Every other house on the south side of the block had a front balcony or deck on its upper story, facing north toward the harbor and North Vancouver on its far side and the magnificent mountains beyond. Paul or June could turn their heads and see all those decks and balconies, up and down this side of the street—all quite empty, at sunset after a sunny day.
To get the same view from Wally and Moira's house, one climbed out an upstairs bedroom window and stretched out on the sloping roof. The roof showed signs of hard use, and was extremely comfortable. There was, for instance, a nook sheltered from the rain, up against the house, in which stood a minifridge, thermal mugs, and a coffeemaker Wally had connected to the house wiring and water systems: one need only bring a basket of grounds, and remember to leave the carafe out for the rain to rinse afterward. The nook also held a large bottle of John Jameson's Irish whiskey, whose continued existence was in doubt, and the controls for a set of external speakers. At the moment they were rendering Don Ross's percussive acoustic guitar, an excellent choice for a sunset.
Early November is right at the end of Vancouver's six-month spring, and the beginning of its six-month fall; it was chilly enough for the Irish coffees to be welcome. Paul took a gulp of his, and felt warmth spread through him—especially to his scalp: though furthest to leeward of the four, he was still unused to being bald. "Wally," he said, "my hair's off to you. It worked like a Swiss watch. I'm not sure how far they got on their own—but I'm certain they never got a definite count of how many of us there were, let alone where we all were, until we let them in."
"I don't think they even got as far as me," Moira said, "and even if they had, they'd never have found Space Case."
"Not even if they'd taken over your mind," Paul agreed. "It was a sweet bit, and I could never have thought of it in a hundred years."
"Aw shucks," Wally said, and something in the tone of his voice made June recall her mother's words about her fiancé's kindness. She tightened the arm she had around Paul, and grinned fiercely at the sunset. "I think the alien mask worked good, too," she said. "Did you see them frown at that, Paul?"
"Well, I just had it lying around in my masquerade trunk, and I happened to think of it," Moira said, clearly as pleased as Wally. "So what will you and Paul do now, June?"
"Haven't the foggiest," she said happily, and took a swallow of Irish coffee. "Something good."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Paul said confidently. "Our requirements are modest. All we really need is identities, a house, a car, and a modest income, ideally in the next twenty-four hours. Oh, and one other detail: I owe a guy ninety-nine large."
"Aw Jeeze, look—" Wally began.
"Even worse," Paul went on, "the guy is a friend of mine, so I can't just weasel."
Wally subsided, but bit his lip.
"You can't go back to the Point Grey Road place?" Moira asked.
June shook her head. "We were going to have to leave there soon anyway. Any time now, the bank and the realtor are due to figure out the money we bought it with was imaginary. I don't even think it's safe to go back and get my dirty comic books."
Wally coughed, and bit his lip some more.
"But like I say, I'm in the mood to scale back a little," Paul said. "A Honda gets you the same place a Porsche does—cheaper—and you don't have to keep it locked up as tight. I don't need a really good house, like this one—I'd settle for one of those modern pieces of crap." He gestured casually to his right. "As for work, the first thing that occurs to me is that this is a big movie and TV town, and June and I both have relevant skills."
"WOW!" Wally cried, loud enough to startle Paul and June.
Moira merely turned to him and raised an eyebrow.
"I almost got it," he said excitedly. "Help me, spice!"
Moira nodded, and he turned to present the back of his head to her. She quickly surveyed the tools available to her, finished her coffee in a long draught, and used the soft thermal plastic mug to whack her husband solidly on the occiput.
He caught his glasses as they flew off, and put them back on. "Got it—thanks," he said, and turned to Paul, who was regarding him with a strange expression. "You are both excellent actors," he stated.
"Well, actually, when I said 'relevant skills' I meant bullshitting—and I was thinking of bullshitting on a more serious scale than mere acting," Paul began. "I was thinking producer, or—"
"I have two jobs for you," Wally said. "I would also take both of them as personal favors. The first one requires acting—and bullshitting: specifically, writing."
Paul pursed his lips. "Well . . . I believe Heinlein said the difference between a writer and a con man was, the writer could work in bed and use his right name if he happened to feel like it. What did you have in mind?"
"Remember the story we gave the Net to track you down?" Wally said. "If Moira and I don't want to have to waste a whole lot of the precious two weeks left before the con doing a lot of fast talking, somebody is going to have to write and produce a play called 'Data Takes A Dump,' that stars a guy who looks like Jean-Luc Picard."
In spite of himself, Paul smiled. "Well, it's a little out of our line."
June was smiling too. "What the hell. Dad'll let us use the barn; I can sew costumes—"
"Wait," Wally said. "You haven't heard the second job. It goes along with the first. Both or no deal."
"Go ahead," Paul said.
"That house you just pointed to next door belongs to a life-form named Gorsky. He's the one you bought your magnesium from, and he's the one who gave you up as Metkiewicz."
"Oh, really?" Paul said, turning to look more closely at the Gorsky home. His smile had become faintly feral.
"He's also sued Moira and me half a dozen times in eight years. Now I realize that you are both retired. But if you're willing to skirt grey areas like movie producers . . . would you be willing to lecture other citizens on the tricks of your former trade? Could you, for instance, explain to me how an unscrupulous enough individual could con, say, someone who lived on a block like this out of their house and land?"
Paul looked at June; she looked back. "You want him in jail?"
"No. Just somewhere else. And I want that property."
Paul's smile became positively vulpine.
"If you and June will do those two jobs for me," Wally said, "I will pay you ninety-nine thousand dollars Canadian, and lifetime free rent in that house—on the condition that you plant crabgrass."
"And we'll throw in free room and board here, until both jobs are done," Moira said. "Paul, you know what our guest room is like."
Paul and June exchanged another glance, finished their coffees, put their cups down, and stuck out their hands.
More coffee was poured, considerably more whiskey was poured, and the sunset was roundly toasted. As the sky darkened, conversation became general, veered around for awhile, and inevitably wandered back to the events of the day just finished.
"You know," Paul said, "I almost wish there was some effective way they could have edited my memories, without leaving gaps too big to shrug off as a bender. I mean, in a way I'm almost glad I'm never going to know any more than I do right now . . . but at the same time, the little I do know is going to stick in my mind like a burr under my saddle for the rest of my life, and drive me crazy."
"Tell me about it," June said. "I know my mother was dead. But that was her, today. How do you make sense of something like that?"
Wally sent Moira a glance she could read even in the dark, that meant, They haven't figured it out.
She sent one back that meant, That's good.
He sent, But knowing is going to drive us crazy!
She sent back, So who said life was fair?
And both grinned.
Just then there came a faint crackling sound, and an odor of toasting basil and cinnamon.
Paul and June stirred in sudden alarm. Wally and Moira caught their alarm at once, and guessed its cause. Each of the four freed their right arm and reached for a weapon. "Double cross?" Paul wondered. A sound at the upper range of perception converged slowly from all directions at once. The temperature rose just perceptibly. Paul started to rise, and June restrained him. The sound swelled and congealed, like a Bronx cheer played backwards—
A small Egg sat on the roof, directly in front of Wally and Moira.
It was about the size of a volleyball, but otherwise identical to the one Paul and June had seen appear that afternoon: a perfect sphere of something more transparent than glass. Paul and Wally both had the same wild thought: that the little sphere would contain a miniature Laura Bellamy, something like Tinkerbell.
But its contents seemed far more mundane.
The Egg vanished like the soap bubble it resembled, and the item within dropped to the roof and began to slide. Wally reached out and stopped it with a foot, leaned forward and recovered it.
It was a compact disk. The caddy that held it had no front or back cover or liner notes, was simply a plastic box. The CD itself was almost equally featureless. No corporate or manufacturer's logo, no catalog data, no copyright warning, none of the standard commercial icons, no printing at all—not even the basic stuff found on a blank CD-ROM. Just a rectangular white block printed on its upper surface, within which someone with careful, Spenserian penmanship had written the words:
Free As A Bird
Real Love
(final versions and original
demos)
"What the hell do you suppose that means?" Wally asked.