"He's on his way."

The screen blanked. Swiveled the chair around and stared down the empty hall, trying to figure out why that guy wanted me dead. Had only been back in business for two weeks...

-2-

The life of the idle rich had become a real bore, mainly because I couldn't act rich. All I could do was be idle. That was the problem with getting a windfall in something illegal like gold. Had to fence it through Elmero and keep my spending at a level that would not attract attention in Central Data.

But even if it had all been legal, it was hard for me to spend anything near what I had. Didn't like to travel, didn't drink or sniff much, didn't do luce or stim, didn't have friends to squander it on. Did buy some top quality buttons as a treat. Spent a lot of time in pleasureland with a succession of them snapped onto my scalp, trying to saturate my limbic system before beginning the slow, painful process of cutting myself off.

Then the wean began, stretching out the intervals between buttoning up, lengthening them to the point where I'd feel safe getting dewired. The wean was now almost a year along. Hardest thing I've ever done, and idleness only made it harder.

So I opened my office in the Verrazano Complex again. Thought that would be pretty idle for a while, too, but who shows up the first day? Ned Spinner. Didn't call, didn't knock, just strutted into my office and started yelling in that nasal voice.

"Dreyer, you lousy rotten dregger! I knew you'd be back sooner or later! Where is she?"

"Where is who?"

Knew he meant Jean. Spinner had hounded me for months after her "disappearance," even at home. Finally I'd moved to an outer wall compartment and lost him for a while. Now he was back. Must have had my office cubicle watched all this time.

Hated the jog. He was in the same dark greeen pseudovelvet jumpsuit he always wore. He thought he had friends, thought he had influence, thought he was a talented entrepeneur. And he was...but only in his own mind. In real life he was a lousy pimp clonemaster.

"Don't know any more than Central Data tells you, Spinner: She took a shuttle off-planet and from there emigrated to the Outworlds."

"Dreck! She's still on-planet and you know where!"

"In all honesty, I don't know where she is. But if I did know, sure wouldn't tell you."

His face reddened. "If that's your game, fine. But sooner or later you're gonna slip up. And when I catch you with her, it'll be all over for you, Dreyer. I won't bother with grand theft charges. I'll take care of you myself. And when I'm through with you, even the garbage chute in this roach-hole building won't accept you."

The man had a way with words.

Shortly after he left, a real customer showed up. He was slim, smooth, maybe thirty, his shiny hair leaf-sculpted in the latest, tinted perfectly to match the lemon yellow of his feather-trimmed clingsuit. The height of fashion. Up on the latest. Hated guys like this. Maybe because his clothes would look ridiculous on my cuboid frame, but mostly because he dressed to proclaim that he was up to the minute on style and all he really advertized to me was that he didn't have a mind of his own.

His name was Earl Khambot and he said he needed help finding someone.

"My specialty," I said. "Who're we looking for?"

He hesitated, uncertainty breaking through the high fashion facade for the first time since he'd stepped in. For an awful minute I thought he was going to name some clone that had wandered off. Didn't want any more clone work. But he surprised me.

"My daughter," he said.

"That's a job for the M.A., Mr. Khambot, and they don't like independent operators making waves in their pond."

"I...I haven't told the Megalops Authority.

A definite glitch here. A missing kid was cause for hysteria. After all, you were only allowed one. That was the law. You had one chance to duplicate yourself and after that the population problem was left to natural attrition. That one chance was damn valuable to you. You couldn't buy a second for anything. Anything. If that one precious child disappeared, you went screaming to the Megalops Authority. You sure as hell didn't come to some hole-in-the-wall independent operator in the rundown Verrazano Complex. Unless...

"What's the glitch, Mr. Khambot?"

He sighed resignedly. "She's an illegal."

Ah! That explained it. An extra. And above-and-beyonder. A one-more-than-replacement kid.

"Take it she's an urch now? You want to hire me to find an urch? How long since you placed her with a gang?"

He shrugged sullenly. "Three years ago. We couldn't let them terminate her. She was —"

"Sure," I said. "Save it."

Hated irresponsible jogs. No excuse for having an illegal. A no-win situation. The only alternative to risking the kid being yanked and terminated by Population Control — a retro-active abortion, as some called it — was to give it over to the urchingangs. And that was no picnic.

Was thinking: You idiot.

My thoughts must have shown. He said: "I'm not stupid. I got sterilized. Guess it didn't take." He read my mind again. "And yes, the baby was mine. Genotyping proved it."

"And you wanted your wife to carry it?"

"She wanted to. And if she wanted it, so did I."

Earl Khambot went up a notch or two in my estimation. He could have sued for a bundle of credit — malpractice and wrongful conception and all that — and got a nice settlement. And a terminated fetus. So he passed it up. Odd to find someone who's not for sale. Can't figure some people.

"Let's get clean," I told him. "What's your angle?"

His expression was all innocent bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Come on!" Patience was slipping away real fast. "Even if I find her for you, you can't take her back! So what's the dregging angle?"

"I just want to make sure she's all right."

That got me.

"'All right?' What's that supposed to mean?"

Didn't understand. The guy had given up his kid. She wasn't his anymore. She belonged to the urchingangs now.

"Don't you watch the graffiti?"

"Only sometimes."

Usually I just watched Newsface Four. That was my total exposure to the datastream. Didn't want to tell him I'd spent so much time buttoned up over the last half-dozen or so years that I'd got out of the habit of checking the graffiti.

"Never been too sure how accurate that stuff is, anyway. Those graffiti journalists always seem to have an ax to grind."

"They're more reliable than the datastream, I assure you."

"If you say so."

Wasn't going to argue with him. Some people swore by the underground journalists who spent their days slipping uncensored capsules into the datastream, supposedly reporting "news that won't stand the light of day."

"Then I guess you haven't heard about the two urchins they found splattered at the base of the Boedekker North building two days ago."

Shook my head. No, I hadn't. But it figured that it hadn't been mentioned on the datastream. Two dead kids with no unregistered genotypes were undoubtedly urchins. Officially, urchins didn't exist, therefore news of their deaths wouldn't appear in the datastream.

Everyone knew the Megalops had its share of urchins, but their existence was never mentioned by anyone connected with the M.A. or the official media. To admit the existence of urchingangs was to admit there was a problem, and that would lead to someone having to find a solution to that problem. Nobody wanted to tackle that.

So the urchingangs lived on in legal limbo: Illegal children of Realpeople, as real as Mr. Khambot or myself, but non-existent as far as Central Authority was concerned. Even clones had higher status.

"You mean you want me to check and see if your kid is one of the dead ones?"

That would be easy. I'd just have to —

"I've already done that myself. She's not. I want you to find her and bring her to me."

"What 'round Sol for?"

"I just want to know she's alive and well."

Mr. Khambot went up another notch. Beneath the window dressing lurked a guy who still had a lot of feeling for the kid he'd been forced to dump on the street. There was a real human being under all that make-up.

Didn't like the odds of locating a particular kid among the urchingangs, though. Kids were picked up as infants and had no identity outside their particular group. The one I was looking for would have no idea that she was Little Khambot, and neither would anybody else.

"I don't know..." I said slowly.

He leaned forward, hovering over the desk. "I've got prints — finger, foot, and retinal. Even have her genotype. You've got to find her for me, Mr. Dreyer. You've got to!"

"Yeah, but —"

"I'll pay you in gold — in advance!"

"Guess I could give it a try."

-3-

Went down to the Battery Complex that afternoon. Three years ago, according to Khambot, he had left the kid near the base of the Okumo-Slater Building where it arched over to Governor's Island. Before heading down there, I'd stocked a big bag with bread, milk, cheesoids, and soy staples. Now I stood and waited.

Gloomy down here at sea level. The calendar said summer but it could have been any season for all the sky you could see. The tight-packed skyscrapers with all their show-off overhangs did a great job of keeping the seasons out. Their shadows blocked the sun in the summer, and the heat leaking from their innards nullified the cold of winter. No day or night, just a dank, perennial twilight.

Far above I could see the gleaming southern face of the Leason Building looking like something from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Outside every window that opened — and some that didn't, probably — hung an overloaded window box festooned with green. Window gardening was the latest rage in the Megalops. Strange on some buildings to see blotches of green poking through their holographic envelopes. Recently started a little plot right outside my own compartment window. And why not? With the price of fresh vegetables, it made excellent sense to grow your own wherever you could. And if you were on the north side or on the lower levels in perpetual shade, you grew mushrooms.

And further down, way down here in the shadows, the urchins grew.

Thought about what it must be like to have to give up your kid. Didn't think I could ever do that. I'd lost Lynnie, but that was different. She was taken from me by her mother — one day I looked around and she was gone. But at least I knew she was alive and well. Better than having her in an urchingang. And a hell of a lot better than having Population Control terminate her for being excess.

No reprieve for a kid who went beyond replacement value. The state extended the old Abortion Rights laws to itself and dictated mandatory termination in utero. If the kid was somehow carried all the way to term, the child was terminated post-term. You couldn't even trade your own life for the kid's. No exceptions. The C.A. was ultrastrict on that. Only way they could make the Replacement Quota stick was to enforce it across the board. If news of one exception — just one — got out, there'd be chaos. The population would be up in arms and the whole Alliance would come crashing down.

Maybe it had all been necessary a couple of generations ago, what with the planet on the brink of starvation and all. But times were better now. Population had dropped to a more manageable level, and with photosynthetic cattle in Antarctica and the deserts, and grain shipments coming in from the outworlds, food was getting steadily more plentiful. Wondered if we had to keep up the quota system. Maybe the C.A. was afraid that loosening up even a little bit would lead to a people explosion, the biggest baby boom in human history.

Even though it had started long before I was born, the whole thing had always seemed pretty drastic to me. Most people figured the end justified the means — if the C.A. hadn't taken Draconian measures, we all would have starved. Mandatory sterilization after you'd replaced yourself wasn't so bad, but termination of babes born in excess of replacement never sat well. One good thing seemed to come out of the Replacement Act: parents really appreciated their kids.

Had appreciated mine like crazy while she was here. And it had hurt like hell when her mother took her away.

"Gim sum, san?"

Looked down and around and there was this three-year old beaming up at me and holding out her hand. She was dressed in a little pink jump, face scrubbed, cheeks glowing, smile beatific, her hair a blonde cloud around her head. That little face made you want to empty your pockets and take off your rings and shoes and give it all to her.

Looked around for her guardians and found two groups of them — a couple of twelve year olds at the corner, and a slightly younger pair fifty meters away in a doorway. If I tried anything cute with her, they'd be on me like a pack of wild dogs.

Pulled off a cheap ring I'd bought just for the occasion.

"Take this," I said, handing it to her. "And tell your friends they can have all the food in this bag if I can have a talk with them."

Her smile widened as she grabbed the ring and ran down the block. Watched her talk to the two on the corner, saw them signal to the two in the doorway. Suddenly another pair appeared from the other direction. Six guards for one little beggar — either she was as valuable as all hell or they were very nervous about losing her. In no time I was surrounded by the whole crew.

Something was up.

"Wan jaw, san?" the leader said in urchin pidgin.

He looked barely thirteen, but he and his friends were all lean and angular, armed and wary, ready to fight.

"Want to ask you some questions."

"Bow wha?"

"About a babe someone left right here three years ago."

"Lookee bag firs, san. Den jaw."

"Sure."

Opened the bag and let them all take a long look at the goodies. A couple of them licked their lips. Hungry kids. Gave me a pang in my gut. Pulled out a bag of cheesoids and unsealed it.

"Here. Pass this around."

"Filamentous!" they chorused.

Their dirty hands dug in, then stuffed the soft creamy balls into their mouths. Noticed that the bigger ones made sure the little blonde got her turn. I liked that.

The leader swallowed his mouthful and said, "Who dis babe? Lookee how? Got pickee-pickee?"

"No. No picture. Guess she'd be her size" — Pointed to the little beggar blonde — "but with black hair."

He shook his head. "No Lost Boy dat."

"'Lost Boys,' eh? Well, do you remember any babe like that three years ago?"

"Nine den. D'know. Probee trade, stan, san?"

Nodded. Traded. Damn! Hadn't thought of that. Obvious though. The older kids took care of the babes until they were old enough to beg. If one urchingang was low on babes or beggars, it would trade for them with another. As the beggars grew older, they became nurturers, then graduated to guards, then to gangleaders, then out into the underworld. An endless cycle.

"Take me to your leader," I said.

It was lost on him.

"Takee halfway. Wendy meetee."

Wendy? Had someone been reading stories to the Lost Boys?

"Fair enough, I guess."

They led me north for a bunch of blocks, then down a stairway into the ancient subway system. Unimaginable that people used to prefer traveling underground to traveling in the air, but these tunnels were real, so I guessed those old stories were, too. The kids all pulled out pocket lights as we made our way along a white-tiled corridor. The leader stopped and faced me after we had descended a second stairway.

"Waitee here, san. Wendy be back. Waitee here."

"Bloaty. How long?"

"N'long, san. Waitee. We takee bag. Giftee. Kay, san?"

Handed over the bag of food.

"Okay. But don't make me wait too long."

"N'long, san. N'long."

They left me one of their lights. As they hurried off into the darkness with my bag of goodies cradled in their midst like the Ark of the Covenant, I listened to the sound of their giggling and it occured to me that maybe I was being played for a Class A jog.

After an hour of sitting alone in that damp, tiled hole with no sign of Wendy, I was sure.

Well, not the first time. Surely not the last. In truth, I'd half expected to be rougued but figured it was worth the risk. After all, the food hadn't cost me much. Felt bad, though. Sort of hoped for better from them.

Headed upstairs and back to my compartment, realizing for the first time what an impossible job this was: Trying to find a kid with no identity, a kid who didn't know who she was, with no picture, not even an identifying characteristic to go by, along a trail that was three years cold.

And to think I'd left being idly rich for this. Sometimes think I'm crazy.

-4-

As I turned on the compartment lights, Iggy scrabbled across the floor and chomped on a fleeing cockroach, then retreated to a corner to chew. He wasn't much company. Iquanas aren't known for their warmth.

One minute home and I knew I'd made a mistake. Was feeling down and that was when my resistance was at its lowest. No sooner had I loosened my jump than the buttons began calling me from the back of the drawer where I kept them.

Twenty days now. Twenty full days since I'd snapped on a button. A record. Proud of myself. But felt myself weakening steadily. Hard to resist after that length of deprivation, no matter how much you wanted off.

Began thinking of that group button I had bought with during my first flush with the gold — all those bodies going strong, all funneled into that one little button. Threatened me with overload every time. Very hard to resist. Nothing I would have liked better right now than to snap it on and just lose myself in all that sensation. But was never going to kick this if I didn't show a little more spine.

Maybe I should have gone the cold turkey route and just had the wire yanked and let it go at that. But I'd heard horror stories about guys who'd got themselves dewired that way and went black hole shortly after. Not for me, thanks. This wasn't the greatest life, but it was the only one I had. Chose the wean. And by the Core, it was killing me.

Tried to keep busy tilling the window garden but it wasn't working. Finally closed up and ran out into the night, vowing to find some real flesh, even though I knew it wouldn't help much, even if I had to go to Dydeetown and pay for it.

-5-

In the morning I was about to put a call into Khambot to tell him what a lost cause this case was when a kid came through my office door. A skinny little twelve-year old. He had thin lips, dark hair, and dark eyes that darted all over the place. He was wearing the upper half of a blue jumpsuit and the lower end of a brown, and they weren't joined in the middle. He looked dirty and scared.

An urch. No doubt about it. Certainly not the Wendy they'd told me about. Maybe a young lieutenant.

"You Dreyer-san?" he said in a voice that had a good ways to go before it would even consider changing.

"That's me. What can I do for you?"

He took a seat. "Still lookee three-year babe?"

"Maybe, Why didn't Wendy show up yesterday?" I said, leaning back in my chair.

"Din know you, san. So we wait, watch, follow home, then out, then home, then here." He was speaking very carefully. Probably thought he was putting on a good show of Realpeople talk. That was a laugh.

"She satisfied?"

He shrugged. "M'be."

"She send you?"

A nod.

"And you think you can help find this kid?"

Another shrug, another, "M'be. But cost."

"Never any doubt in my mind about that."

"N'hard barter — soft f'soft."

Soft barter? "Like what?"

"Info for us."

"Who's 'us'?"

"Urchingangs."

"You're an 'us' now? Thought you were always scrapping with each other over begging turf and spheres of influence. Thought you got together for babe trades and that was about it."

"Used t'be. Be again, san. B'now lookee — look for — answer to same question."

"Which is?"

"Dead urches."

"Ah! That means, I take it, that the gangs don't know what happened to them either."

"B'blieve no, san —" He coughed and raised the level of his dialog. "No, but we find out sooner-late."

"If you're so sure of that, why do you need my help?"

"Need Realworld connect."

"You mean to tell me that with all the graduates from the urchingangs floating through the Megalops, not one of them will help out?"

He lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"No lookee backee."

"Oh. Right."

Remembered: Once you're out of the gang and topside in the shadow economy where everything's barter and nothing's connected to Central Data, you're who you are — no past. No one admits they're from urchinland — ever. Urchins don't exist.

The more I thought about it, the better this looked to me. The urchins would search out little Khambot among the gangs for me while I worked in the Realworld for them. Didn't see why they were so determined to find out what happened to the two little kids. No one had mentioned foul play. But why argue? The way I saw it, we'd both come out ahead.

"Okay. Got a good contact who can help us out."

"Come?"

Shook my head. "No place for a kid. Especially an urch."

True. Elmero's was not for kids, but even truer was that I didn't want to go sliding into Elmero's with an urch in tow.

"Nev know," he said.

"They'll know as soon as you open your mouth. The only kids who talk pidge are urchins."

"Helpee Realfolk?"

Shook my head again. "No time."

He lowered his voice and spoke haltingly. "I...know...some. I...can...do."

Had to laugh. "You've been practicing that? Getting ready for the Realworld?"

He looked at me with his big bown eyes. "Please, san?"

Something in a dusty, almost forgotten corner inside went soft and mushy.

"Okay," I said, wondering why even as the words came out. "Just keep your mouth shut. And if you have to say something, don't use 'san.' That's a dead give away. It's 'Mr. Dreyer.' Got it?"

Now he smiled. "Kay."

"Okay."

Called Elmero's. The man got on the screen. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked him if he could do a jack for me later today."

"How deep?"

"Top sector."

"That will cost."

"Don't I know. Can pay the freight if you can do the jack."

"Do I ever let you down?" Elmero said with his awful smile.

"Not never," I said, "but hardly ever. Doc around?"

"Should be soon. Bout time for his midday wiff."

"If you see him, ask him to wait around for me. Be by in a tenth or so."

"Sure." The screen blanked.

"Fees fren, come he —?"

"Say it in Realtalk," I told him.

"If...he's...you...friend, how...come...he...charge?"

"'How come he charges.'" Felt like a tutor machine. "He charges because that's his business — one of his businesses. We're friends, but that doesn't mean I dip into his trade whenever I want. Business is business."

Could tell he wasn't following me too well so shifted to a topic I was sure he could track. "Interested in lunch?"

"Course. Y'got?"

"Not here. A restaurant."

His eyes saucered. "Mean sitdown?"

You'd think he'd just been offered a trip to Skyland Park.

"Yeah. There's a nice place on level 12 that has —"

He was out of his chair and heading for the door. "S'go!"

-6-

"Don't make yourself sick, now," I told him. The urch was ready to order two of everything on the menu.

"Nev had steak."

He was talking more carefully now. I guess sitting in a roomful of Realpeople was influencing him.

"Won't get one here, either."

"Said 'steak'?" he said, pointing to the glowing tabletop menu in front of him. The table had read off the menu selections in its feminine monotone, brightening each line as it went. Searched through the printed list. My reading skills left much to be desired, though I'd improved them a lot in the past year.

"Yeah. Here it is: steak with mushroom gravy. But it isn't real grass-fed steer steak." Not with the economic stratum this place serviced — no one could afford it. "You can either get chlor-cow or soysteak."

"'Chlor-cow'?"

Didn't want to go into an explanation of photosynthetic cattle so I told him, "The soysteak tastes pretty much like the real thing. And it's bigger."

"Soysteak me. Two."

"'I'll have two soysteaks, please,' and no, you won't. You'll have one. It's a big one — half a kilo." He made a face so I said, "If you finish it and you're still hungry, I'll get you another."

He smiled and for a fleeting moment he was a real little boy.

Ordered a shrimp culture sandwich and a beer for myself. Felt like his father or something as I helped him punch his order into the console, letting him add sides of chocolate soymilk and double speedspuds. Hadn't been called on to act like a father in an awful lot of years. Ten, to be exact. Gave me an odd little warm feeling, one I might want to get used to if I wasn't careful.

"What's your name, kid?"

"B.B."

Easy enough. "Okay, B.B. Your meal will be here soon. Just sit back and relax.

Watched him as we waited. He couldn't take his eyes off the servers wheeling by. On two occasions I thought he was going to lunge at the dessert cart. Finally a server wheeled up and slid our meals onto the table. When it asked if we wanted to modify our order, I told it no and stuck my thumb in its pay slot. As it trundled away, I turned back to the urch. He had the steak in both hands and was gnawing at it.

"Put that down!" I said in as forceful a whisper as I dared. To his credit, he didn't drop it, and he didn't buck me on it. He eased it back onto his plate.

"S'mat?" he said with a wounded expression as he licked the gravy off his lips.

"You trying to embarrass me? Ever hear of a knife?"

"Course."

"Well, unless you want everybody in this place to know you're an urch, use it!"

He proceeded to hold the steak down with his left hand while he cut with the knife in his right. Was ready to get real angry when I realized he wasn't trying to turn my screws.

"Okay, drop everything," I said softly.

He did, reluctantly, and sat there sucking his fingers.

If I was going to have to sit here with him, I didn't want him making a spectacle of himself. Held up my fork and said, "This takes the place of your fingers when you're eating with Realpeople. It's called a fork. Here's how you use it."

As I picked up my knife and reached across to demonstrate, he lunged forward and covered his plate with his hands. Just as quickly, he pulled them away and leaned back. Instinct, I guessed. I speared the gnawed corner of the soysteak, sawed through his teeth marks, and handed him the loaded fork. Watched him grab it and shove it into his mouth, watched him close his eyes as he chewed.

"S'steak?" he said in a hushed voice after he had swallowed.

"Well, something that tastes a lot like steak. Only the mushrooms are real."

He attacked the meal. My shrimp culture sandwich was only half gone when he looked up at me from his empty plate. Nice thing about soysteak — no fat, no bone, no gristle.

"Said nother."

"Look, if you're not used to gravy and that sort of —"

"Said!"

"All right, all right!"

Punched in a reorder of the soysteak but skipped the speedspuds. Finished my sandwich and watched him work his way through the second steak. Knew he was going to have a bellyache by the way he was wolfing it down. Surprised me, though. Asked for dessert. Treated him to a chocolate gelato-to-go as we left. He had it finished by the time we got up to midlevel. As we waited on the platform for a slot in the crossBrooklyn tube, he turned green.

"You feeling all right?" I asked.

"Na' s'good, san."

"Not surprised after the way you —"

And then he was running for the pissoir. Never made it. Chocolate-colored soysteak-speedspud stew splattered the platform. When he was empty, he returned to the boarding area, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Told you not to have that second soysteak."

He smiled up at me and jerked his thumb at the gravity chute that led back to the restaurant. "Third now?"

Took a half-hearted swing at his head. He ducked easily, laughing.

-7-

"An urch search, ay?" Elmero said, smiling horribly after I'd explained Khambot case. He repeated the phrase. Seemed to like the sound of it.

Doc was there, wiffing a pale yellow gimlet. He had a round black face, a portly body, and owlish eyes. He still had a year to go before his license suspension ran out and tended to spend a lot of time here.

"Where do I come in?" he said.

"Need an opinion on the autopsies of those dead kids. What's your consultation fee?"

Doc snorted a laugh. "I believe it would approximate my tab at this establishment."

Glanced at Elmero who shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"Not unreasonable," he said.

"But I don't have access to those data," Doc said. "Can't tell you anything without data."

"That's okay. Elmero can jack into —"

"Elmero can't jack anywhere!" Elmero said, his face a stoney mask. He was looking past me at the urch.

"He's secure," I said quickly, placing a hand on the kid's shoulder. He'd been good. Hadn't said more than one hello since he came in. "B.B. is tight. Tight as can be."

Elmero arched his eyebrows and cocked his head. "You guarantee that?"

"To the Core." Knew I was safe saying that. Not being Realpeople, urches couldn't testify in court.

"Good enough."

Elmero rode his chair over to his comm chassis and began his jacking procedure. He broke into the coroner's datafile and then we began to search. In the under age five category, we found one John Doe and one Jane Doe, each with an unregistered genotype, deceased on the date in question. Doc took over then and scanned the data. Twice.

"Nothing here but trauma, all simultaneous, consistent with a fall. No biological or chemical toxins or contaminants, no molestations. Generic foodstuff in the intestines. What we have here are two otherwise healthy kids dead as a result of a fall from a height consistent with the middle sixty floors of the tower complex they were found next to."

B.B. piped in. "No drug? No sex?"

It was the most he had said since we'd entered Elmero's.

"I believe I covered those fields," Doc said.

"Has to be drug!"

Looked at him. "Why does there 'has' to?"

He glared at me, then turned and stalked out.

"'B.B.' is an urchin name," Elmero said.

"Really?" Hadn't known that.

"Common one. The other most common is 'B.G.'"

"That's all very interesting, "Doc said, "but what I'd like to know is why a couple of toddler urchins were up on the middle level of the Boeddeker North building in the first place."

"Something nasty, I'll bet," Elmero said with a sour grin. "Something very nasty."

This was getting interesting. Intriguing, even. But it was time to settle up accounts: Elmero canceled Doc's balance, then deducted that amount plus his jacking fee from the big store of credit I had with him from the gold he'd fenced for me after the Dydeetown girl job.

Then I hurried out, looking for B.B. Found him watching somebody playing the new zap game. Procyon Patrol was passe now. Bug Wars was the current rage. Grabbed his arm and pulled him outside where we stood in the midst of Elmero's latest holo envelope — a classic Paris sidewalk cafe. Nice, but don't try to sit on one of the chairs.

"We've got to talk, urch. You're not telling me everything you should be tellng me."

"S'n'true, san —" he began, then stopped himself. "That not true."

Caught and held his eyes with my own.

"Why were you so sure of drugs? Truth now, or I walk."

He looked away and took a deep breath. He spoke carefully.

"Beggee kids be snatched."

"Snatched?" It was the first I'd heard of it. "By who?"

"D'know."

"How many?"

"Lots."

"Why?"

"D'know."

Was almost glad he didn't know. Wasn't sure I wanted the details on why someone was kidnapping little urchin beggars. Was sure it wasn't for ransom. But now I knew why there had been six urchin guards for that little blonde beggargirl down by the Battery yesterday.

"Were the two dead ones snatched?"

He nodded.

"Have any others been found dead besides the ones at Beodekker North?"

He shook his head. "Jus' th'two. Get others back."

"You mean they're snatched and then returned to you?"

"Drop off where snatchee."

This was making less and less sense.

"Unhurt?"

B.B. shook his head vehemently. "No! N'same. Eve af back, still gone. Dull, dumb, stupee, bent."

Now I understood. Whoever was snatching the little urches was returning damaged goods. That was why B.B. had been so sure we'd find drugs in the post-mortem report.

"So you think they're being dosed up and — what?"

He shrugged. "D'know. Can't tell. N'good sure."

"No signs of...abuse?"

Thought of my own daughter. For perhaps the first time since Maggs had spirited her away, I was glad Lynnie was out among the Outworlds.

"Nup," he said, shaking his head. "Checked by Wendy. Sh'say bods okay, b'heads f'blungit."

"Who 'round Sol is this Wendy? She a doctor or something?"

B.B. was suddenly flustered. "Sh'Mom. D'worry. Sh'know. An'way, kids get better, b'ver' slow. Weeks."

They're returned slow and stupid but get better with time. Sure sounded like a drug to me. This was getting stranger and stranger. Little urches snatched and returned, physically okay, but dosed up on something. To what end? Maybe just dosed up and posed? Or maybe overdosed on purpose so they couldn't talk afterwards? But why bother with such elaborate precautions? Urchins had no legal existence. They couldn't bring charges or testify against anyone. So why coagulate their minds before returning them?

Why return them at all?

"How many days were the two dead kids missing?"

He thought a moment, then said, "Oldee three, youngee four."

Missing three to four days — were they so gelled on something that they walked right off the outer walkway? No, wait: No trace of foreign chemicals or toxins in their systems.

My own mind was beginning to feel a bit gelled.

"Post-mort said they were clean."

He looked at me as if I were stupid. "Druggee-druggee!"

Maybe he was right. Suddenly had an idea.

"Come on," I said, pulling him toward the chute up to the tube level. "We're heading uptown."

-8-

Boedekker North was the biggest thing in the Danbury borough — too big for a holographic dress-up. It towered above everything around it like a giant stack of rice cakes on an empty table. We tubed into the midsection and hunted up a directory.

"Lookee, san?" When I glared at him, he sighed and said, "What we looking for?"

"A pharmaceutical company."

"Farmers —?"

"No. Pharmaceutical. As in 'pharmacy.' They make drugs. You know — medicines?" He gave me a puzzled look. "Wait," I told him. "You'll see."

Had a brainstorm. Suppose somebody was using the kids as lab specimens to give some new drug a clinical trial? Something so new and unique that the coroner's analyzers wouldn't spot it? Suppose this new drug backfired? And suppose the testers weren't prepared to house the damaged kids? What would they do with them?

Send them back where they came from, of course. That would take the kids off their hands and allow the researcher to observe the longterm effects of their botched trial.

Urchins as human lab rats. What a wonderful world.

There were a few bugs in my scenario but it fit most of the facts. A little more information and I was sure I could fill in the empty spaces.

"Sh'tell more," B.B. said as we sorted through the midlevel directory's stores and services.

Gave him a sidelong look. "What else you been holding out on me?"

"N'hold, san —" He stopped and cleared his throat. "Not hold out. Jus' membered. Saw comet side of flit snatchee lil Jo."

"Why didn't you tell me this before!" It would have made things so much easier!

He shrugged. "Din think —"

"Never mind. What color was it? Red, yellow?"

"Pointy silvee star w'long silvee tail."

"Any words?"

He shrugged again.

Right. Remembered he couldn't read. No matter. Starting to get real excited about this case. A stylized comet in silver. Obviously a company logo. Now we were getting somewhere.

Or so I thought.

Boedekker North housed thousands of lessees. We sorted through the entire mid-section directory and looked up every single firm or store that might conceivably have anything at all to do with drugs, medicine, research, doctors, even kids. Then we ran a match search to see if any of these had a silver comet in their logo.

No match.

Another run looking for the word "star" or "comet" or "meteor" or any celestial body associated with their company name.

No match.

So we searched for any company name that contained any reference to outer space. Even checked out names related to speed. We found quite a few, but none of them had a silver comet for a logo.

We came up equally empty on the top-section and under-section directories.

The hours had slipped by. It was dark out. We found a roving soyvlaki cart and I treated B.B. to a couple. He wolfed them down as we sat and watched a lot of the workers head home for the night.

"Howc y'don work l'them?"

"You mean a steady day job?"

He nodded.

Thought about that. Maggs had asked me the same question maybe a million times during our marriage. Couldn't come up with a new answer on the spot so I gave him the stock reply:

"Too much like being a robot."

He gave me a strange look so I explained.

"You know — everything on a schedule. Be here now, get there then, do this before lunch, do that before you go home. A regimented existence. Not for me. Like to make my own hours, be my own boss, go where I want, when I want. Work for myself, not some big corporation. Be a corportion of one."

He gave me a half-hearted nod, like he wasn't really convinced. Couldn't believe it. An urch who'd lived by his wits all his life — how could he have the slightest doubt?

"Don't tell me you'd want to be like them!"

He watched the scurrying workers with big round wistful eyes. His mouth was pulled down at the corners and I could barely hear his voice:

"Love it."

Couldn't fathom that at all. Struck me speechless for a moment. Then I understood.

Here I was talking about bucking the system to a kid who'd have to spend his entire life scratching out an existence in the shadow economy, who would never get a hand on the bottom rung of the system's ladder no matter how hard he wished, hoped, or tried. From where he was, that bottom rung looked like heaven.

Somebody should have come by then and daubed my face white, painted my nose red, and turned on a calliope. What a clown, I was. An idiot clown.

Suddenly my appetite was gone. Offered the kid my second soyvlaki. He took it but ate it slowly.

When he was finished he said, "Where fr'mere?"

Wasn't sure. Tired. Knew we weren't finished here at Boedekker North, but didn't want to go back to Brooklyn tonight and have to tube up here again in the morning. Wanted to milk this trip.

"Back to the directories," I told him. "We're going to go through the mid-section firm by firm and look at every logo of every lessee in Boedekker North until we find something that looks like a comet."

"Cou b'wrong," he said.

"About the comet? Don't think that hasn't occurred to me. That's why you aren't going home till I do."

We seated ourselves at the directory console, queued up the ads of each lessee in alpabetical order, and let them run in the holochamber. Started getting bleary along about "J" and was nodding around "M". Suddenly B.B. was yanking on my sleeve.

"It, san!" He was bouncing in his seat and pointing at the chamber. "It! It!"

Opened my eyes and stared at the holo. Felt my blood run cold at sight of the name:

NeuroNex.

But the logo was all wrong.

"That's no comet!"

The kid's finger was wiggling in the chamber, intersecting with the NeuroNex logo. His voice had risen to just shy of a screech. "It, san! It!"

And then I saw what he meant. Underlining the NeuroNex name was a stylized neuron trailing a long axon — all silvery gray in color. It did look like a comet.

Found it!

Noticed the kid looking at me with something like adoration in his eyes.

"You plenty smartee, Dreyer-san."

"If I were really smart," I said, trying to hide my dismay as I stared at the NeuroNex logo, "I wouldn't be involved in this at all."

"Where place?"

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "Place is closed now anyway. Be open tomorrow. I'll come back then."

"We —"

"No! I. Me. Alone. You can't get into a NeuroNex shop — no minors allowed — and you might give it away if you did." Stood up. "Come on. Time to get back to the island."

He was pouting as I guided him to the tube platform. The pod came and I spent most of the trip home staring through the wall at the progession of lighted stops and semidark in-betweens, thinking of NeuroNex.

NeuroNex. I hadn't included it in the sort, probably because I hadn't wanted to see that name.

Of all the places that could have been involved, why did it have to be NeuroNex?

Something bumped my arm. Looked around and saw that the urch had fallen asleep and was leaning against me. The other people on the tube probably thought he was my kid. He shivered in his sleep. Put my arm over his shoulder. Just to keep up appearances.

-9-

"My stop's next," I said, jostling him awake. Got to my feet as he yawned and stretched.

"Tired," he said. "Sleep y'place, san?"

Shook my head. "No chance."

He looked surprised. "Please? Tired. Nev spen night in real compartment."

"Haven't missed much. Once you're asleep it's all the same. Besides, I've got work to do. Can't have an urch hanging around."

"I can help," he said in his best Realpeople talk.

Could see he was getting too attached, imprinted on me like some baby duck. Had to introduce a little distance here.

"No, you can't. Check with my office in a couple of days. May have something for you then."

The tube stopped and I got out. Walking away, I felt his hurt gaze on my back like a weight until the tube shot him further downtown. Could have used some company but I had to be alone tonight. No witnesses.

Learning that the "comet" we had been seeking was part of the NeuroNex logo was pushing me toward a decision. A big one. One I wasn't sure I was ready for yet.

Years ago, NeuroNex had wired me for my button. Now NeuroNex — or at least this particular branch office — was linked to the snatches and deaths of a couple of urchins. And I'd managed to get myself tractored into finding out the who, the why, and the wherefore.

Which meant I had to find a way of presenting myself to NeuroNex and asking lots of questions without raising too much suspicion. There was a foolproof way of for me to do that:

Get myself unbuttoned.

Not a pretty prospect. Been preparing myself to have it done, been planning to have it done...someday. But not so soon. Next year maybe. Next quarter maybe. Sure as hell not tomorrow.

Not tomorrow!

But what better way to get next to NeuroNex? Tried desperately to think of one and came up blank.

Dropped into my new formchair — just like Elmero's — and buttoned it to adjust to my posture. Sat there looking down the hall through my door. Watched for a while but nothing was moving out there so I rode the chair over to the button drawer and opened it. Sat staring at those little gold disks. A lot of money invested in those things over the years. Some where played out but I kept them anyway. Nostalgia, maybe. The Good Old Days — when a good simple single-input orgasm was quite enough for a long while. But then I graduated to doubles, then triples. My latest was a five-couple orgy multi-channeled into a slow build that crescendoed through a series of minor eruptions into a major simultaneous explosion.

Picked it out of the pile and backed the chair into the middle of the compartment, turning so my back was to Lynnie's holo. As the chair reclined supineward, I hesitated.

Shouldn't do this, I told myself. You've been weaning yourself down all year now. Three weeks now without buttoning up once. A record. As good as clean. Why set yourself back now? The day after tomorrow will be a lot easier if you put that damn thing back in the drawer right now and go to sleep.

Good arguments. Made a lot of sense. But they couldn't overcome one little slice of reality: After I was unbuttoned tomorrow, there'd be no choice for me unless I decided to get rewired, and that wouldn't be possible for at least half a year. Tonight was it. After this, I'd be like the rest of the walkarounds except there'd be a part of me so callused by years of buttoning that no one in the real world could get through to it. An importent part of me would be permanently — or almost permanently — numb. Needed one last jolt, one last hit, for old times' sake. Auld Lang Syne. No rational arguments were going to keep me from buttoning up one last time.

Was just fitting the button into the dimple in my scalp when I noticed movement through the door. Held off and watched the urchin steal down the hall toward my compartment. Felt my jaw muscles tighten. If that little bastard thought he was going to barge in here and whimper and whine his way into spending the night, he had another think coming. Needed my privacy, needed to be by myself for a —

He didn't knock or push the buzzer. Just stood there looking at the door for a moment, then slipped to the floor and curled up with his back to me.

The little glitch was going to spend the night camped outside my door and he wasn't even going to tell me!

Watched the slow rise and fall of his skinny little back as he dropped off to sleep. Fingered the button in my hand. Could still button up just like I'd planned The door was soundproof and he'd never know what I was doing.

But I'd know he was there.

Stared at him. He looked so frail lying there, scootching around to get comfortable. Thought of him staying there on the hard floor all night in the cold white light while I slept calm and soft in my dark compartment.

So what? It was his choice, wasn't it? He could have been back with his gang now, sleeping with them. Safe. Secure. Underground. In the old subway tunnels.

Sighed and floated the chair over to the drawer, dropped the button back in, then returned to the door. Maybe it was for the best, I told myself. Make it easier in the morning...and all the empty nights thereafter.

Opaqued the door — saw no use in letting him in on that little secret — and slid it open. Nudged him with my foot.

"Get in here!" I said in an angry hiss. "What'll the neighbors say if they see you out here?"

He gave me a shy smile as he stumbled to his feet. Growling, I pointed him toward the couch and turned out the lights.

-10-

B.B. had the big thrill of waking up in a real compartment and eating a compartment breakfast. Even let him take my allotted shower for the day — a super-filamentous thrill. After he was finished and dressed, I sent him on his way happy, clean, and smiling, telling him I'd meet him at the office later.

When I was sure he was gone, I emptied my button drawer into the pocket of my jumper and headed for the tubes. Tried to keep my mind blank as I headed for Boedekker North. Didn't want to think about what I was going to have done to myself this morning.

The word castration drifted through my mind.

Not that I was much use to the female of the species now, but without the wire I wouldn't even be useful to myself. They say that after you got unbuttoned, you can relearn to be with a woman again. It was never as good as a button, but you could relearn.

Wasn't sure I'd even want to try.

Wandered around Boedekker North for a while, killing time. Finally decided that I'd put it off long enough. Wasn't going to accomplish anything by delaying any longer. Strolled onto the premises of the NeuroNex franchise and...

...got in line.

Hadn't expected this. A real strange sight. The other customers were in holosuits — saw two Joey Joses, an Alana Alvarez, a Pepito Ito, and others — all waiting for the human tech. She took each into the back office; a few minutes later they were out again and on their way. It looked like they were making purchases, but that didn't make sense. Simple purchases of mones or buttons could be made more quickly — and with greater confidentiality — via the slot consoles along the wall. Needed a human myself. After all, I was here for a procedure.

"You alone here?" I called over the heads of the others.

"Until the sales girl comes in, I am." She smiled. "We let her sleep late one morning a week."

"I was here before you," said a thin, worn out looking guy two seats away. No holosuit on him.

"Nobody said you weren't."

"Just remember that," he said sullenly.

Finally the holosuits were gone. Only me and my polite fellow dallier — the one ahead of me — remained. He shuffled up to the counter.

"I wanna donate a few nanos."

The tech gave him the up-and-down. She was red-haired, round-bodied and round-faced, with ruddy cheeks. A plump little angel, except that she was scowling.

"Weren't you hear last week, Stosh?"

"Yeah, but —"

"No 'buts'. Two weeks between donations, not a tenth less. You know that. See you in a week."

He stalked out, averting his eyes as he passed me.

"What can NeuroNex do for you?" she said to me.

"A procedure."

Her interest level rose visibly. "Oh? Which one?

Looked around to make sure the office area was empty. This wasn't something I wanted to advertise.

"Want to get dewired."

Her eyes widened, revealing more blue. "Really?"

"Something wrong?"

"No. Of course not. It's just that you don't look like our typical..." Her voice trailed off.

"Buttonhead?"

"Not a nice term. We prefer 'direct limbic neurostimulator.'"

"And you think I should probably look like the guy you just chased off, right?"

"We try to discourage that stereotype. By the way, you'll have to sign a release."

"I know."

Expected that. The NeuroNex people had installed the wire a year or so after Maggs had run off. Had to sign a release then saying that I'd read and understood all the listed potential physical and psychosocial side effects of becoming a buttonhead and absolved NeuroNex of any liability connected with same. Now they'd want me to absolve them of any and all liability associated with not being a buttonhead.

Sure. Why not?

We got down to business. The releases were signed, then we discussed price. That was not negotiable, I knew — the fee was set at NeuroNex's central office — but I haggled anyway. Got nowhere, as expected, but did manage to get a trade-in allowance on the unused plays left in my buttons.

After the sales girl arrived, the tech led me back to the sterile room and laid me down. Watched the monitor as she prepped the top of my scalp. Had an odd, disembodied sensation as I looked down at the back of my own head in the holo chamber. She depilated the area around the dimple, disinfected it, then readied her scalpel.

"No blade?" I said.

She was seated at the top of my head as I reclined on the table. Couldn't see her face, only her hands in the monitor, but her voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

"It's there. You just can't see it. It's a loop of Gussman molly wire. See?" She passed the visible part of the instrument within a couple of centimeters of my scalp and the flesh parted magically. "Beautiful stuff — a single strand of Gussman alloy molecules strung end to end, submicroscopic but still 100-kilo test. Wonderful to work with."

Her unbridled enthusiasm did not keep my stomach from lurching as I saw my own blood start to well in the lengthening incision.

"Could you turn off the monitor, please?"

"Sure."

A hand disappeared from the field and then the holochamber went blank. Couldn't understand why some people like to watch. Looking at the blank ceiling now, I heard my voice yammering on. Usually I let other people talk, but I was nervous, shaking inside, feeling cold and sick, and it seemed to help to talk.

"You do this often?"

"No. Hardly at all. I used to put in a lot of wires when I was back on the island. We refer all our button jobs there. You really need a team of two to do an implant right. These little branch offices don't have the volume to warrant two techs."

"Didn't look that way this morning."

"Those were special orders." I heard her shift position. "Okay. We're ready to dewire. Last chance: You sure you want to go through with this?"

"Absolutely...I think. But what if I feel I'm starting to go crazy after the wire is gone?"

There was a pause. "I think we can help you."

"Yeah? How?"

"You've heard of NDT, right?"

"Of course."

Had forgotten what the letters stood for but knew it was a neurohormone — NeuroNex marketed their own brand under the name that had become generic for the stuff: BrainBoost.

"Right. Well, new research indicates that NDT might prove to be of some benefit in the button withdrawal stage."

That was good news. Anything to ease the withdrawal would be a blessing. Tried some NDT in my younger days to help me pass the investigator's exam and hadn't been too impressed. NDT was the last thing I would have expected to help.

"Isn't that for memory and the like?"

"Right," she said. "There's some perceptual enhancement, but basically it's a cognitive booster. Better recall, heightened deductive and analytical capabilities."

"That's what I thought." Students used a lot of it, so did business people for meetings and negotiations, and so on. "So how's it going to help me?"

"It appears to concentrate attention on the congnitive functions and distract it from the vegetative-reproductive areas. In other words, you're still withdrawing but you don't notice it as much."

Just then a disturbing thought struck me.

"By the way, what did that guy just ahead of me want to 'donate'?"

"NDT."

"Afraid you'd say that. Not exactly anxious to have any of him floating around in my brain."

She laughed, a deep chuckle. "Don't worry! By the time we finish concentrating and distilling our NDT, it is pure. Not a trace of contaminant."

"Sounds like it's worth a try."

"Oh, it's definitely worth a try. In fact..." She hesitated here and I wished I could have seen her face. "There's a special high-potency NDT that would be perfect for you It's a new synthetic."

"Thought the synthetics weren't worth the trouble."

"They weren't. But this is something completely new. Unfortunately, it's not officially on the market yet."

"Too bad."

"I could get you some, but I can't sell it to you through the usual channels, if you get my meaning."

Got her meaning, all right: a barter deal.

Very interesting. NDT was growing in my mind as a two-edged sword: It could get me over the hump of withdrawing from the buttons, and it would give me an excuse to keep coming back here until I found a connection between NeuroNex and the snatched urchins. If indeed there was a connection.

"What's so special about this synthetic?"

"Super high potency."

"Why not just take more of the regular NDT?"

"Because there are only so many receptor sites in the brain available to regular NDT. Once they're all engaged, that's it — you've got your maximum effect no matter how much you pour in. The super NDT has quadruple the bio-activity of regular."

She did a little more fiddling around on my head, then said, "That does it. The wire's out. Now...I can either close you up tight or implant a membrane patch so you can put NDT to use on a regular basis."

"How about a free sample of the super stuff? If it helps, I'll come back for the membrane and you'll have yourself a regular customer."

Didn't want to trade one dependency for another, but if NDT would help me over the rough spots, I couldn't pass it up.

There was a pause, then, "Sounds fair. I'll get some."

She left me alone. If not for my open scalp, it would have been a perfect opportunity for some quick snooping. Stayed on the table and waited.

"I'm going to add a ten-nanogram dose of NDT suspension directly into your CSF and then —"

"CSF?"

"Cerebrospinal fluid. The juice your brain floats in, so to speak. Then I'm going to close you up. You'll get a short, quick, intense reaction to the NDT. It lasts much longer through a membrane patch."

"This is the super stuff you're giving me? On the house, right?"

"On the house."

It didn't hit me until I was off the table and thumbing my bill in the outer office. Suddenly noticed that colors seemed brighter, clearer, objects more sharp-edged. Was aware of all my nerve-endings, could feel the scanner read the processor in my thumb and deduct the unbuttoning fee. Felt the blood racing through my capillaries, felt the slow coiling peristalsis of my intestines, the microturbulence of the air currents in my lungs, the electric currents arcing along the walls of my heart. If this was the effect of super NDT, I could see how it would make it easier to forget how lost and alone you felt without your button collection.

The NDT I'd had in the past had never been like this. Super NDT...nordopatriptyline...everything I'd ever learned, ever read, ever heard about it came back to me and swirled with my latent thoughts and questions about the snatched urchins, living and otherwise. And suddenly it was all clear. All the pieces fell together into a seamless could-be that needed only a few more facts to make it a must-be.

"Of course!" I heard my own voice mutter as I withdrew my thumb from the payment slot. "That's why you snatch the urchins!"

"What did you say?" the tech asked with suddenly narrowed eyes.

"Nothing." Loose-lipped idiot!

"No, you said something about urchins." Her smile had shrunken to a tight thin line, her cherubic face had settled into a petrous mask.

I didn't hesitate a microsecond. "'Luncheon.' I said, 'I still have time to make a luncheon.'"

"Oh," she said and nodded, but I knew she didn't believe me. Got out as fast as I could and headed for Elmero's, hoping Doc was there.

-11-

"Seems kind of a waste to me," Doc said, his black face gleaming in the bright lights of Elmero's office. "I mean, we've already been into Central Data once and found nothing useful in the p-m report. Why go back?"

"Because I don't think we asked the right questions."

While I argued with Doc, Elmero was already at his console, working his jacking procedure. The super NDT was still buzzing through me. My thoughts were flying.

Doc shrugged. "Well, it's your money."

"Right. So tell me: Is a cerebrospinal fluid analysis done on a routine post-mortem?"

"Of course. Protein, glucose, chlorides, bacteria, viruses, toxins, and other sundry things."

"Neurohormones?"

"Hell, no!"

"Why not?"

"Be like checking for subcutaneous fat on your ass: Everbody's got it to varying degrees. Why should they check for neurohormones? Everybody's got those. Besides, those assays are expensive. You'd have to expect a problem along those lines before trying to justify that kind of expenditure. Certainly wouldn't do it on a John or a Jane Doe that's undoubtedly an urchin."

That was what I had figured.

"How long do they keep tissue samples in the coroner's dept?"

"Depends. On a Doe case, probably a month, tops."

"We're in," Elmeror announced from the console.

"Can you requisition a test on one of the dead kids' CSF?"

Elmero gave a me a look that eloquently mixed disgust with annoyance.

"Sorry," I said. "Don't know what came over me. Get a nordopatriptyline level."

He told the coroner's computer to run the test, then leaned back in his chair and glided it back to the desk. Doc went out to the barroom for a fresh whiff, saying this would take awhile. His timing was perfect: The result of the NDT assay popped into view just as he returned. He stepped over and looked at it.

"Damn me!" he said.

I joined him and scanned the result: "NDT level in subject CSF = 2.7 ng./dl. Normal level in age group = 12.5 - 28 ng./dl."

"Figured that," I said.

Doc gave me a sour look. "And just how did you 'figure' that someone had sucked off this kid's NDT?"

Told them how B.B.'s "comet" had led us to NeuroNex, what the tech had said about the super synthetic NDT, about my earlier guess that NeuroNex might be testing a new substance on the urchins.

"But if that's the case, the kid's brain should have been loaded with NDT!" Doc said.

"Not if the assay doesn't pick up the synthetic," Elmero said.

Doc scowled. "Then why the depressed levels?"

Waited a few beats, then said, "Because everything the tech told me about the new synthetic super NDT was true, except the part about it being synthetic."

They stared at me uncomprehendingly. Nice to be the smart guy, the guy with all the answers for once. Allowed them to stew for awhile. Finally:

"Think about it. NDT is a normal component of the CSF. It's necessary for normal cognitive functions, and in increased concentrations it can enhance those functions. Now...at what time in your development is the brain most actively sorting, analyzing, filing, matching, compounding, linking, correlating, and so on?"

"Childhood," Doc said.

"Right! The whole world is new. The mind is relentlessly bombarded with a seemingly endless flow of new data."

Doc bit his lower lip. "I don't like where this is heading."

Elmero said nothing. He just sat there and absorbed it all.

"Bet there's an obscure piece of research somewhere that recounts the remarkable enhancing power of toddler NDT on adult cognition. Quadruple bioactivity."

Doc whiffed and exhaled slowly. "NeuroNex is a reputable company. I can't believe it would get involved —"

"It's not," Elmero said. "If this was being done on a corporate level, I'd have heard about it."

Nodded in agreement. A big operation would cause supply problems, creating a black market in toddler NDT, and there wasn't a black market in Sol System that Elmero didn't know about.

"Right. This is strictly small time. The tech and the local franchise owner are probably working it on their own, snatching the kids, siphoning off their NDT, and bartering it away as an 'unapproved synthetic' at a very stiff price per nanogram."

That explained the holosuited customers this morning — they wanted to remain anonymous.

"There's people who want it that bad?" Doc said.

"Definitely."

The effect of my test dose was fading a little now and I could see why you'd want some more. Especially if you were a businessman or analyst. Never thought so clearly, never saw so many relationships and correlations between seemingly unrelated facts in all my life. Like being terribly nearsighted since birth and then having your focal length corrected — a whole new world is suddenly available to you. Probably never feel this way again. Would miss it.

"And then they kill the kids?" Doc said. His face was drawn and tight. Real anger there.

"No. Those two were accidents. My theory is that adults can donate a unit of NDT without much after-effect, but kids really notice the difference. They're dull, dim-witted, mentally sluggish after their NDT's been siphoned off. At least that's the way B.B. described the kids that were snatched, then returned to the gang. I think the two dead kids were going to be returned like the others but got loose. They were dopey and disoriented and I think they just fell by accident."

"Sounds to me," Elmero said, "that killing them would be safest. No trace."

"There's no trace anyway," I told him. "An urch has no legal status, and besides, these kids don't remember anything about the weeks preceding and following the time they're robbed of their NDT."

Elmero was insistent. "Still safer dead."

"But don't you see, Elm? They're the Golden Geese. Put them back with their urchingang and they'll gradually replenish their super toddler NDT over a period of months, and then they'll be ripe for milking again, like a herd of cows."

This, unfortunately, elicited a smile from Elmero. "Good plan!"

"It's a monstrous plan!" Doc said, the dark skin of his face getting darker. "It's got to be exposed! They're doing untold damage to those kids! NDT deprivation at their age, even for limited spans, has to curtail their intellectual development, may even retard it permanently. And an urch needs every bit of brain he can muster to make it in this world. No, this can't go on. I've got to bring it to the attention of the medical authorities." His head snapped up, as if startled by a thought. "Why, they may even reinstate my license for this!"

"Got to invoke privilege on this, Doc," I said.

He looked crestfallen. "Really? Why?"

"Client's wishes."

In a way, that was a lie. Mr. Khambot didn't know a thing about this super NDT angle, but I was sure he wouldn't want it spread around. Publicity would only encourage open season on little urchins by NDT vultures. Had to figure out a way to settle this quietly, on my own.

Settled up with Elmero and Doc, then headed home.

That was when the molly wire beheaded me.

-12-

Had to hand it to Doc — he didn't waste any time getting to my place. My head was still on my shoulders and my fingers were still clasped around my lower neck, although I'd lost all feeling in my hands when he arrived, black bag in hand. My chin and the front of my jump were soaked with saliva. Wanted so bad to swallow something.

"Siggy, Siggy," he said in an awed whisper as he inspected me. "Who'd do this to you?"

Resisted the temptation to shake my head as I whispered, "Not sure. NeuroNex a good bet."

He nodded. "Maybe."

"Why'm I still alive?"

"I don't know," he said. His hands were trembling as he dipped into his black bag. "I've heard about cases like this, read about them, but never believed I'd ever see one. I think you're alive due to a mixture of fantastic luck and good balance, combined with more fantastic luck and surface tension."

"Surface —?"

"Makes wet things tend to stick together. There's a natural cohesiveness between cells. I'll venture to say that your would-be assassin used pristine new molly wire. That was luck on your part. The older stuff picks up molecules of garbage on its surface that makes it relatively dull. Still sharper than anything else in Occupied Space, but nothing like the fresh stuff. Your cut is so fine and clean that all your blood vessels and neurons and other tissues have stayed in physiological alignment. The chair, the gentle pressure from your hands, the fact that you haven't turned your head or done much swallowing and, of course, surface tension, have kept things lined up where they belong."

"Can talk."

"The wire passd below your vocal cords."

"Still don't see how —"

"Look: Molly wire's only one molecule thick. Mammalian cells can pass particles much much larger right through their cell walls. It's called pinocytosis. A lot of your cell walls are probably healed up already. Why — why I'll bet most of those cells don't even know their membranes have been ruptured!"

He was babbling. "Doc —"

"Do you realize that your neurons are still sending impulses from the brain to your arms. Oh, this is amazing, simply amazing! There's a little hematoma by the right jugular, but in general this is —"

Wanted to kick him but didn't have the strength. "Doc. Help. Please."

"I am helping."

He pulled out some gauzy stuff and started wrapping it around my throat, working it under my fingers and finally pushing them out of the way. Reluctant as hell to take my hands away, but it was an immense relief to finally let them drop to my sides.

Doc continued to babble as he worked.

"Amazing! Just amazing. I've got to hand it to you, Siggy. You showed real presence of mind. I mean, to know what had happened to you and assess the situation and do just what you had to do to keep your head on straight. Took real guts and a computer mind. Never knew you had it in you. I'm proud of you."

Thought about that and realized it must have been the residual effects of the super NDT that helped me zero in on what had happened and what to do about it so quickly. Doubt very much I could have done it purely on my own. Kind of liked the irony in that.

Doc looped the gauze under my arms and over the top of my head, then sprayed the whole mess with a pungent liquid. It hardened.

"What —?"

"It's a cast of sorts for your neck. It'll hold everything in place until I can get you to a hospital."

"No hospital."

"No choice, my friend."

"They think I'm dead."

Wanted to keep it that way until I was fully recovered.

"They'll think right if I don't get you to a facility where somebody can staple that split vertebra together, reanastomose your major blood vessels and nerve trunks, and repair the damaged musculature. Even if you live, your spinal cord could start demyelinating and leave you a paraplegic, or a best a paraparetic."

"They'll come to finish me."

"I know a small private hospital where we can hide you away indefinitely. They'll —"

There was a thump on the door. I glanced over — with eyes only — and saw B.B. the urch slumped against my door, half-heartedly pounding on it. He was sobbing.

"Open it," I told Doc.

The door slid open and dropped one surprised urchin into my compartment. He looked at me and his reddened eyes fairly bulged out of his tear-streaked face.

"Dreyer-san! You...you're..."

"Alive?" I said.

"B'see'm spray, see'm smilee —"

"You were out there?" And then I remembered the blur I'd seen behind the guy who mollied me. Must have been B.B.

"Foll you fr'Elmero's, see'm spray, den foll'm all way back."

Wanted to cheer. "Back where?"

"Boed North. NeuroNex."

All right. That clinched it. My slip about urchins in front of the tech had put me on a hit list. Would have to risk Doc's private hospital. And when well enough — if I ever got well enough — I'd have a score to settle.

B.B. came over and gabbed my hand. Could barely feel it. There were fresh tears in his eyes.

"S'glad y'live, Dreyer-san."

"Mister Dreyer, urch."

-13-

A week later I was home. They hadn't wanted to let me go but I didn't care. Enough was enough. Would've had me living there for months if I'd allowed it but was more than ready after a week. They'd put everything back together the first day, then started electrostim treatments to make the bones and nerves heal faster. Felt like a lab rat after a while. They all wanted to talk to me, examine me. Sickening.

Made them send me home, but they insisted on rigging this steel frame around my neck. It was screwed into my collar bones, the back of my neck, and my skull. Couldn't rotate my neck at all — had to turn my whole upper body to look left or right. Felt like a cyborg.

All the medics wanted to write about me, but Doc had first call on that. Said it would help him get his license back. How could I refuse after the way he'd shown up when I needed him? Put two restrictions on him, though: He couldn't use my name, and he had to wait til I'd settled the score with the NeuroNex people.

Doc brought me home. The urch opened my compartment door before we reached it. Iggy was sitting on his shoulder.

"Mr. Dreyer, Mr. Dreyer! You're back home!" He was fairly trembling with excitement. "So glad, so glad!"

"What're you doing here?"

"Living. Keeping clean. Feeding doggie." He stroked Iggy's flank.

"That's not a dog, that's a lizard."

Doc said, "B.B.'s going to help take care of you, Sig."

The urch tried to take my hand and lead me over to my chair. Shook him off.

"Don't need help." Eased myself into the chair and let it form around my back. It accomodated the brace easily.

"You most certainly do," Doc said. "I'm going to teach B.B. here how to apply the neurostimulators to your neck to keep the healing process going at its accelerated rate."

Glanced around my compartment. It was clean — much cleaner than the autoservice ever left it.

"How'd you get in here?" I said. The door was keyed to my palm. There was a key I could give to someone else if I chose, but I hadn't given it to anyone.

"Never left."

"You mean to tell me you've spent a whole week here without leaving even once?"

He smiled at me. "Sure. Got food, got bed, got shower, got vid. Lots of vid. Watch all day and night." He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle. "Filamentous heaven."

Looking at his scrubbed, happy face I could see that he really believed he had found heaven. Maybe he had. He must have been living around the vid set, and must have been practicing his Realpeople talk because he was much better, much smoother. And his body looked a little plumper. He was still a stick drawing, but with heavier lines.

"Leave me any food?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Think you can fix us some lunch?"

"Lunch? Oh, yes! Most certainly yes!" He said as he scurried over to the kitchen console.

He had definitely been watching a lot of vid.

Doc winked at me. "He's going to work out just fine!"

Said nothing as I watched that skinny little monkey dart around my compartment like it was his own. Didn't like the idea of living with someone but could see I was going to have to get used to it, at least for the time being.

-14-

Had to admit it: The urch came in handy. He learned to handle the bone and neurostimulators in nothing flat and was religious about the treatment schedule. He massaged my slowly strengthening limbs, maintained the compartment, and ran errands.

He also kept up a constant flow of chatter. Mostly questions. The kid was an information sponge, a black hole for knowledge. He knew next to nothing about the world and anything I could tell him was a major new discovery. B.B. looked on me as a font of learning. Thought I was the greatest guy walking this earth. Didn't know anyone else who saw me that way. Kind of nice. Made me want to live up to his expectations.

He also kept me distracted enough with the treatments and his incessant talk that I didn't miss the buttons too much. Not yet, at least. Wasn't sure how I'd have made it through those first few days without him.

"Never did tell me how you knew somebody'd used molly wire on me," I said on my third day home as he ran the bone stimulator against my neck. The hum traveled up the back of my head and buzzed in my ears.

"We use alla time un'ground."

"So you told me, but you didn't tell me what for."

"Rats."

"Explain."

"We tie across runs and over hidey-holes, sort like..." His voice trailed off.

Sort of like what happened to me.

Could tell he was embarrassed, so I let him off the hook: "Guess that keeps them away from your food stores."

"Uh. Rats are food un'ground."

My stomach did a little flipflop.

"I see." Decided this was a good time to change the subject. "By the way, what does 'B.B.' stand for, anyway?"

"Baby Boy."

"Oh."

My throat was suddenly tight and achy.

Just then we had a visit from officialdom: Complex Security came calling. Recognized the uniform and the droopy-lidded face that went with it. Had seen him around the complex over the years.

"You Sigmundo Dreyer?" he asked from the threshhold after the door had been cued open. He was staring at my neck brace.

"Who wants to know?"

"We had a complaint about a foul odor coming from this end of the corridor."

"Really? What kind of odor?"

"Said it smelled like something dead."

A chill raced through my bloodstream. "Well, sniff for yourself. You smell anything?"

He shook his head. "Not a thing."

"Who made the complaint?"

Already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it confirmed.

"Anonymous."

Thought so.

"Consider the source," I said.

He smiled, gave me a little salute, and left.

"We got trouble."

"S'wrong?" B.B. said.

I'd been talking to myself — sometimes I think better out loud. Decided to bounce my thoughts off the urch.

"That wasn't a crank complaint, or a mistake. That was somebody checking up to see why I haven't been reported dead."

"How they know you not?" His face screwed up in concentration. "And how they find out where you live so they can wire door?"

Held up my right thumb. "The cashless society. You'll never have the problem, but every time a Realperson uses his credit, he leaves all sorts of vital statistics behind — name, address, credit record. They've doubtlessly been checking with Central Data to see official confirmation of my death. Naturally, it hasn't appeared. They figure my body's rotting in here so they try to get the complex's security force to do their checking for them. When my name fails to be listed as deceased tomorrow, they'll come by to finish the job."

Didn't know what to do. Still too weak to take the battle to them, but didn't want to go back to the hospital.

B.B. was suddenly very agitated.

"You think they c'mere? Really try again?"

"That's what I'd do. But don't worry," I said with a confidence I didn't feel. "We'll just keep the door sealed tight and wait till I'm fully healed up."

"W'if they blow door?"

Hadn't thought of that.

"That would make a little too much noise, I'd think."

Tried to sound confident, but if they wanted me bad enough, it was an option: Show up dressed in a holosuit, blow the door, strafe the room with blaster fire, and take off.

"N'good, san," B.B. said, up and pacing about. His speech was deteriorating by the minute. "N'good, n'good." He turned and darted for the door.

"Hey! Where're you going?"

"Y'stay, san. I go. Gots go now."

And he was gone.

Thought he'd be back soon but dark came and still no sign of him. Missed two treatments for the first time since coming home from the hospital. Finally it got late and I got sleepy and so I turned in.

Had trouble sleeping. Not much. Just a little. Kept thinking how I'd been smart all along to be alone. Have somebody around all the time and before you know it, you're depending on them. And then what? The first sign of trouble, they run out on you. Should have known better. The whole thing made me mad. Wasn't hurt. Just damn mad.

Thought I heard someone at my door during the night. Worked my way to the transparency control, hoping to see B.B. there but found the corridor empty. Probably my imagination. Besides, B.B. had the key I'd given him. He didn't need to fiddle with the door.

This whole situation was getting me spooked. Decided to sleep in the chair for the rest of the night. Left the door transparent. Usually the light from the corridor bothered me when I was trying to sleep, but tonight it was comforting.

Awoke later to the sound of the door sliding open. The pale-faced, fat-nosed fellow who had mollied my neck was standing in the hall behind the redheaded tech. His eyes were wide as he looked me up and down.

"You're really alive! It's dregging impossible!"

Felt like a half-crushed roach pinned in a flashlight beam. But all I could see was the little stub of plastic in the redhead's hand. My mouth was dry as I spoke.

"My key...?"

He smiled. "Your little friend sold it to us for a meal credit."

My fear was suddenly washed away in a gush of abysmal sadness. B.B. had sold me out for another soysteak dinner. As the pale-faced guy nudged the redhead into the room, I found I didn't really care all that much about dying. Too tired, too weak, too many troubles, too much disappointment. Sick of everything. Almost welcomed her.

As she moved toward me, her eyes suddenly bulged in alarm. She started to turn around, and as she did I saw fine crimson lines appear across her throat, across the white of the uniform overlying her breasts, abdomen, and legs. She began to fall, and as she went down she came apart like an overbalanced stack of boxes. The crimson lines quickly bloomed to blotches which became geysers and torrents of red as her head toppled to the left, her lower arms dropped straight down, and the other pieces tumbled to the right. In a matter of seconds the ceiling, the walls, the pale faced guy, and I were all dripping warm red sticky fluid. But most of the red was pooled around the still twitching horror just inside the doorway.

Wiped my eyes and looked up. Saw the guy staring dully at his former associate. Swallowed back my stomach contents and tried to think of a way out of this. An idea of what had happened here was forming in my brain and suddenly I was very anxious to stay alive.

Figuring it was now or never, I started my chair toward the drawer where I kept a small popper. The movement must have shaken Paleface out of his shocked stupor. Suddenly he was reaching into his jump and pulling out a mean-looking blaster. As he raised it, I heard a shrill cry from down the hall. He turned, I looked.

B.B. was in full charge toward Paleface. The kid caught him off balance half way through his turn. He fell backward, his arms whirling like flywheels. Did him no good. He stumbled through the wired doorway and went to pieces. More pumping, twitching sections of body bounced and rolled along my compartment floor.

Looked away in time to see B.B. skid to a halt at the threshhold, then to my horror, saw him slip on a splatter of blood and lose his balance. One hand grabbed onto the jamb while the other flailed —

— and crossed the plane of the door.

Saw his hand fly off, saw him drop to his knees and stare stupidly at the geysering stump of his wrist.

Without even thinking I had the chair in motion toward the door but it caught up on the bloody meat all over my floor.

"Grab it!" I shouted. "Squeeze it off!" But he didn't seem to hear.

Stumbled out of the chair and up onto my feet. My legs gave out after two steps so I crawled on hands and knees through the gore, praying that my brace would hold my head on and that I'd healed up enough inside so that nothing would slip around. Shouted encouragement all the while, but he just sat there and stared at the stump.

Reached the threshhold and stretched my arm through, holding my breath and hoping I was between the wires. When none of my fingers fell off, I grabbed his forearm just above the amputation site and squeezed, working my fingers and thumb into the scant flesh, trying different spots until the blood stopped pumping out, then held onto that spot with every ounce of strength.

He looked at me and blinked. His face was death white and his eyes seemed to have retreated into his skull. "Got'm, yeh. Won't hurt y'no mo, san."

Then he slumped to the floor in a heap.

Held onto his wrist and started shouting at the top of my lungs. When doors started opening down the hall, I turned back to the kid and said,

"You die on me you little bastard and so help me I'll wring your skinny little neck!"

Thought he was dead or in a terminal coma at best but swore his lips curled into a tiny smile.

-15-

Had a lot of explaining to do. Two neatly sliced up bodies on the floor of one's compartment tends to raise questions among officialdom. Leaving out all mention of the super NDT, told them that I'd learned about the pair's urchin-snatching activities — said I had no idea why they did it — and that they'd tried to kill me with molly wire.

Because I had an investigator's licence and had the wound to prove prior assault, and because Redhead and Paleface still had blasters clutched in the hands at the ends of their severed arms, I managed to stay out of confinement. But the incident was still under investigation while the bodies were being pieced together and posted, and I was not to leave the Megalops until all questions were answered.

Didn't matter to me. Wasn't going anywhere for some time anyway.

My arms and legs were stronger now and I could walk around and take care of myself. Even worked the window garden a little. Doc still wasn't allowing me out of the brace, though.

B.B. had come through fine — I'd guaranteed his medical expenses to make sure of that. His right hand was grafting on nicely but it was still in an immobilizing brace. He had full use of his left hand, though. Together we made one marginally competent person.

"Fine pair we are," I said as we watched the vid.

B.B. popped a cheesoid into his mouth and tossed another to Iggy.

"Lazy."

"Yeah. Lazy. Got to get back to work someday."

Work. Reminded me of my only client — Mr. Earl Khambot.

A number of local urchingangs had checked all of their females in the age range of the Khambot girl and had found no one with footprints that even came close to the infant prints the father had given me. Didn't know if I could trust their comparison skills, but had no alternative. A retinal check would have been better but that was impossible.

Time to call my client and tell him I was still looking but had come up with zero. Strange...it had been weeks and he hadn't called once to check up on my progress. Doubly strange after his generous downpayment in gold.

Called his number but the man who answered was not my client and he'd never heard of Earl Khambot. Spent the rest of the day calling every Earl Khambot in the Megalops. There weren't too many, and none of them was my client.

"What's going on?" I said as the holochamber faded after the last call.

"S'wrong?" B.B. said.

"Hired by a paying customer who doesn't exist to find a child who can't be found. That make sense to you?"

"Maybe no child."

"Maybe right."

"S'mystery, san."

" 'Mister Dreyer.' And yeah, it's that all right."

"S'okay. Got friend for life, right?" he said, pointing to himself and tossing me a cheesoid.

Laughed and winged it back at him. Maybe that was enough. For now.

PART THREE

Kids

"It's anytime. Do you know where your urchin is?" (datastream graffito)

-1-

After a few weeks, my head and neck rig came off. B.B.'s wrist brace came off about the same time.

And all the while I'd been thinking about the guy who had called himself Earl Khambot. What can you say about a client who didn't exist?

Further, what can you say about a client who didn't exist who paid you in hard to find someone else who also didn't exist?

Severe neuronal dysfunction, right?

But that's what appeared to have happened. Earl Khambot had lied to me about his own name yet had paid me in advance in good metal to find the fictional daughter he had supposedly given over to the urchins as a babe.

Why?

Couldn't think of a single reason.

Couldn't complain, either. Had his gold, and that was not exactly what one would call a heavy burden.

But it became clear to me after a while that I was going to have to find the guy who'd called himself Earl Khambot or go crazy. Not that I'd have a great deal of trouble squeezing the search into my busy schedule. After all, I'd been out of the business for a pair of years, and hadn't been all that terribly busy when things were in hyperdrive, relatively speaking.

So I used my copious slack time to apply my sector-renowned tracking skills to hunting down Earl Khambot. Knew it wouldn't be easy, but I was getting first-hand experience with the concept of obsession" and had to keep going. It wouldn't let up on me.

Why?

Everybody tries to gain in some way by whatever they do. Even if they give a trinket to an urchin beggar, they're getting a feelgood in return. Even crazy people have their reasons for doing things. Plenty of times they're rotten reasons, but at least you could see what they were after. With Khambot I couldn't even guess. The trail was cold but it didn't matter. I had to know. And to know, I had to find him.

Wished I could have traced him through his thumb, but that was out because he'd paid me in gold. That had impressed me at first as a gesture of trust and good will, and a sure sign that he didn't want our business relationship recorded in Central Data. Perfectly fine with me. And perfectly consistent with the job he wanted me to do: Locate a supposedly illegal child.

Who apparently didn't exist either.

Started driving me crazy.

What had been Khambot's angle? What did he get out of our little transaction?

Didn't know, but was damn sure going to find out.

Or so I thought.

Came up blank all over the Megalops. No one could recollect ever hearing his name before; and although a fair number said he looked vaguely familiar, no one could say where they'd seen him. B.B. even had a couple of urchingangs looking for traces of Earl Khambot but they came up null score.

Looked hopeless.

So imagine my surprise when I find him in my home.

Right.

I was sitting in my polyform contour chair in my cozy little compartment; the picture of modern domestic tranquility: Me, the urch, and the iguana around the vid.

That was where I found him. On the vid during good ol' Newsface Four's datacast.

It was a VersaPili commercial. The one where the guy up front starts off swaying back and forth in completely hairless holographic splendor, then grows a little moustache, then some chest hair, then a heart-shaped pubic bush, then starts with hairy designs all over his body while the back-up chorus dances and chants:

It's automatic,

It's enzymatic,

So pragmatic

You'll be ecstatic!

Stimulate or numb your hairy molecules!

Hirsutize or dormatize those follicules!"_

A certifiable classic. Everyone remembered it because it used real people instead of digital constructs. And guess who I spotted prancing around in the chorus?

Right.

Started shouting like a black holer: "It's him! Damn the Core, it's him!"

Scared the hell out of B.B. who was visiting again after one of his periodic sojourns home to the Lost Boys. He spilled half a cup of green FlavoPunch all over himself.

"Wha? Wha?" he said, twisting that boney body this way and that, bright brown eyes popping. "Who's him? Who?"

"That guy there in the back on the right! The one with the cubed hair! It's him! Khambot! Earl dregging Khambot!"

"Sure?" he said. He was trying to wipe the green goop off him but succeeded only in smearing it deeper into the fabric of his jump.

"Pretty sure."

Moved closer for a better look but the commercial faded from the holochamber to be replaced by Newsface Four again. Told it to retrieve the commercial and ordered it to freeze when the guy in question stepped forward for a spin. Checked him from a couple of different angles.

Khambot all right. Or his clone.

Told the vid to relocate the leading edge of the datastream, then sat back in the chair and considered: mystery man Earl Khambot — low odds that was his real name — was really a song-and-dance man. Wasn't too sure how happy I was with that revelation.

"How you gonna find him, Siggy-san?" B.B. said.

Sometime during the past week he had stopped calling me Mr. Dreyer. Wasn't something I liked but wasn't about to make an issue of it, either. He had found a way to clean the green gook off his jump by letting Iggy lap it up with his big coarse tongue. Never dreamed an iguana would take to FlavoPunch. Maybe it was a nice break from the compartment's roaches.

"Could be I'll go into the commercial business."

-2-

Finding Khambot wasn't as easy as I'd thought. Took me days to snake my way through the various departments of the VersaPili division of the Leason Corporation until I got to someone who had the name of the company that had produced that particular commercial for them. Turned out to be one of these avant guard artsy groups that was dedicated to using live actors. From them I got the names of the five guys in the chorus — nobody there seemed to emember the name of the second guy from the right so I took all five names and began searching them out.

Got lucky with number three.

Earl Khambot turned out to be Deen Karmo. Lived alone in a small compartment in an old complex in Queens. A small building, holographed up to look like the top half of the old Chrysler Building. That alone told me it was old and seedy — the Chrysler had been the most popular of the very early envelopes — and the lobby confirmed the impression.

Waited till he left one morning, then let myself in. Easily. His security rig was rudimentary. And once inside I knew why. The guy didn't have anything worth taking. Made my place look like a palace.

Being a flesh-and-blood song-and-dance man these days obviously didn't pay well.

Made myself at home and waited for him to come back. Was resigned for a long haul but he surprised me by showing up in a couple of tenths.

Didn't even look up as he came in. He was humming a tune and dressed in the latest style just as he'd been when showed up at my office that one time. Still a real pretty-boy. The door had already slid completely shut behind him before he spotted me.

He dropped the package in his hand.

"What are you doing in here? I'm calling security!"

He reached for the panic button. Obviously he didn't recognize me.

"You shock me, Earl," I said quickly. "Throwing out your old friend without even a hello."

His finger stopped about a millimeter short of the button.

"My name's not —"

He gave me a closer look. Came the dawn:

"You — you're that, that, that —"

"Investigator."

"Right!" He smiled. "How have you been, Mr...? Forgive me, I forget your name."

"Really? How could you forget the name of the man you hired to find your daughter?"

The smile faltered and his hand still hovered over the panic button.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"The name's Dreyer. Sig Dreyer. And what shall I call you?

'Mr. Khambot' or 'Mr. Karmo?' "

"Mr. Karmo will do fine."

"Good. Let's talk, shall we, Mr. Karmo? I'm not here to cause you any trouble. You paid me well for my time so I've got no quarrel with you. But I am curious."

Finally, he dragged his hand away from the button and took the only other seat in the tiny compartment.

"I don't think you'll be too happy with what I have to tell you, Mr. Dreyer."

"Why not?"

"Because there isn't much."

"Let me decide that. You can start by telling me if you have a daughter."

He laughed but it didn't seem to relax him. "Oh, no! Of course not! That was just part of the story!"

"But why any story at all?"

"I really don't know. I'm an actor. I was hired to act." He shrugged expressively. "So I acted."

"Who hired you?"

"I don't know. He was wearing a holosuit."

"Isn't that just bloaty!" I said, getting annoyed and showing it.

Karmo cringed. "Sorry."

"What was the image?"

"Joey Jose."

Wanted to throw something. Had high hopes since tracking Karmo down, now they were going up in smoke. He'd been hired by a guy hiding inside the holographic image of the Megalops' most popular entertainer. The number one holosuit on the rental circuit. Every holodashery had twenty Joey Joses in stock. No way of tracing the mystery man through that!

"What about the voice? Any accent?"

Karmo cringed again. "He was using a Joey voicer."

A holosuit and a voicesizer. Whoever he was, he was taking great pains to cover his tracks.

"And he just came up to you and handed you that gold piece and said 'Go get find somebody to search for your imaginary urchin daughter' and you picked me out to —"

"Oh, no. He was very specific. It had to be Sigmundo Dreyer and nobody else."

"But I'd been out of business for years! I'd only opened up a couple of days before you showed up!"

Another shrug. "What can I say? Maybe he'd been waiting for you to reopen. All I know is that he gave me two goldies, told me to use one to hire you and keep the other for myself. If I was successful in getting you to take the job, there were two more coins in it for me." He smiled briefly. "Needless to say, for that kind of fee, I put on my best performance."

He shrank back as I stood up.

"That you did, my friend. That you did."

Would have liked to give the jog a dose of Truth but had a feeling I'd learn nothing new. Somebody pretty glossy was behind this: Left no trail, and dangled a pay schedule that not only kept Karmo from roguing off with the goldies, but insured he'd give the performance his all.

"No harm done, I hope," Karmo said.

Clapped him on the shoulder and he almost came apart.

"Nope. No harm at all. Just want to know what's behind it all. And you're no dregging help."

Left a very relieved and very sweaty actor behind in his compartment.

-3-

"Eat your soyshi."

B.B. made a face. "Needs more cooking."

"No so. Supposed to be raw."

"Raw fishee?"

His repulsed expression was something to behold. All I could do to keep from laughing. He was pulling me out of the trough I'd slipped into since my talk with Karmo.

"Not real fish. Only looks that way. It's veg. Pseudotuna on vinegared rice. Watch." Finger-dipped one into the nearby soy-wasabi mix and popped it into my mouth. "Mmmm! Filamentous!"

B.B. grabbed his throat in a stranglehold and treated me to the sound of a melodramatic retch as he toppled off his chair.

The other customers in the dinnero were starting to stare.

"Get up before they kick you out of here!"

He returned to his seat. "H'bout soysteak?"

"Pardon?" I said, cupping my ear.

"How about a soysteak?" he said carefully.

"How about broadening your horizons? There's more to eating than soysteaks, cheesoids, and speed spuds."

"N'like this dreggy stuff."

"How would you know? You haven't tasted any. What kind of parent would I be if —"

"N'my parent!"

That stung more than I would have imagined. Don't even know why I'd referred to myself as his parent. Didn't want to be. Truly. But felt the jab anyway. The sting must have shown on my face, because he added:

"Wendy parent to all Lost Boys."

Could have added that you're allowed more than one parent but that would have slipped me into a position I didn't particularly care for so I kept mum.

"Right. Forgot."

The black mood was settling on me again.

"You fren, Sig. Not parent."

"One way of looking at it, I guess. And friends don't make other friends eat soyshi, right?"

"Right."

Ordered him a soysteak with his habitual trimmings. Every time I took him out to eat he ordered the same dregging meal.

Urchins must have a high threshhold of boredom.

"Who is this Wendy, anyway?" I said as we waited for his meal.

"Mom-to-all."

"B.B...." I said tiredly.

"Know, yes, know, Sig. Not biomom, but real mom. Readee us, teachee us, fixee clothes an food. Do tuck-in a'night f'babes."

His eyes shone as he spoke. There was adoration there. Why did that irk me? What did I care about some crazy femme playing Mamma to some urches?

"What's she look like?""

"Byooful."

"Of course. Aren't all mothers? But give me some details. Her hair, for instance? Blond?"

He shook his head. "Brown straight."

"Fat? Thin?"

"Thin like us, course."

"Why 'course'? When she leaves you at night, she probably goes home to a big meal.

"Wendy live w'urches."

That gave me pause. Who in their right mind would want to live in the tunnels with a horde of kids, eating begged food and cooking rats?

"What's she get out of it?"

He beamed. "Family. Allus family."

"All?"

"Huh. Sh'go most gangs. Mom-to-all, but sh'come back Lost Boys most. We her firs famly."

"She never leaves the tunnels?"

"Sometime, but n'f'long. Always come back with special giftees."

Now I was really suspicious. This Wendy was either a true disequillibrated non-comp, verging on black holedom, or there was a roguey angle to this that I wasn't seeing. Either way, I wasn't comfortable having B.B. involved with her. Not until I knew more.

"Sounds like a wonderful person," I said. "When can I meet this Wendy?"

He started as if he'd just received a shock.

"Meetee? Oh, no. None upside ev meetee Wendy. Sh'say n'ever jaw 'bout her to any not urch."

"You told me."

"You friend f'life, Sig. Trust."

"Yeah. Well, see if you can arrange it. It's very important to me to meet such a unique person."

"I ask, b'tell now, sh'nev say 'kay."

The food arrived then and no further conversation was possible. You can't talk to B.B. when he's got a meal in front of him. You can barely watch him.

-4-

Two days later, sitting in my office, got treated to the pleasure of another visit from my favorite procurer and clone slaver, Ned Spinner.

"What do you want, Spinner?" I said as he stood in front of my desk, staring at me.

His hair was in his usual curly blond Caesar cut and he was dressed in the same dark green pseudovelvet jump he always wore.

As he spoke in his nasal whine, he began strutting back and forth, doing his oversized rooster routine.

"I heard about your accident. I just wanted to check up on you and make sure you were okay."

"Your concern is touching."

"Truth, Dreyer. I was really worried when I heard. After all, you're probably the only one who knows the whereabouts of my stolen clone. I didn't want the secret to die with you."

"You can go now."

He hesitated. "Look, Dreyer. I'll make a deal. I know you've put her in business somewhere, but the take you're getting off her can't be anything near what she could earn back in Dydeetown. She was dregging good, one of the top earners in the whole —"

"The door is behind you, Spinner."

"I'm offering you a cut, you jog!" he screamed. "Tell me where she is and I'll go get her. I'll set her up in her old spot in Dydeetown and give you a percentage! What could be fairer? After all, she's my dregging clone!"

Stared at him.

"Well," he said. "What do you say? Attractive offer, no?"

"No. Because then I'd be like you, Spinner. And I don't find that the least bit attractive."

The sneer that he tried to pass off as a smile crawled across his face. "All right, Dreyer. Play your roguey game. But keep in mind that I'm always around. I'm always watching you."

"Each night I rest easy knowing that."

"Don't rest easy, Dreyer. I'm the guy that's going to cut you down. Remember: every day, I'm watching. And one of these days, you're going to lead me back to my property."

"Your clone is on one of the outworlds, Spinner. And since I don't plan on heading off-planet soon or ever, you've got a long wait ahead of you."

"Keep lying, Dreyer. You'll lose more than your head when I catch you with her.""

"Look," I said, trying to talk some sense into him so he'd leave me alone. Doubted that was possible — after all, he'd made a good living off his Jean Harlow clone and now he was on the dole without her — but figured I'd try. "Even if you got her back, she'd be no good to you. She'll refuse to whore a Dydeetown slot for you. So why don't you face facts? You lost. She won. She got away and she's staying away. Give it up."

His eyes blazed as he slammed a fist on my desk.

"Never! She's Earthside! Probably right here in the Megalops! And I'm gonna find her! And if she won't cooperate, I'll memwipe her and we'll start all over again from scratch! But I'm never giving up, Dreyer!"

Good thing he left on his own then. The thought of him wiping Jean's memory and sticking her back in Dydeetown had me itching to go for his throat.

Was just about calmed down when B.B. popped in. He looked dazed as he plopped down on a chair.

"Something wrong, kid?"

He shook his head slowly as he spoke, as if not fully understanding what he was saying.

"Har b'lieve, Sig, b'Wendy say sh'jaw you, see you."

B.B. was definitely spending too much time with his old urchingang. Had to work on getting him to do some time in front of the datastream before his speech got stuck in pure urch pidgin again.

"Well, I assume you gave me a bloaty recommendation."

"Bloaty, yeh, b'she nev see toppers."

"She's gotta see somebody when she disappears topside."

He thought about that one. "Mayb. B'when sh'go way, nev f'long. Allus back morn."

Understandable. No matter how overdone she was on urchins, even this Wendy had to crave some adult chatter once in a while. Maybe that was why she'd agreed to meet me. She'd know from B.B. that I wasn't some dregger out to stake some sort of claim on them, especially after taking that pair of vultures from NeuroNex off their backs.

"When do we meet this lady?"

"Now, today, ri'way."

"Whoa, little man. I've got business to tend to."

Not true, but I wanted to have some say in how and when this meeting took place.

"Sh'say now or nev. Or leas nah f'verlon time."

Wasn't happy with the ultimatum, but the meet had been my idea, in the first place. She was agreeing to it, but on her own terms.

"Where?"

"In downbelow."

"In the tunnels?"

"Wendy n'like upside."

"Bloaty." Last place I wanted to spend a day was in the old trans tunnels. "I'll get a handlight and then you can lead the way, B.B."

We tubed across to the Battery area, back to the foundation of the Okumo-Slater building where I'd met my first urchins, then shot north two stops. From there it was all on foot. We walked further north until we came to a middle-sized office complex.

B.B. led me through the sub-basement to an old sealed up subway entrance. The kids had unsealed it long ago. He ducked within, I squeezed through behind. Out came our lights and we began our crawl into the Megalops' nether regions.

Down concrete steps with our handlights refecting off old tiled walls, along rubble-strewn corridors, hopping down concrete embankments to follow steel rails through passages crudely hacked through the living granite. Moisture had collected in puddles, some small, some wide enough to block our path so that we had to creep along a raised ledge to get by. Something splashed in one of the bigger puddles as we passed and I felt my hackles rise.

"Chilly down here," I said.

Ahead of me, I could see B.B. shrug. "Allus same. No matter what upside, allus same in downbelow."

After a long, seemingly endless tunnel, I noticed a faint glow from up ahead. It grew as we moved toward it, becoming almost blinding as we rounded a bend.

A station, an old subway stop. What wall tiles that remained sparkled in the light. In one spot, some blue and orange tiles formed a sign: W. 4th. In a far corner, green things were growing. The platform was lined with a motley assortment of little shacks made of epoxied scrap vinyl and polymer. They looked like they'd been slapped together, but the overall picture was one of neatness and order. Saw a few urchin toddlers sitting and playing in a group while some nine- or ten-year olds swept the platform floor between the shacks. Cleaning up. Almost like they were expecting company.

"The Lost Boys," I said.

"Ri'!"

As we got closer, I squinted up at the bright ceiling over the platform and saw that it was lined with Ito daybars. Nudged B.B. and pointed to them.

"Where'd you get those?"

"Stealee long time go. Two-three urch life."

"Yeah, but you need power —"

"Stealee tha, too." He pocketed his handlight. "Come. You meetee my frens."

B.B. led the way up a short run of steps to the platform. A couple of the kids waved as they caught sight of him, then froze when they saw me. One of them let out a yell and suddenly a torrent of urchins of all shapes and sizes came spilling out of their shanties. Only in a few cases could I tell the boys from the girls. They were all thin, all dressed in castoff clothing, all had hair of about the same length.

And all the older ones were armed and looked ready to fight.

B.B. hurried forward, waving his hands. "No, no!" He pointed back at me. "Siggy! Siggy!"

Saw their eyes widen as they all stared at me. Suddenly the platform was silent. They began to move toward me, slowly, as if unsure of themselves.

Wasn't too sure of myself either at the moment. An awful lot of them — fifty at least — and I was pretty much at their mercy. Couldn't even run if it came to that. Didn't know how to backtrack from here. So I held my ground and let them come.

Their faces...their expressions were all the same. Could that be awe? Of me?

They crowded around, cut me off from B.B., encircled me, but kept a distance of about a meter. Until one of the toddlers broke through the others and came up to me. He or she looked up at me for a moment, then grabbed my leg in a bear hug, saying…

"Thiggy."

That broke the ice. The rest of them crowded closer, some patting me on the back, some gently punching me on my shoulders, others hugging me, and all of them speaking softly, almost reverently…

"Siggy, Siggy, Siggy."

What was going on?

Looked around for B.B. but couldn't find him in the press.

Then the crowd parted to let someone through. An adult. A woman. Slim, with straight, light brown hair flowing over her shoulders. Nice figure.

When she smiled, I knew her. The platinum hair was gone, and so was all the make-up. But by the Core I knew her.

"Jean!"

"Hello, Mr. Dreyer," she said, calm and as matter-of-fact as if we had just had lunch together yesterday.

She put a hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.

All around us, the urches giggled and whispered.

"They like you," she said.

With the toddler urches clinging to my arms and legs, I could only gape at her.

"B.B. has spoken so much of you, about how you almost died catching the ones who were snatching our toddlers. You're a hero here, Mr. Dreyer. All the urchingangs have heard of you."

Finally found my voice.

"It's been two years, Jean. Thought you were Out Where All The Good Folks Go."

"I was. I went to Neeka and settled there for a while. I thought it would be all right. I thought I could fit in. But it didn't work out."

"You didn't tell them you were a clone, did you?"

"No. That wasn't the problem. I had plenty of men interested in me."

"I'll bet."

No shortage of food on the Outworlds, but they were always short on women.

"But I quickly found out that I would never be considered a suitable mate for anyone there."

"Why not?"

She shrugged forlornly. "I'm sterile."

"Oh. Right."

Had forgot about that. All clones, male and female, are routinely sterilized at birth — at deincubation, rather. Injected with something that keeps the gonads from producing gametes without interferring with their hormone output.

As far as Outworlders are concerned, a woman who can't breed is not a real woman.

"So, I came back home," she said with forced brightness. "

She put one hand on the shoulder of a nearby urch and tousled the hair of another. "And found some people who really need me."

"Yeah, but you were free to come and go as you pleased out there. Earthside you're —"

"A mother — something I can't be anywhere else."

The realization hit me then. I'm a little slow, but eventually I get there.

"You're Wendy!"

She curtsied. "At your service."

"Hear you're a real mother to them."

"I try."

"Wendy bes mom ev!" It was B.B. He had squeezed in beside her and was grinning up at both of us. "An Sig bes fren. Protectee."

Circuits were beginning to come to life, correlations were forming in my pitiful brain.

"You hired that actor to hire me to...to..."

She nodded, smiling. "Of course! Me and my Joey Jose holosuit."

It all fit. Someone had been snatching her children and returning them damaged. She had wanted it stopped and so she came to me — or rather, sent someone to me.

"Why me?"

"Because you don't quit."

Shrugged that off. Probably just trying to get on my good side.

"Why didn't you come yourself?"

"I wasn't sure you'd take the job from me. I know how you feel about clones. Besides, Spinner was always hovering about. I couldn't risk him spotting me."

"Doubt he'd recognize you."

"This is the real me," she said, twirling a strand of brown hair around her finger.

"You look nice," I said before realizing it.

"Why, thank you, Sig." She was staring at me, her eyes soft and wondering. "You've changed, haven't you?"

Shook my head. "Not a bit. Why should I?"

"I don't know. And I can't say exactly what it is, but you're different."

"My hair — combing it different."

Which was true. Now that I just had a little scar where my button used to be, I could keep my hair shorter and not have to worry about that little metal nubin showing.

"No, I mean different inside. And by the way, I've been wanting to ask you for two standard years now —"

That was a giveaway that she'd spent some time on the Outworlds — only Outworlders talked about "standard" years.

"— about that greencard you returned to me at the shuttleport."

Felt myself tighten up inside. Didn't want her figuring out that I'd done something stupid like changing the worthless phony card Barkham had given her to a genuine counterfeit Realpeople card. She'd probably get all sorts of wrong ideas then.

"What about it?"

"It felt...different.""

"It worked, didn't it? So don't complain." Then I thought of something: "Wait a bit. How'd you get back Earthside without Spinner finding out?"

"Simple," she said with a mischievous smile. "I declared citizenship on Neeka, changed my legal name, and came back on a visitor's pass."

"But that only gives you a limited stay."

"As far as Central Data is concerned, Jean Double came to Earth as a visitor and disappeared."

"'Jean Double,' huh? You've gotten pretty glossy since you left."

"I'm not as naive as I was two standards ago, if that's what you mean."

Laughed. "Nobody is!"

She laughed, too, and I liked the sound.

"But is this it?" I said, looking around at the Lost Boys' tunnel village. "This is it for the rest of your life?"

"It's not so bad." She hooked her arm around mine and I felt a strange tingle run up to my shoulder. "Come on. I'll give you the tour."

The kids fell back, then followed us in a herd as she led me toward the greenery. Watched her out of the corner of my eye. She thought I'd changed? She'd changed! This was not the dumb woman-child clone of two years ago walking at my side. She was a grown-up — content, assured, self-confident. More than her hair had changed. Seemed to me she'd made major changes under that hair.

"The daybars were here before I came, but the children never took advantage of the artificial sunlight. I had them collect some soil from the upper tunnels, steal seedlings from a few choice window boxes, and here we are: fresh vegetables."

"Filamentous," I said, and meant it.

She led me through the old station, showed me the various models of hut. Did my best to appear interested, but couldn't get a certain question out of my mind. Finally, when she stopped and showed me her own hut, I asked it:

"How come you're wasting your life down here?"

She turned on me like a tiger. "Waste? I don't call this wasting my life!"

"Bloaty. What do you call it then?"

"Doing some good! Making a difference! And I don't need your dregging Realpeople seal of approval to make it matter to me, either!"

"Making a difference?" She was getting me riled. "What difference? They're still going to grow up and move upside with no legal existence and try to scratch out a living in the shadow strata."

She turned away. "I know. But maybe they'll be just a little bit better people because of what I've done for them down here. And maybe...just maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe they won't all have to move into the shadow strata. Maybe some of them can go somewhere else."

"Like where?"

"The Outworlds.""

Too stunned to speak as she turned around and faced me with all this hope beaming from her eyes. Jean Harlow the clone had a Big Idea. A Dream.

That can be dangerous.

"Did they make you travel back and forth from the Outworlds in an unshielded cabin or something?" I said when I'd regained my voice. "Being out there must have affected your mind."

"I'm not crazy!" she said with this beatific smile. "Farm planets like Neeka are crying for settlers — the younger the better! They need hands!"

"But these are little kids here! They can't —"

"Little hands quickly grow into bigger hands!"

"And how are you going to get them off planet?"

She frowned. "That's the problem."

"That's not the only problem," I said. "Who knows how they'll be treated out there? Some dregger could turn them into slave labor, or worse."

"I know, I know," she said in a miserable voice. "But look at this." She gestured at the platform around us. "Something has got to be done. These are babies. This has got to stop!"

Stood and stared at her, not really understanding her. As usual.

Guess there are two ways at looking at things like the urchingangs. Me, I've always accepted them. The urchin problem was swept under the carpet long before I was born and I've always taken it for granted that they'd still be there long after I died. Urchins: Everyone knows they're there, but as long as they stay out of sight in their assigned niche, no one has to bother about them.

Then there's the other way: Someone sees the lumps in the carpet, lifts it up and says, Hey, what's this dregging mess doing here? This has got to stop.

Well, sure. Now that I really thought about it, yes, it should be stopped. But who was going to do the stopping? Not an everyday jog like me. And certainly not a renegade clone of Jean Harlow.

This has got to stop had never occurred to me because I knew it would never stop.

And what you can't change, you accept.

At least that was what had always worked for me.

"Don't go stirring things up," I told her. "You might get hurt."

She shrugged. "I'll risk it."

Pointed to the kids standing and staring at us from a distance. "They might get hurt."

"I know." She turned those big eyes on me. "Will you help me?"

Shook my head. "No."

"Please, Sig?"

That startled me. She never called me by my first name.

"With all your contacts, you could help me find a way to get some of these kids out of here."

Shook my head again, very slowly so she couldn't confuse it with anything else. Knew if I got myself involved in this one it would make me crazy.

"Double no. And let's change the subject."

She gave me a long, reproachful look. "I suppose you want the rest of the payment for ridding us of those NeuroNex snatchers."

"We're even," I said. "Consider it a favor for a friend."

She smiled. "So I'm a friend? How nice of you to say so."

That took me back. The friend I'd meant was B.B., but I didn't correct her.

"Better be getting back," I said. "Is there a shortcut out of here?"

"Only if you're B.B.'s size."

"But they must have had lots more entries and exits in the old days."

"Of course, but they've long since been sealed up and built over. The nearest adult-sized entry is the one you used to get here."

"You going to lead me out?"

"B.B. will do that. Good-bye, Mr. Dreyer."

She turned and walked away.

-5-

Strangely enough, about a week later I was sitting in my office with my feet up on the desk, thinking of Jean — nothing personal, just wondering what she was going to do with all those kids — when B.B. raced in. His eyes were bugging out of his ashen face.

"Got uh! Got uh! Got Wendy!"

My insides did a flop to the right, then to the left as I got my feet down and shot upright.

"When? Who's got her?"

Already knew the answer to the last part. What a dregging jog I'd been not to remember what Spinner had said about watching my every move.

"Yellows!"

That stopped me.

"You mean M.A. types?"

He nodded vigorously. "Four!"

What 'round Sol were Megalops Authority police doing arresting Jean?

"Where'd they take her?"

"Dunno! Dunno!" B.B.'s face skrinched up and he started to blubber.

"Hey, little man. Calm down."

Seeing him break up was upsetting. Motioned him over by my chair and put an arm over his shoulder. He slumped against me and sobbed.

I said, "I'll find out what's going on. If the yellowjacketstook her, she'll be down at the Pyramid. Probably all a big mistake."

He seemed to take heart from that. "Think?"

"Sure."

Biggest lie of my life.

"Y'get Wendy out, ri', Sig? Get back Mom-to-all?"

"Do my best."

"Cn'do, Sig. Know it be filamentous soon. Cn'do any!""

"Yeah."

-6-

The People's Pyramid — Open To All The People All The Time.

Megalops Central really is a pyramid — no holo envelope. The real thing, squatting in the middle of a huge plaza. Hollow inside with all the governmental offices in the outer walls.

Supposedly a showpiece but actually a colossal waste of space. A golden Cheops model, sloping up stepwise to a transparent apex. The steps provide landing areas, making up for the lack of a flat roof, I guess. Always bustling. Never closed.

Took me a while — had to answer lots of questions and go through a genotype check — but managed to get a short visit pass. Sat there in a booth facing a blank wall. Noticed recorder plates overhead. Every word, every move was going into Central Data.

The wall cleared and there was Jean. She looked surprised. Shocked, in fact.

"You? You're the last one I expected to see."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"No-no! It's so good to see a familiar face."

"B.B. asked me to see what I could do."

She looked scared. "I don't think anyone can help me now."

"Tell me about it. Couldn't get much from B.B. He was almost incoherent."

"Not much to tell. I came upside last night and the yellowjackets were waiting for me."

"What's the charge?"

"Illegal alien. I guess I didn't do such a good disappearing act."

"Maybe, maybe not. Was it the same entry I used?"

She nodded. "It's one of the few big enough for an adult."

Suddenly I knew: "Spinner did it!"

Jean blanched. "Oh, no! How can you be sure?"

"He's been following me! What a jog! Led him right to you!"

"But you didn't know you were going to meet me!"

True. But somehow I still felt responsible.

"Well, Ned Spinner can go sit on a black hole. He's out of luck. I'm a citizen of Neeka now. He's got no lien on me any more!"

Wasn't so sure of that. Wouldn't be hard for Spinner to establish by genotype that she was a clone of Jean Harlow. When he did that, all her rights — to emigrate from Earth, to take citizenship on Neeka — would go null. The M.A. would treat her like Realpeople until the genotyping was confirmed and Spinner's ownership of her genotype was established. But once that was settled, she'd be property again. Ned Spinner's property.

"Just for the sake of argument," I said, "let's suppose you wind up in Spinner's clutches again. What'll you do?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. And I mean nothing."

"And if he forces you?"

Her expression was grim. "He'll own one dead clone."

Was afraid she'd say that. And knew she might not get a chance to make that final gesture if Spinner had her personality wiped. The clone I knew as Jean, the person B.B. knew as Wendy — "Mom-to-all" — would be gone, but her body would go on working for Ned Spinner.

Wondered briefly which was worse, then realized it really didn't matter.

"Just a thought," I said. "Don't worry about it."

She looked scared enough already. Didn't need me injecting a worse reality into the nightmares she was probably having as it was.

The transpanel began to opaque between us. Time was up.

"Be back when I find out what's going on. Don't go anywhere."

She smiled — could tell it was forced — and faded from sight.

-7-

"Don't look so grim, Dreyer," said a nasal voice to my left as I stepped from the downchute onto M.A. Central's ground level.

"You should be feeling lucky."

Ned Spinner, grinning like a shark.

"Feeling pretty murderous at the moment, Spinner. Don't press your luck."

"I'm not scared of you. Especially here."

Looked at him hard, letting my face show him what I wanted to do to him.

He took a step back. "You'd better be careful, Dreyer. You got lucky last night. If they'd caught you with her, you'd be in your own cell on grand theft charges."

So that was why he had her grabbed by official types — he wanted me, too.

"Tough luck, dregface."

"You're not off yet. You may still wind up spending lots more time here than you want when they start investigating how her genotype status got switched from clone to Realpeople in Central Data. The M.A.'s gonna to be real interested in that."

Felt a spike of uneasiness when he said that, but showed him nothing.

"Do your worst," I said, knowing he would, and headed for the exit.

Became aware of an awful lot of kids around as I crossed the Pyramid's cavernous inner space. Dirty, skinny kids of all sizes in ragtag clothes.

Urchins.

Hadn't noticed them when I came in, but then, I'd been in a hurry at the time. Maybe this was a good begging place.

Wouldn't think so, but how would I know? Was a habit of mine to avoid M.A. Central at all costs.

Right now I had to get to Elmero's. Potential trouble brewing and he had to know about it.

-8-

"I think we're safe," Elmero said after a moment's consideration.

His skeletal body was embedded deep into his polyform chair. He smiled with what he no doubt thought was friendly reassurance.

"Not so sure," I told him.

"Where's the link? My contact in Central Data is an old hand at this sort of thing — as you should know. He can add genotypes or subtract them, or change a genotype status from Realpeople to clone and back again without anyone connecting him to the foul deed. And even if they did, all my dealings with him are blind, paid for with hard. Even under Truth he couldn't finger me."

"What about Jean — I mean, the clone?"

"If they Truth her, she'll just tell them what she believes: Her old boyfriend Barkham fixed the databank for her. We're safe." His brow suddenly furrowed. "She does still think Barkham did it, doesn't she?"

"Well...yeah."

His face grew stern and distant, which was better than seeing him smile again.

"You didn't play hero and tell her you paid for the switch, did you?"

Felt myself redden. "Course not! But she mentioned that she thought the card I returned to her was different than the old one, but she wasn't sure how."

"Even so, this could be bad," Elmero said after a moment's thought. "When her clone status is confirmed, they'll be in a dregging frenzy to find out how her genotype got switched over. When they bang her with Truth, you'll fall under suspicion because she'll tell them you had the card for a while. And when you get Truthed..."

His voice trailed off.

"Yeah," I said.

"Isn't this just bloaty," he said after a while. "Why'd you have to get involved with a lousy clone anyway?"

"Leave it alone, Elm," I said in a low voice and he knew I meant it. "She was leaving for the Outworlds — wasn't supposed to come back."

We sat in uneasy silence for a while, then Elmero said, "There's only one thing to do."

Knew what he was thinking, so I said it for him: "Put in a block."

He nodded, then spoke to his intercom: "Find Doc."

-9-

"Now," said Doc, the overheads reflecting gleaming highlights on his black skin, "I want you to think about the greencard the clone received from Barkham. Picture it in your mind. Think about getting it from her, then think about giving it back. Getting from...giving back. Got it?"

Saw the card coming into my own hand, then being handed into Jean's. Some foggy memories tried to slip into the picture but I pushed them away.

"Got it."

My scalp tingled and then light exploded in front of my eyes. Felt my arms and legs jump and spasm, then it was over.

"That the last?"

Doc nodded. "I believe so."

Doc had popped a dose of Dyamine through my scalp a little while ago, then had begun working from the middle outward toward both ends of the memory chain he wanted to block. The procedure was tricky but Doc was an expert at it. Illegal as all hell, too. Which was partly why Doc's license to practice was presently on a three-year suspension.

"Try me."

"Do know Jean Harlow-c?"

"Sure."

"Did she ever show you her greencard?"

"Yes."

"Did she tell you where she got it?"

"From Kel Barkham, who she called Kyle Bodine."

"Did she ever give it to you?"

"Yes. To help find Barkham."

"Did you alter the card in any way while you had it?"

Something zipped through my brain. Tried to catch it but it was moving too fast. Gone in a blur before I could latch onto it.

"Course not."

"And you returned it to her unchanged?"

"Right."

"Think, now. Are you absolutely sure?"

Nothing churned in the background this time. The card had been in my possession for a while but that was it.

"Absolutely."

Doc smiled. "Excellent! The other memories are completely blocked."

"What other memories?"

He laughed and so did Elmero, who'd been watching the whole thing from behind his desk.

"The effect should last about a month," Doc said as he removed the stim unit from my head. "After that, the Dyamine will begin to break down and free up those memories."

Really weird. Had no idea what memories he was talking about.

"And the real beauty part of this," he went on, "is that since Dyamine is a partial analog of acetylcholine, you can't form any new memories during the procedure or for an hour or so after. So you won't even know you had this done."

"Just make sure you've got a mouth along when they Truth you," Elmero said.

"No fear."

Crazy to go through a Truth session without some legal type there to limit the scope of the questions and keep the interrogators from going off on a deep-space mining expedition through your private life.

"Turn on the datastream, will you, Elm?" Doc said as he packed up his equipment. "I want to see if there's an update on the doings down at the Pyramid."

Thought of Jean. "What's going on?"

"Something about a bunch of kids clogging all the lower levels in the place. Just caught the end of the blurb as I came through the bar before."

"Kids?" Remembered all the urchins I'd seen as I was leaving the building earlier. "Urchins?"

"I didn't hear."

The datastream filled the big holochamber in the corner of Elmero's office. Newsface Two, a baldy, recited the usual boring dregs about politics, traffic, entertainment, sports, reminders that this was a skip day for the four a.m. rain, news from the other megalops around the world, all interspersed with lots and lots of visuals.

"Must've cleared up," I said. "She never mentioned M.A. Central."

"It was graffiti," Doc said.

Just then the holo warped and suddenly we were looking at a very bizarre-looking Newsface — this guy had leaping flames where his hair should have been, and spiraling pinwheels for eyes. Central Data's policy was to keep its computer generated Newsfaces attractive but ordinary looking, and to rotate them frequently — in case the public got too attached to one of the nonexistent things. But we all developed favorites. Newsface Four was mine. This roguey guy was a sure sign that we were watching a graffiti capsule someone had slipped into the datastream.

Flamehead didn't waste any time getting to the meat:

"They're calling for help down at M.A. Central. Seems the lower levels there have been invaded by a small horde of kids. Or maybe I should say, a horde of small kids."

A quick cut to a wide angle shot of the groundlevel lobby of the Pyramid. It was filled — "jammed" — with urchins, milling about, moving up and down the arched stairs on the perimeter, playing in the up- and downchutes. The announcer continued in voice-over:

"For those of you who manage to keep yourselves securely insulated from ground level, these are what are known as urchins. Maybe you've heard them mentioned at a party. You certainly didn't hear of them on the official datastream."

Noticed the angle of the sum coming in through the Pyramid's apex. This was recent vintage vid.

Moving right into the crowd of kids now. The graffitist must have had his hidden recorder strapped to his lower chest because we were winding through them at eye level — urchin eye level.

"Officially, the kids you're watching are not a problem. Their genotypes aren't registered in Central Data, therefore they don't exist. So why should you be concerned with kids who don't exist?

"Proud of yourselves?"

All those big deep eyes looking right at you and then shifting away. Sadness in them, a sense of loss, as if they were searching for something or someone who had been taken away from them. The effect was devastating.

"Nobody knows why they've come or what they want. They're just there, clogging the aisles and stairs. Mostly they're quiet, but every so often they begin to shout —"

The image warped and suddenly we were back in the official datastream.

"They sure yanked that one fast, Doc said.

Right. Usually a graffiti capsule got to run through the stream a couple of times before it was culled. Data Central tended to view the radical journalists as more of an annoyance than a threat — hecklers on the fringe of the Big Show.

Elmero said, "They're embarrassed by all those kids there," as he stared reflectively into the holochamber.

"Going down there," I told them.

"Yeah?" Elmero said. "Be sure to tell me all about it."

Could figure what was running though his mind: How can I make out on this?

Elmero's instincts were pretty astute when there was credit to be made. He sensed something big brewing. So did I. And Jean and B.B. were right in the middle of it.

-10-

Either M.A. Central had become more crowded with urchins since the datadcast, or the graffito I'd seen hadn't done the crowd a bit of justice. Mobbed. They were everywhere. Could barely move through the crowd. All the kids were babbling to each other, to anyone who would listen. The sounds mixed and mingled into a constant susserant hum, an irritating white noise.

They'd brought the M.A. Central Pyramid — at least its lower levels — to a standstill.

Made finding B.B. just about impossible.

Felt a tug on the sleeve of my jump. Looked down to see a little red-headed urch. A boy, I thought.

"Sig?" he said, pointing up at my face.

Picked him up and looked him over. Didn't recognize him.

"You from the Lost Boys?"

He nodded proudly. "Lost Boy me."

"Know where my friend B.B. is?"

He looked around, then began screeching at the top of his lungs as he pointed at me.

"B.B.! Siggy! B.B.! Siggy!"

Was about to tell him that there were scads of urchins named B.B., and that even with his considerable volume, only a small fraction of the crowd was going to hear him, when I noticed that those around us were falling silent and staring at me. The silence grew, spreading out like a ripple in a puddle. It moved up the big arched stairways and across the balconies and arcades on the inner walls.

Soon the whole floor was quiet except for this one persistent squealy voice.

And then from fifty meters or so away came an answering cry.

"Sig! Here me! Ov'here!"

Looked and saw B.B. jumping up and down, waving his arms to get my attention. As he began moving my way, the noise picked up again, but it wasn't the formless hum from before. Now it was a word: my name.

"SIGGY! SIGGY! SIGGY! SIGGY!"

They were all looking at me, raising their hands each time they said my name. Seemed to go on forever. B.B. finally broke through and hugged me around the waist.

"Filamentous, Sig, yeah? Filamentous!"

Barely heard him over the chant. Pushed him to arm's length and got a good look at his shining eyes.

"Yeah. Filamentous, all right. But what's going on? What do you kids think you're doing here?"

"Ge'Wendy back."

Simple as that. If only they knew.

"But where'd all these kids come from?""

"Wendy Mom-to-all."

"So you've told me. But she couldn't have tucked every one of you into bed."

"Evbod hear Wendy. Come togeth."

"Everybody? They're all here?"

He shook his head. "More come. From all ov."

More coming? The place couldn't hold them. All the urchingangs in the Megalops were united, probably for the first time in history.

"Evbod hear Sig, too."

His smile showed how proud he was to know me. Damn rattlely thing to have a kid look at you like that. Could make you want to run and hide. Or move mountains.

While I was wondering where I could hide, a hand tapped me on the shoulder. Turned and found myself looking into a datastream reporter's recording plate—mounted on his forehead, leaving both his hands free.

"Excuse me," he shouted over the noise. "But am I correct in assuming you're this 'Siggy' fellow."

Didn't know what to say. B.B., however, was at no loss for words. He patted me on the arm as he piped up:

"Oya, san! Siggy him! Filamentous fren!"

"I'm Arrel Lum," said the reporter. He had black hair, dark eyes, and a round face. "I'm with Central Data."

Knew that. Looked for ways to keep his questions away from me until I could duck out. Tried sidetracking him.

"The datastream's ignoring this. Kind of a waste of time for you to be here, isn't it?"

"Not at all. Central Data records everything for the record. What's fed into the datastream for public consumption is another matter."

His frankness was engaging, but something about his diction, the rhythm of his voice. Familiar.

"You remind me of Newsface Four."

He smiled. "You've got a good ear. I've been writing his casts and doing his voice for the past five years."

"He's — you're my favorite Newsface."

"Why, thank you. But tell me: Who are you, and what's your connection with these kids?"

So much for sidetracking.

"Know one of them."

"What do they want?"

"You mean you don't know?"

He shook his head. "Nobody can figure it out."

Interesting.

"Embarrassing, isn't it?"

"Not for me," he said with a grin. "I think it's a bloaty show. Just wish I knew what it was all about."

Turned to B.B. "Tell him what it's all about, Beeb."

The urch started shoving his fist into the air and crying, "Wendy! Wendy! Wendy!"

The other urchins around us picked it up immediately. The Siggy chant had been dying out anyway — thank the Core — so now they substituted two new syllables in the same rhythm.

"WENDY! WENDY! WENDY!""

Lum's gaze roved the mob.

"They've been doing that off and on all day," he shouted above the din.

"Well," I said, "then you know why they're here."

"No, I don't. I —" He looked past my shoulder. "Don't look now, but I think you've just become important."

Turned and saw a squad of yellowjackets — six of them — coming my way. My bladder got a sudden urge to empty itself but I stood my ground and held my water. No place to run.

Lum stood back and trained his recording plate on the scene as the yellowjackets bullied their way through the kids. The leader led them around me, brushing B.B. aside like a bug. Found myself enclosed in a yellow ellipse.

"Come with us," he said.

"What if I don't want to go?"

He had beady little eyes, close set and mean.

"The boss says he wants to speak with you. You'll come."

"Bloaty," I said.

Lum peered between two of the security men and called to me over the chant.

"But what do these kids want?"

"They want their mother," I told him.

Encased in yellow, I was marched off toward the upchutes, leaving him standing there looking like someone had punched him in the throat.

-11-

"Are you behind this, Mr. Dreyer?"

Regional Administrator Brode was giving me a hard look as he stood over my chair. Natural silver hair, crinkle cut, square jaw, piercing silver eyes, perfectly matched to his hair. Looked almost as good in person as he did in the holochamber. His stare was supposed to carry all the weighty authority of his office, I guessed.

He needn't have bothered. After all, the C.A. had put him in charge of this Megalops, so he didn't have to do anything special to get me nervous. Passed nervous on the way up here when I learned the R.A. wanted to see me himself. In person. Never knew anyone who'd met him in person.

Yeah, way past nervous. Slipping over into twitchy now.

"Behind what, sir?"

"These urchins all over the place."

Couldn't resist: "Been told there are no such things as urchins, sir."

"Don't you dare get —"

"Don't know a thing about them, Mr. Administrator."

"But they know you. Why? How?"

"A long story."

He let my words hang as he walked in a slow circle around his desk. His office decor was surprisingly lean and spare. Everything cool and functional. The only sign of extravagance was his big ungainly pet dodo bobbing and pecking around the furniture and weaving between his hovering aides.

"Who's this Wendy they keep chanting for? Central Data says there's no one with that name anywhere in the Pyramid."

"That's because Wendy's not her real name. She's a prisoner here."

"Oh, really? And just what is her real name?"

The sudden light in his eyes told me something: The urchin mob had our dear Regional Administrator worried. Why?

"What's in it for me?"

His eyes went hard and cold. Knew right then I'd made a large mistake as he barked to one of his attendants.

"Get some Truth!"

"Not asking much!" I blurted.

He glared at me, as if daring me. "Go on."

"Just want to be left out of this, that's all. Don't have anything to do with this, don't _want" anything to do with it. Just know a couple of urchins and ran into this Wendy a few years ago. That's it."

Brode smirked. "Central Data says you know a lot of wrong people, some of them suspected black marketeers."

"Wouldn't know anything about that, Mr. Administrator," I said. "Private investigations are what I do."

"So I understand. Very well. I won't hound you or Truth you. I sincerely doubt you would be worth the trouble."

"Thank you. Her name's Jean Harlow-c. She's a former Dydeetown girl, here as part of a property dispute."

He was suddenly furious.

"Well, isn't that just bloaty! M.A. Central is clogged with urchins in search of a renegade clone! This gets more ludicrous every second!" He turned to one of his aides. "Get him out of here! Then fill me in on this clone!"

No one had to hurry me out the door. Headed straight for the first downchute and jumped. Was coasting fast and alone in the center lane when someone pulled up alongside.

"I need to talk to you."

Lum, the Central Data man. Didn't recognize him immediately without his recording rig and wasn't in the mood for talking to anybody.

"What about?"

"What you said before...about the kids looking for their mother. What did you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Off the record?"

"Nothing's 'off the record' in this place."

He smiled thinly. "Don't believe everything you hear. Follow me."

Thought about this. Why should I trust a Central Data man, even if he was Newsface Four? Why tell him anything at all?

"Please," he said. "It's important to me."

"I'm thinking."

Had a suspicion about reporter Lum. Wanted to know if I was right.

"Lead the way," I told him.

***

Lum was furious.

"You told Brode about her? You dregger!"

We were on level 48 in what Lum called a "blind alley" — a lounge used by the Central Data reporters and technicians between shifts. They had it fixed so the recording plates in the walls could be jammed when they so desired. Told him an edited but fairly complete history of Jean and her involvement with the urchins and how she wound up a prisoner here, candidate for a memwipe. Then related my friendly little meeting with the Regional Administrator.

"You've got it wrong, Lum —"

"Now she's in more trouble than ever!"

"Don't be a jog! What's more trouble than a memwipe?"

He cooled quickly. "I guess you're right."

"Course I'm right. That's why I told him I knew who Wendy was — figured it might buy her some time."

"It might," he said, brightening. "It might pay Brode to give her back to the urchins!"

"What do you care?" I said. "You've never even met her."

"But I want to. More than anything. She's special. I mean, we regularly get data on people and groups wanting to 'do something' about the urchins. They make some noise, they're ignored, and after a while they go away. But this...this..."

"Clone."

"Right. This clone gave up the freedom she had on the Outworlds to come back here and be with those kids. Actually be with them, go down in the tunnels and live with them. I've never heard of anybody doing that."

"So?"

"So it makes the rest of us Realpeople look like dreggers.""

"Speak for yourself, Lum. Urchins are out of sight, forgotten. How many times in a year do you think the average Realpeople even thinks about urchins? Once? Maybe half a time?"

"I think about them every single day," Lum said in a thick, low voice.

Patted myself on the back.

"You've got a kid with the urchins, don't you."

As he nodded, a tear collected in one of his eyes. He rubbed it away before it could slide down his cheek.

"And the idea of going down in the tunnels to be with them never even crossed my mind. Do you know how that makes me feel?"

Didn't say anything, just let him rattle on.

"That could have been my little guy with you today, my son holding your hand and looking up at you like that, like you were his hero! I'm going to find this Wendy and talk to her. Where's she being kept?"

"Don't know."

"That's all right. I'll find her. Brode's probably with her now. I can view the recording of the interview later, maybe get an idea what he plans to do with her, or with the kids."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something."

"Let me know what you find out. My number's under 'Investigations.' "

Lum nodded absently. Didn't now if he was really listening.

"Got to find her," he said again.

"Don't get carried away. She's only a clone."

"Really?" His eyes scanned my face. "Then why'd you try to help her?"

Didn't like the scrutiny, or the question.

"She was a client a couple of years ago. You know how it is: Once a client, always a client."

Lum nodded but didn't look convinced.

"Just let me know," I told him.

"I'll try."

We left the blind lounge and returned to the downchute. At the lower level we were met by yellowjackets. A bulky officer boomed at us:

"M.A. Central is closing. Unless you work here, you must exit."

Lum said, "The Pyramid never closes!"

"Tonight it does," said the officer. "Move!"

Lum showed him his Central Data i-d, but since I had nothing like that, I had to go. Fine with me. Suddenly came a lot of yelling from the main floor. We ran to see.

The yellowjackets were clearing the urchins from the lower levels, and they weren't being gentle about it.

Lum's face was grim. "I'm going back up to get my recorder. I want some close-ups of this!"

"What for?" None of this would ever get on the official datastream. "You a graffiti journalist on the side?"

"Not yet," he said, and ran off.

-12-

Spent much of the night in the front room of Elmero's, whiffing with the crowd. Almost all the regulars were there. "

Minn had to hustle to keep up with demand, and she didn't like that. Wasn't used to being busy.

Doc was around but he was acting weird. Kept asking questions about Jean's old greencard, like did I ever have it and what did I do with it. Told him all I knew: Had it for a while, then gave it back to her, and nothing more. The answer seemed to delight him. Must have asked me two or three times.

Everybody was talking about the urchins down at the Pyramid and, Elmero's clientele being the sort it was, laughing about how the kids had glitched a few sectors of officialdom today. Caused a bit of a stir myself when I told how the yellowjackets had booted the kids out as I was leaving. Everyone was shocked that M.A. Central had shut down its public areas, even for a few minutes.

And everyone was keeping half an eye on the datastream playing in the life-sized chamber in the corner. No hologames, no drama or comedy tonight — just the Newsfaces and everyone waiting for a graffiti capsule on the urchins.

"Hey, there's Four!" I said as the familiar newsface rotated into view. Hoped maybe he'd slip in something about the urchins.

"Listen to this guy."

Newsface Four's square-jawed, blond-haired, straight-nosed visage, which couldn't have looked less like Arrel Lum, stared out of the chamber at us in silence for a moment, then began to speak in his resonant baritone.

"The Eastern megalops' human garbage backwashed into the lower levels of Megalops Authority Central this morning. Here's how it looked."

Newsface Four dissolved into a panoramic view of today's mob scene at M.A. Central.

"The children you see here," he said in voice-over, "are what we call urchins. In case you've had any doubts about their existence, let this vid dispel them. This is the real thing. Those are real children, and they were all over M.A. Central today.

"Look closely. Some of them might be your nieces and nephews. One of them could be your grandchild. You can't be sure can you? Of course, there are some of you watching who may be looking at your own child. My heart breaks for you."

"Core!" Minn shouted from behind the bar. "He's showing urchins on the datastream! Really showing them!"

"It's got to be graffiti!" said someone else.

"It's not! It's Newsface Four!" another voice cried.

Recognized Doc's voice from the other side of the room. "If it's not graffiti, that means this is going out system-wide! The whole dregging world is seeing it!"

The whole dregging world…what a thought!

"Somebody's ass is going to be shot to the South Pole for this!" Minn said with her usual delicacy.

Thought of Arrel Lum — he was saying good-bye to his career and putting his whole life on the line with this move.

"But what do these children want?" said Lum in his Newsface Four voice. "Why did they come to M.A. Central?"

The chamber filled with one earnest little face after another, each chanting a single word. The sound filled the barroom:

"…WEN-DEE! WEN-DEE! WEN-DEE…"

"And who is this Wendy?" he said as the faces continued to roll through the chamber. "This reporter has learned that she is a young woman who has been living with the various urchingangs in the central area of the Eastern Megalops, reading to them and teaching them to read, cooking for them and teaching them to cook, tucking them in at night. Mothering them, you might say."

He paused and more faces crowded into the chamber.

"They want their mother!"

Jean's face suddenly filled the chamber. Her eyes had a hollow, hunted look. She looked frightened. Newsface Four's words hit the room like cannon shots.

"And here she is. Real name: Jean Harlow-c. A Dydeetown clone. Yes, a _clone!" A sterile underperson. Down in the tunnels. Taking care of our kids! The ones we cast off, whose existence we were forced by inhumane laws to leave to chance.

"And what is her fate?"

The holo cut to a high angle longshot of Jean sitting before Chief Administrator Brode. She looked small and frail while he looked huge and imposing.

"This was recorded earlier today."

Brode: And just what was your plan for these urchins?

Jean: No plan, really. They needed me and I needed them. That was all.

Brode: Organizing them for your own purposes? Disruption of official business — wasn't that part of your plan?

Jean: I told you, I had no —

Brode: I don't believe you! Truth her!

There were some quick cuts showing her being dosed and then we were back to the two-shot.

Brode: Now. What were your plans for the urchingangs?

Jean: Well, I...I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted to find a way to get some of them to the Outworlds.

Brode's derisive laugh sounded uncomfortably like mine when she had told me that.

Brode: The Outworlds! You little idiot! What were you thinking of?

Jean: I was thinking of sunshine and fresh air and futures for them. The Outworlds need able bodies. They'd be treated as Realpeople there. No more living in sewers and tunnels.

The barroom was dead silent as Brode paused and looked around at his aides who were out of the frame. Finally, he spoke.

Brode: You know you're scheduled for memwipe first thing tomorrow, don't you?

Heard a sharp intakes of breath nearby. Doc had moved up beside me. His jaw was set.

In the chamber, Jean only nodded sadly.

Jean: I know. And after that, I won't remember any of the kids. I'll be working Dydeetown again for Ned Spinner. I won't be any good to them anymore. But Mr. Brode, sir — She looked up at him here and her big blue eyes shone in the harsh light of the interrogation room. — Do you think you could do something for them? You're powerful. Can't you help them get a fresh start someplace? I won't be able to.

Heard a loud sniff from behind the bar. There was Minn, wiping her eyes. Never thought there was a single tear in her whole body. She shot me an angry Don't-look-at-me look, so I turned away. Looked around. Saw Doc and a few of the regulars puddling up. Not all, of course, or even most. This was a tough room to play. But you had to believe Jean — she was on Truth.

For a heartbeat or two, even Brode looked moved. Then his features hardened.

Brode: That's impossible. We —

The vid skewed, twisted, turned to confetti, then Newsface Seven appeared. Her oval, eyebrowless face smiled reassuringly.

"We are experiencing technical difficulties —"

Her face dissolved into confetti and the chamber filled with scenes of the urchins' eviction by the M.A.'s none-too-gentle yellowjackets. Four's voice-over sounded strained:

"(garbled) — let me finish! This was how they treated the kids today! Tomorrow might be worse! Do something about Wendy! Call your —"

More confetti, then Newsface Seven again, her expression bland.

"There now. All difficulties have been cleared. This is Datastream Host Seven. On with the news..."

We waited to see if Four would get back onstream, but apparently he had been shut down for the night. For good.

Pretty clear that as a Newsface, Four was dead. They'd have to generate a new face to replace him. That was easy. Four was just a program.

But what about Lum? Arrel Lum was real. What were they going to do to him?

"Since when did Four turn into an ooze?" said someone near the center of the room. Looked and saw it was Greg Hallo. Nice guy, but he tended to overdo the vape-ka.

"Yeah," said somebody else. "What's he starting trouble for?"

"Maybe he thinks we'll vote for clones' rights on the next referendum," someone yelled.

There was laughter, but not much.

"I find nothing funny in the prospect of a beautiful woman being memwiped," Doc said.

"Not a woman, Doc," said Hallo. "A _clone_."

Doc was getting hot. "One who's done more for urchins than any Realpeople I know!"

"Urches are urches, clones are clones," Hallo said. "That's the way it was, that's the way it is, that's the way it's gonna be. We don't need the boat rocked."

Hallo spoke for a lot of people, in and out of Elmero's.

"We know you're an old oozer, Doc," somebody yelled, "but we love you anyway!"

The room broke up into arguing factions. Wasn't interested in what they had to say, so I left."

Tubed home. B.B. wasn't there, only Ignatz. Was tired, lonely, and down. Could've used a button real bad now. But even that avenue of release was closed to me. Felt like a dissociator grenade about to explode and I didn't know why.

Flopped on the bed and listened to the fuze ticking in my head.

Sleep was a long time coming.

-13-

Was already awake when the doorbuzzer sounded. Watching a bit of graffiti on the datastream. A simple piece: Jean's face and a voiceover: "A modern Joan of Arc? Don't let it happen!"

Turned and through the door I saw two impatient looking yellowjackets. My stomach did a free-fall drop.

"Administrator Brode wants to see you immediately," the bigger one said as soon as the door slid open.

"And a good morning to you, too," I said. Was still in the jump I'd worn all yesterday. "Mind if I change?"

She grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the hall.

" 'Immediately' means just that."

Didn't fight them. No percentage in that. We chuted straight to the roof and flitted for the Pyramid at top speed in the official lane. Brode really did want me there fast.

The Pyramid gleamed golden in the morning sun. As we banked toward one of the landing decks, I saw the crowd.

The entire plaza and all visible spaces around the structure were filled with people. Filled. There didn't seem to be room to breath down there. The crowd trailed off into the dark tunnel-like feeder streets. Looked like a million sugar ants around a giant honeycomb.

"Core!" said one of the yellowjackets. "There's even more than before!"

Saw the look of concern pass between them. They were worried. They'd been trained in crowd control but I was sure neither of them had ever seen anything like this. Doubt if anyone on Earth had.

"They can't all be urchins," I said.The shorter yellowjacket, the male, turned to me. "It started off all urchins — they're the ones crowded around the entrance. We've kept them out of the complex. But the largest part of the crowd is all adult Realpeople."

Couldn't believe my eyes and ears. "Realpeople? Why?"

"A show of support, I guess. We anticipated a few oozer groups showing up, and maybe some independents. But nobody figured on anything like this!"

"Maybe you should have," I said, but didn't explain.

Had figured in a flash why there were so many Realpeople down there. It was geometric. Every urchin had a couple of parents and a legal sibling or two. And two or four or more aunts and uncles and grandfolks to boot. You get all those guilty-feeling people, and maybe a few of their friends and neighbors along for the fun of it, coming down to the M.A. Central Pyramid to make sure the little kids didn't get bullied like they did on the vid last night, and you've got yourself a crowd of astronomical proportions."

After we landed on the topmost flitter platform, the doors popped open, and that was when the noise hit. Even way up here you could hear it. Eerie. A deep, almost subliminal sound, coming to you not just through your ears, but through your skin and the soles of your feet as well. If an angry, stormy ocean could talk, it would sound like that crowd.

"WEN-DEEEEEE! WEN-DEEEEEE! WEN-DEEEEEE!"

They hustled me inside, down a chute, through some halls until I was deposited in a bare room where Administrator Brode waited. His mouth was set in a grim line. He looked tired. We were alone except for one beefy aide by the door. In a far corner, the datastream was playing.

"Over here," he said, motioning me to his side.

He deopaqued the wall and there we were, looking down on the roiling mob in the plaza below.

"Surprised you haven't slimed them," I said.

"Don't think it hasn't occurred to me. But there are too many Realpeople, some of them no doubt influential. We can't risk any of them getting smothered."

Could see what he meant. Slime could produce hilarious results. Seen vids of some of the old food riots when it was sprayed on the mobs. The silicone emulsion allows for zero traction. Once it gets on you or on the street, you are down. You can't stand, can't hold onto your neighbor, can't even kneel. Really funny. But in a crowd like the one in Pyramid Plaza, some folks were bound to get smothered.

"I want you to send them home," he said to me.

Couldn't help laughing. "Of course! Just say when!"

"Now. Immediately."

He wasn't joking.

"Not too much disrespect intended, sir, but have you busted up a few synapses since yesterday?"

He was about to answer but stopped and stared past me at the datastream. Looked myself and saw a close-up Jean's face as she spoke to Brode — a graffiti rerun of a piece of Newsface Four's unauthorized transmission. Her voice came on loud:

"…Do you think you could do something for them? You're powerful. Can't you help them get a fresh start someplace? I won't be able to."

And then the voiceover: "Madonna of the Tunnels, pray for us!"

It replayed immediately — a graffiti loop.

Brode turned to his aide and screamed, "Get her off there! Now!"

The aide said something into his throat mike. The loop disappeared in the middle of its third play.

Brode again trained his gaze on the crowd below. "As I was saying, I know you can do it. I saw yesterday's vid from the lower level. For a while there they were chanting your name instead of hers. You can get them chanting your name again. And then tell them their dear clone will be released from the complex as soon as they are completely dispersed."

Bit my lip to dispell the sudden light feeling that swept over me. Wasn't buying it yet.

"That true?""

He finally pulled himself away from the window and looked at me. His eyes were flat and cold.

"Of course it is."

"She'll be free to go?"

"In a way."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She'll be free to go with her owner."

Jean back with Spinner — the sudden rage that ripped through me was barely controllable. If he hadn't been Regional Administrator...

"You think that's going to end this? It won't!"

"Oh, but it will. They'll come to her but she won't know them, won't know who or what they're talking about. There will be a few more rumbles, and then it will be over. Things will be back the way they used to be."

"She gets memwiped and you'll never hear the end of it!"

"That was a judicial decision. It's out of my hands."

"What about executive clemency or reprieve or some such dregging garbage!"

He turned back to the window. "It's a little too late for any of that now."

Just stood there staring at him, feeling a wind as cold and dark as deep space howl through the hollows of my heart. The air seemed thick. Couldn't draw it through my constricted throat. Gravity doubled, tripled. Stumbled to the nearest chair and sat there trying to breath.

Because when I caught my breath, I was going to put Brode through that window.

The single aide in the room with us must have been trained in reading postures. Big guy. He walked over and stood half way between Brode and me.

"Want to see her."

"Impossible. You know as well as I do that memwipe subjects are comatose for hours after the procedure, and disoriented for weeks."

There was silence for what seemed like a long time. My own mind felt like it had been wiped.

Finally Brode said,"Well? Will you speak to them?"

"You must be out of your dregging mind! I'll tell them to dismantle this place panel by panel, block by block!"

He turned to me. A smug look on his face.

"Will you? I don't think so. You seem to have a good thing going for you, Mr. Dreyer. Not much of a life to most people, but you seem to be enjoying it. You've got your hidden stash of gold, you've got your roguey friends such as the owner of that seedy tavern, your sometime roommate urchin, and that physician with the suspended license." The smiled thinly. "Just the kind of acquaintances I'd expect of a former buttonhead."

Didn't blink. Didn't even flinch. Too mad now to let any kind of insult get to me. But it was clear he'd had a deep probe done on my life.

"I can change your pitiful life, Mr. Dreyer. I can reopen the investigation into the deaths of those two NeuroNex employees who were sliced into pieces in your compartment. Your urchin friend was involved in that, wasn't he? I can shut down that tavern and send its owner to the South Pole for so many offenses he'll never see the sun at zenith again. I can see to it that your doctor friend's license is permanently revoked. I can make you wish you'd never been born, Mr. Dreyer."

"Don't count on it. Already been there and back."

"I can make your friends wish the same thing."

We stayed silent for a while, glaring at each other. We both knew I was going to lose. He was threatening Elmero and Doc and B.B. Couldn't take them down with me.

But something wasn't right here. Didn't know what it was, but sensed other players in this game. Had an idea.

"Let me talk to Lum."

"Lum?" he said, fury etching lines in his face. "Lum? He's in detention, awaiting sentencing — and it will be an interminable sentence if I have anything to say about it! He can't help you."

"Want to talk to him anyway. Not a major request."

Brode sighed. "Very well."

He nodded to his aide who spoke into his throat mike.

And then I waited, with the aide watching me as I watched Brode watch the mob outside.

-14-

Noticed a thick, odd-looking silvery cuff on Arrel Lum's right wrist when he was led in. They let us to go off to a corner to talk, but first they activated his cuff.

"What's that?" I said.

Lum grinned sourly. "If you paid closer attention to my datacasts, you'd know. It's a gravcuff. I'm now locked to an axis through the earth's center of gravity. Plenty of vertical movement"—he moved his wrist up and down as far as he could reach—"but nothing laterally."

"Real bloaty," I said, then explained what Brode wanted. Knew every word of what we said was being recorded but didn't care. Lum listened for a while, then turned toward Brode.

"You know, Mr. Administrator, this could be your big chance to show you're more than just a politician. With a little creative thought on your part, you could actually come out on top here. You could prove yourself a real statesman. We haven't seen one of those in ages. We can clone out dinosaurs and dodos and Jean Harlows but—"

"They memwiped Jean," I said.

Lum reeled as if I'd punched him. Only the gravcuff kept him from stumbling back. He covered his eyes with his free hand. Thought for a moment he was going to break down, but he didn't.

"I really wanted to meet her," he said softly, pulling himself together and glaring at Brode.

"She's not dead," I told him.

He stared at me. "Yes, she is."

Knew he was right but tried not to think about it.

"What's Brode trying to get from me?" I asked.

Lum's smile was tight and a predatory. "Political salvation. Thanks to my datacast last night, the Harlow clone and the urchins have received worldwide attention. He's been getting heavy pressure from the Central Authority to defuse this bomb as quietly as possible. That's the main reason he hasn't slimed them. His political future is on the line."

"Good. But how'd you learn all this?"

"I'm allowed visitors. And all my friends are datapeople. So what's happening is he's passing the pressure. You're it. He's counting on getting you to cooperate."

And I had friends counting on me to cover for them.

"He's succeeding."

"Well, Mr. Dreyer," said Brode from across the room. "I'm waiting. Time is critical."

"All right," I called back. "Let's do it."

Lum's eyes were wide. "Do what?"

"Don't know yet."

The big aide was motioning me toward the door. As I headed his way I heard Lum say to no one in particular: "What about me?"

"You and I are going to have a talk, Mr. Lum," Brode said.

"I'd rather be in my cell."

"Nevertheless, we are going to discuss your ideas on statesmanship."

Then the door slipped shut behind me and closed them off.

-15-

They coached me on what to say, made me repeat it over and over until I had it down perfectly. Then they fitted me with a transparent, thumbnail-size chin mike, a finger-control toggle for on/oft, and placed me on a float platform. Another of Brode's seemingly endless supply of aides piloted the thing. From far below, the chant continued:

"... WEN-DEEEEEE! WEN-DEEEEEE! WEN-DEEEEEE! . . "

As the platform hove into view and started its descent, the chant broke up and died. When we reached the ten meter level, I could make out a clear division in the crowd—ragtag urchins in the front, better dressed Realpeople toward the rear. The two groups weren't mixing much. Behind me, the entrances to the Pyramid were blocked with armed yellowjackets.

Waved to the kids and toggled my chin mike on.

HELLOOOO, URCHINS! boomed into the air from speakers somewhere in the Pyramid's wall.

Some of them must have been Lost Boys because a murmur ran through their ranks. It grew into a new chant, shorter, choppier than the other: "Sig-gy! Sig-gy! Sig-gy!…"

Nowhere near as loud as the Wendy chant because the Realpeople weren't joining in. Probably asking themselves who or what 'round Sol was this Siggy? After all, he hadn't been on the datastream last night.

But the kids knew the name. All those little faces and big hopeful eyes looking up at me. Gave me a chill.

"HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOU ABOUT WENDY."

The volume of the ensuing mad cheer rattled the platform and then the Wendy chant started again.

Hated myself for what I was about to do. To put it off a little longer, I let the chant build. Turned off the mike and said to the aide: "By the way, how can you close M.A. Central? Thought it was supposed to be open to all citizens all hours of the day."

The aide's smile was smug. "True, but we found a forgotten ordinance that prohibits children unless accompanied by an adult."

"Well, well," I said. "Isn't that bloaty."

The urchin part of the crowd began shifting, squirming, and flowing, and suddenly there was B.B. on somebody's shoulders, waving and beaming with pride. Could see it in his eyes: Siggy's here. Siggy won't let us down. Siggy can do anything.

That was the moment I made my decision.

"Take me down to get that kid," I said.

"That's not in the script."

"Let me improvise a little. What I've got to say will be a lot more effective if I've got one of the Lost Boys sitting on my shoulders."

The aide talked to the Pyramid. They must have had a conference in Brode's office because the answer took a while coming. But apparently he got the okay because we began to descend.

Motioned to the kids below to clear a spot around B.B. They backed away from him when we got down to a height of about two meters.

That was when I jumped ship. Over the rail and onto the ground.

"Hey!" the aide yelled. "You can't do that!"

Ignored him. Scooped up B.B. and hustled him toward the nearest entrance to the Pyramid. The cheering urchins made way for us.

The aide followed us above and behind on the platform. He shouted to the yellowjackets at the door I was approaching.

"Stop him!"

This was it. This was where I put the blaster to my head and pulled the trigger. Was endangering Doc and Elmero and even B.B., but that couldn't be helped. Nobody could memwipe a client of mine and rub my nose in it and figure they could bully me into saying, Thank you, sir, and yes, I'll help cool some of the heat you're getting.

Dreg that.

Don't mind getting pushed around some. Expect a certain amount of it. That's life. Not a rad, not an oozer, not a mal. But there were limits. Brode had found mine.

And I was going to bring him down if I could.

The yellowjackets closed ranks ahead of me. Flicked on my chin mike, wheeled it to max, and shouted at the top of my voice: "I AM A CITIZEN OF THE MEGALOPS AND DEMAND ENTRANCE TO THE PYRAMID! THAT IS THE LAW!"

The sound was deafening. Like hearing thunder up close from inside a cloud. Like the voice of God. All the urchins around me cringed and bowed and slapped their hands over their ears. Was almost knocked to my knees by my own voice.

The yellowjackets were clearly shaken. Could barely hear the nearest as he spoke: "No urchins."

"HE IS ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT! STAND ASIDE NOW!"

As they winced at the noise, I slid between them before either of them could grab me. When I reached the inner floor, I raised my voice and said, "ALL RIGHT, EVERYBODY! FOLLOW—"

My mike was suddenly cut off. But as I turned, I saw it didn't matter. Realpeople were pushing through the crowd carrying urchins in their arms, on their shoulders. The yellowjackets made halfhearted attempts to stop them, but the Realpeople were adamant. They were incensed. And the law was on their side. Even saw one of the yellowjackets pick up a kid himself and march inside.

Like water through the floodgates of a dam, they poured in on all four sides of the ground level, washing along the floor, choking ground level and rising to fill the perimeter arcades on the second. It wasn't long before the chant began again, echoing through the air, rattling the cavernous interior of the Pyramid: "WEN-DEEEEEE! WEN-DEEEEEE! WEN-DEEEEEE!. . ."

Held B.B. on my shoulders and let him chant away, but didn't join in myself. What was the use? The Wendy he knew was dead. Brode wasn't going to bring her down and show her hollow remains to the crowd. But if things went the way I hoped, maybe this crowd would bring him down—not down here, but down. And out of office.

He ruined a client of mine. Now I was going to ruin him. Or go down trying.

The chant went on forever with no signs of diminishing. More people were squeezing in from outside—there were still lots more out there than in here—and pushing up to higher and higher levels on the inner walls. Given enough time, we'd soon occupy every square centimeter of the Pyramid. Erode was going to have to do something, and quick. And he did.

A floater platform like the one I'd been on outside—maybe the same one—glided out from one of the upper levels and began descending along the wall to my right. Looked like it was riding the huge shaft of midday sun pouring through the apex. Squinted into the glare and made out four figures on it.

The chant died as we all watched and waited to see who was coming.

"Hoodat, Sig? Wendy come?"

Poor kid. Didn't want him to get his hopes up.

"Don't think so, Beeb. Let's just hope they're not carrying slime guns."

We watched it sink lower. Suddenly B.B. screamed.

"Her, Sig! Wendy! Her! Her!"

He was right. Couldn't believe my eyes, but there she was, Jean Harlow-c herself, standing at the front rail of the platform, looking dazed as she stared at the crowd. Couldn't believe Brode had the nerve to do this. What was he planning? Did he really think he could get away with it?

The urchins went wild but the Realpeople around me held back. Knew why, too. They had all seen the datastream last night. They knew she had been scheduled to be wiped first thing this morning. They feared they were looking at a shell.

They were right.

Then I looked at her companions on the platform and almost dropped B.B. off my shoulders. It was Brode himself, one of his aides at the controls, and Lum.

What was going on here?

A million thoughts screamed through my mind. Was this a scam? Had they made a Wendy holosuit? Was there an actress in there? But no, it didn't look like a holo—the outline was too crisp. And what was Lum doing up there with Brode? Had they bought him off somehow? Or twisted his arm to the breaking point like they tried with me?

The platform stopped at thirty meters. Jean still looked dazed. They must have taught her a speech. One that would send everybody home. This was going to be bad.

She leaned forward and her soft voice, amplified hundreds of times, filled the Pyramid. "Hel—hello. They say I'm free to go. Are my Lost Boys here?"

And then she smiled, and behind her Lum smiled, and I knew it was her. Couldn't explain how this could be, but it was really her. Suddenly found myself weeping like a dregging baby. Me, Sigmundo Dreyer, who never cries.

And around me: Bedlam, pandemonium, delirium, ecstatic chaos. Never seen anything like it before or since. Normally staid, reserved people were laughing, crying, screaming with delight, leaping and waving their arms like maniacs. They cheered, they jumped up and down, they hugged and kissed each other and danced in circles. Could swear I heard church bells ringing.

For a while, at that time, in that place, we were all Wendy's Lost Boys.

-16-

Took a long time, but things finally quieted. Guess the human voicebox can take only so much abuse and then it starts to shut down.

During the commotion I'd noticed Brode and Lum with their heads together more than once. Now Brode stepped up beside Jean and raised his hands. His deep rich voice boomed through the hollow insides of the Pyramid.

"My fellow citizens. Due to confusion as to the exact status of her citizenship, and to avoid giving offense to the sovereign world of Neeka, I have used the emergency powers granted to me by the Central Authority in the Megalops Charter to extend Realpeople status to Jean Harlow-c, the woman you know as 'Wendy.' "

Cheers and roars of approval rose on all sides of me as I wondered what Brode was up to.

"That status is only temporary, however. Within a month's time she will have to return to the Outworlds."

As a murmur of disapproval ran through the crowd, Brode hurried to explain.

"But I don't want to see her return there alone. Like you, I want to see Wendy's dream come true."

Never would have believed such a huge crowd could grow so silent. Not even a foot-shuffle could be heard. We were all holding our breath, wondering if he was going to say what we never dreamed we'd hear.

"We can't use public credit, of course, so I am empowering the First Bosyorkington Bank to open a trust fund: the Lost Boys' Trust. The funds will be used to provide transportation to the Outworlds for the unfortunate children we call urchins."

A noise, more like a seismic rumble than a cheer, began to rise from the crowd. Brode raised his voice to be heard.

"To open the trust, I am personally donating the first ten thousand credits. If we work together, we can make Wendy's dream a reality!"

That was it. Forget any more speechmaking. He tried to say something else but the Pyramid's speakers were overwhelmed by the celebratory roar of approval, amorphous at first, but soon taking form.

"BRODE! BRODE! BRODE! BRODE!…"

Watched Lum's grinning face and realized that Brode's bold move was not of his own devising. Lum had found a way to impart vision to an ambitious, high-ranking politico, turning him into a statesman, a man who could grab the reins of history and alter its course.

Didn't join in the chant myself. Let B.B. sit on my shoulders and shout for both of us. Just stood there and watched Jean's stunned, tearstreaked face as she beamed down at all her Lost Boys.

Clone-lady, I thought, do you have any idea what you've done?

Epilogue

"So Brode was lying about the memwipe," I said to Lum as we sat at Doc's table in Elmero's.

"Of course. He was putting heavy pressure on you and didn't want her to be any part of the bargain. So he took her out of the picture by telling you, in effect, that she was dead. But he was protecting her, holding her back as a last resort."

A lot had happened in the two days since the showdown at the Pyramid. The Lost Boys' Trust was ballooning with donations. And after Brode played and replayed the vid of his performance on the datastream, the citizenry of Chi-Kacy, Tex-Mex, and the Western Megalops were demanding trusts for their own urchins. Same in Europe and elsewhere.

"Can the outworlds handle all those urchins?" Doc said.

Lum nodded vigorously. "As many as we can send them. The farm worlds will set them up on big tracts and supervise the kids until they're old enough to homestead the land on their own. They'll all be landowners sooner or later. Me, too."

"You?" I said. "Thought you were Brode's new top aide."

"Right. But only for a while. There's a lot of change in the wind and Brode's the man who's going to spearhead most of it."

"Sure. Because he's been such a true-believing oozer all along, right?"

Lum shrugged. "Brode believes in taking Brode to the top. Before the Wendy affair, he was just another Megalops chief administrator, a regional big shot. Now he's sui generis—the only politico standing up for clones and urchins. He doesn't have universal support, of course, but there's enough pent-up emotion behind those issues to carry him a long, long way. He's now a world-class contender for Central Authority. If clone rights and urchin emigration are going to get him where he wants to go, then he'll champion them with all his heart."

"And if the opposite stands would get him there?" Doc said.

"Then he would damn clones and urchins with equal passion and sincerity." Lum shook his head. "An amazing man—the very soul of pragmatism. I'm going to hang around for a while to see how long I can keep him on the right track."

"Nothing ever really changes," I said.

"When change is imposed from the top down, I agree," Lum said. "But this…this is coming from the bottom up. It's hearts and minds making themselves felt in the upper levels. This kind of change can last."

Didn't believe that for a minute but wasn't going to argue.

I said, "We'll see."

"Maybe you will, but I'll be out of here in a few years. After I put in my time with Brode, I'm heading for Neeka."

"Why Neeka?"

"Because Jean will be there. She fascinates me. I want to get to know her better. And maybe, if things work out..."

He let the sentence trail off.

"She's sterile, you know," I said, for no good reason I could think of.

"Of course. But there'll be more than enough of kids around, don't you think? What're your plans, Sig?"

Shrugged. "More of the same."

"No plans for heading Out Where All the Good Folks Go?"

"Not a chance. Born an Earthie, gonna stay an Earthie."

"Want to work for Brode?"

"Not interested," I said. "Don't like politicos, no matter what the wrapper."

"Good for you." He stood and held up his thumb. "Got to run. Where do I pay?"

Waved him off. "It's on me."

We all shook hands and he left. Doc turned to me.

"You mean to tell me you're not even tempted to try a new life on Neeka?"

"Not the least."

"Even though Jean and B.B. practically begged you to come along?"

"Me? A farmer?"

"There's got to be something there for you. They've got cities—"

"They've got towns, Doc. Little towns scattered all over the map."

The thought of all those far horizons and wide-open spaces made me shudder.

"It'll be a shame to let her go," Doc said, eyeing me over his vial of vapor.

Took instant offense at that.

"She's nothing to me."

He laughed. "What kind of a jog do you take me for? You should have seen your face when Lum talked about heading out to Neeka and maybe marrying her."

"You've been whiffing too much, Doc. You've got permanent brain damage."

He wandered off to the bar and left me sitting there thinking about emigrating to Neeka. Crazy idea. And yet, maybe there'd be something out there for a roguey guy like me. Something other than farming. Anything but farming.

It was a thought. A remote maybe.

Wondered if there'd be anything for Ignatz to eat on Neeka.

Table of Contents

DYDEETOWN WORLD

Foreword

Part One

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

-11-

-12-

-13-

-14-

PART TWO

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

-11-

-12-

-13-

-14-

PART THREE

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

-11-

-12-

-13-

-14-

-15-

Epilogue