Assisted Living

by E. M. Foner

  “Did you get all that on camera?” Harry asked his wife.

  “Yes, but I don’t think we could use it without permission.”

  “I think Flower follows her own rules about privacy. I’m starting to feel like a kid without a prom date, so let’s go try those cafes.”

  When Harry and Irene arrived in an area set up like an Italian piazza with hundreds of small tables surrounded by coffee shops, they weren’t surprised to find that the rest of the visitors from Flower’s Paradise were already mining this vein of geriatric gold.

  “Yes, I saw your story in the Galactic Free Press, and I’ve also seen the ads you’ve been running here,” an elderly lady told Harry. “Are you paid per head for bringing in prospects?”

  “We don’t even keep count, though maybe we should start. The truth is, we have a deadline to get our membership up to a hundred to justify keeping our section of the eighty-percent-gravity deck open, though since the newspaper article came out, it looks like we’ll make that easy. But spreading the word gives us something to do on these outings other than walking around and gaping like tourists.”

  “I like that,” the woman said. “I’m feeling kind of useless myself since the Grenouthians cut my work limit down to four and a half hours a day, and that includes putting on makeup, mind you. In addition to limiting the parts I can try out for to ‘Old woman #3 in the crowd’ it means I can never work enough hours to earn golden time.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, do you need the money?”

  “Not as long as the Grenouthians remain solvent. I opted for the defined benefits pension plan almost forty years ago when I first started acting in their documentaries. I could have retired after two decades based on my life expectancy. It’s just hard to let go.”

  “It might be easier if you weren’t living in a giant studio,” Harry said. “We’re having an open house tomorrow, the details are all on the flyer.”

  “You’re offering me a special on cosmetic dental surgery?”

  “Sorry, I always do that. Turn it over.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. My name is Ophelia, by the way. Is that your wife with the camera?”

  “Irene.”

  “Pity. The good ones are always taken.”

  Nine

  “Mr. Duck?” Bill asked hopefully.

  “Donald. Are you an agent?”

  “No, I’m with Next Stop Deliveries. I have your Game Master.”

  “My handheld? I’d given up on ever seeing it again. I must have brought it in to the local repair guy two years ago and he had to send it out. Thanks.”

  “The price is on the tag. Cool name, by the way.”

  “I changed it five years ago so casting directors would notice me,” Donald said, accepting the package. “The repair guy told me it would be around—WHAT!”

  “I can only accept cash.”

  Donald thrust the package back into Bill’s hands. “That’s five times what I paid to buy it at the vintage games store.”

  “According to the slip, they replaced the screen, the processor, and the keypad, so basically it’s new. Does anybody even sell these anymore?”

  “I don’t know. I only got it for when I was waiting in line at casting calls, but now I go over the scripts instead and I’m getting more parts.”

  “Oh. So you don’t want it?”

  “I’m not going to pay seventy creds for an obsolete hand-held game. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a Dollnick knockoff that plays every old Earth game ever published for a quarter of the cost of the repair.”

  “I apologize for wasting your time,” Bill said, putting the package back into his shoulder duffle and turning away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got sixteen more deliveries to make. Sorry if I interrupted you.”

  “Hold on there a minute. Did I say I didn’t want it? I’m just not paying seventy creds.”

  “But the tag—”

  “How long have you had this job?” Donald interrupted.

  “About a week, though you’re actually my first delivery.”

  “And what do you think your employers are going to do with the package if you take it back?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have an auction or something? And I’m not an employee, I’m a partner.”

  “If you’re ownership, it means you have room to negotiate these things.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “I’d go five creds.”

  “Let me check with my partner,” Bill said. “I’ve got a new implant but I’m not sure it will reach. Without even trying to subvoc, he ventured, “Flower?”

  “Have you gotten in trouble already?” the Dollnick AI responded in his head.

  “I’m with Mr. Duck and he doesn’t want to pay the seventy creds.”

  “How much is he offering?”

  “Five.”

  There was a brief pause, and then Flower said, “Ask for ten and don’t settle for less than seven.”

  “Uh, I have to ask for ten,” Bill said.

  “The games aren’t even that interesting,” Donald countered. “Maybe I could go five and a half since you came all the way out here.”

  “I can’t go under seven.”

  “Six.”

  “I wasn’t bargaining. I mean I really can’t go under seven or my partner will make me run laps around the reservoir deck or something.”

  “I forgot that you’re new at this,” Donald said. “I’ll tell you what. Normally I’d tip for delivery, but my dad always told me not to tip the owner, so instead of adding a cred for you, I’ll pay the seven. But next time somebody wants to haggle, don’t try jumping to your bottom line price so fast.”

  “Thanks,” Bill said, accepting the coins and handing the package over. “I hope it works.”

  “What? Hey, wait a second. I want to turn it on,” Donald said, tearing off the packaging. He hit the power button and the screen of the device lit up with a menu and played a simple tune. Then his thumbs began tapping on the controls, and after a minute, Bill gave up on getting his attention and left.

  “Well? What happened?” Flower demanded in Bill’s head as he headed for the next address on the list.

  “He went for it. I thought you could hear whatever I hear, like with Julie.”

  “Not unless you give me permission.”

  “Let me think about it. Is ten percent of the amount on the tag our new target price?”

  “Didn’t you say you worked with your mother as a street vendor when you were a child?”

  “We didn’t have to bargain much because our prices were already way below market.”

  “If you collect ten percent for all of the packages I’ll break even on the upfront payment I made in apples. But that doesn’t account for our expenses, so get whatever you can.”

  “I don’t want to overcharge people.”

  “The galaxy is built on mercantilism. You’re in business now, so deal with it.”

  Six hours later, Bill tracked down the last addressee in the ready room for background actors at the studio where her brother said she was working. By this time, he had figured out that if he asked for twenty percent of the cash-on-delivery amount, he didn’t feel like he was trying to rob people, and they quickly came to an agreement. The girl, who was a year or two younger than himself, was so pleased to get her hand-held game back while collecting double-time to wait around during a production snag that she paid the asking price without question.

  “That’s it, Flower,” Bill whispered as he headed back for the main hall. “Jason Levine refused his package, said that he had broken the addiction and he didn’t want it back at any price, and Bethany Harrel no longer lives on Timble and nobody could tell me where she went. I think we did okay.”

  “Good timing, I was about to ping you. Dewey could use some help loading.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “Picking up. Ask a lift tube to take you to Industrial Zone Six.”
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  “Got it,” Bill said, and turned around as he had just passed a lift tube. He had to wait a minute for a capsule to arrive, and then he requested, “Industrial Zone Six.”

  “Warning,” the lift tube informed him. “You have requested an active industrial area which could be hazardous to your health. Do you wish to continue?”

  “I guess,” Bill said.

  “Do you wish to continue?”

  “Yes,” he affirmed, realizing that the software controlling the lift tubes was looking for legal consent rather than a conversation. The trip took almost ten minutes, the longest he’d ever spent in a lift tube, and when the doors finally slid open, he was glad that Flower had insisted he wear magnetic cleats. Bill clicked his heels to activate the magnets before shuffling out of the capsule.

  A fork truck which reminded him of logging equipment he’d seen in a documentary about Earth almost ran him down. Bill jumped back against the now-closed doors of the lift tube as it shot passed, the Grenouthian driver cursing fluently.

  “I’m here, Flower,” he said out loud, too flustered to try to subvoc. “Which way now?”

  “Your signal is approximately four hundred meters from Dewey’s current location. Without full access to your implant, I can’t guarantee your safe arrival.”

  “All right already, do what you want.”

  “That’s how partnerships should work,” Flower said smugly. “Stay to your right and try not to get run over by any cargo handling equipment.”

  “What’s Dewey doing down here anyway?” Bill asked, breaking into a shuffling jog to get out of the heavily trafficked area as quickly as possible. “Are the Grenouthians hiring you to make a delivery?”

  “It’s more of a consignment, and I’ve already got it sold to vendors in the bazaar. How much cash do you have?”

  “Just under two hundred creds, I think. I lost count when it passed my monthly pay for helping Harry part-time in the cafeteria.”

  “Excellent, that should be enough to close the add-on deal.”

  “Don’t I have to bring it back? I thought you were going to teach me how to keep books.”

  “I am. Rule number one is not to write anything down if you don’t have to. Rule number two is that money is only working when it’s changing hands. Be ready to turn left.”

  Bill looked back over his shoulder and skidded to a halt as a number of cargo containers floating about knee-high off the deck barreled past in a chain. Then he looked the other way, back again, and shuffled rapidly across the travel lane. As he continued along the new route, he couldn’t help noticing that the lighting was getting dimmer.

  “Are you sure this is the right direction?” he asked after another minute. “I can barely see my feet.”

  “You shouldn’t be looking at your feet, you should be watching for Dewey’s signal.”

  “But I can’t see far enough to—is that him?”

  “Do you see a blinking red light moving back and forth in a straight line?”

  “Yes. On my way.” Bill moved forward as fast as he could, and as he grew closer to the assistant librarian, he saw that the lights were actually stationary LEDs embedded in Dewey’s shelving attachment that gave the illusion of movement by blinking on and off in sequence. Then a dim hulk moved across the way between them and Bill halted again.

  “What are you doing?” Flower asked.

  “Something just crossed between us. It was big.”

  “Like the Grenouthian we’re doing business with?”

  “Oh, right. He moved on.”

  “He’ll be back. Dewey just approved the sample and the Grenouthian is retrieving the shipment now.”

  Bill moved forward cautiously, coming to a halt at a distance where he could reach out and touch the assistant librarian’s shelving attachment.

  “The Grenouthian will be back in a minute,” Dewey said in a whisper.

  “Why are you whispering?” Bill asked in a muted tone.

  “It can be tricky doing business with warehouse workers. We don’t want to end up having to make deals with all of them.”

  “Do they all have consignments?”

  “Is that what Flower called it? Shhh. Here he comes.”

  Bill’s eyes had finally adjusted to the point that he could make out a burly bunny pulling some sort of floating platform piled high with crates. Having learned his lesson about the momentum of large masses in low gravity, Bill moved out of the way, and the Grenouthian expertly brought the cargo to a halt just a few steps from the airlock.

  “Do you have the extras we were discussing?” Dewey asked.

  “I’ve got them, but they’ll cost you five hundred cash – no more fruit,” the alien grunted.

  “My associates are willing to pay fifty.”

  “I’d give these to my offspring for their sticker collections before I’d sell that low. Four hundred.”

  “You understand that we can just manufacture our own, and we’re already paying top cred for the merchandise.”

  “I gave you the volume discount. Three hundred is my absolute minimum.”

  “I could see going a hundred, but that’s just for future consideration.”

  “Two hundred or you can forget about doing business with me in the future.”

  “My partner will give you the money,” Dewey said.

  “I haven’t counted it yet,” Bill said, bringing a fistful of creds out of his pocket. “I can’t even see in here well enough to—”

  “Just give it here,” the Grenouthian interrupted impatiently, holding out his cupped hands. Bill carefully poured the creds onto the hairy palms, and the bunny gave a grunt of satisfaction. “I’ll keep the extra eight creds as a tip for helping you load. Let’s get a move on before somebody comes.”

  The airlock hissed open, and Dewey immediately began loading his shelving attachment with crates. “Help me, Bill, and then grab a couple of boxes yourself.”

  Between the three of them, they cleared off half of the floater in one trip, and then returned for the rest, barely leaving enough room for themselves in the airlock.

  “And the extras?” Dewey demanded.

  “In here,” the bunny said, prying up the lid of the one crate that was smaller than all of the others. Bill thought he saw something change position as he looked in, but the assistant librarian was satisfied.

  “Flower sends her regards. Let’s do this again our next time through.”

  “Off you go,” the Grenouthian said, stepping back and hitting the airlock button. Through the small window, Bill saw the lights come back on full in the warehouse section they’d just vacated.

  The outer airlock opened on the familiar interior of the bookmobile, and they rapidly transferred the crates. Dewey carried the special box up front to the pilot’s seat. “Coming, Bill?”

  “Right behind you. How do I disconnect the docking arm.”

  “Just close our hatch and it disengages automatically.”

  As soon as he hit the button, Bill felt his weight disappear entirely, and the only thing keeping his feet in place were the magnetic cleats. “What happened?”

  “As soon as the docking arm freed us, our angular acceleration fell to zero, like releasing a rock from a sling,” Dewey said. “Look out the viewport.”

  Bill pressed his nose against the crystal and saw the decks of the spinning orbital blurring past.

  “Wow! How did you ever dock with that thing in the first place?”

  “I’m a pretty good pilot, but I let Flower handle the fancy vector stuff. The docking arms are always on the flat ends of cylindrical structures, and you need pretty fine control to match velocity with an airlock that’s moving in a circle. It’s actually easier to enter a docking bay and let the manipulator fields damp any differentials.”

  “The bunny couldn’t have moved our merchandise to a docking bay?”

  “The docking bays have customs inspectors who add another layer of expenses.”

  “How did you get so good at negot
iating, Dewey?”

  “I’ve been collecting overdue library books for years. If I held out for the calculated fine, I’d never get the money or the books.”

  “So what were those ‘extras’ I paid for?”

  “Come up here and take a look.”

  Bill carefully moved forward, planting one magnet-cleated boot after the other, and grabbed the back of the co-pilot’s chair. As soon as he was seated with the four-point safety harness in place, Dewey passed him the box.

  “Holographic stickers of a bunny with a camera?” Bill asked after peering inside.

  “If you change your viewing angle, the camera moves.”

  “I think I’ve seen these before but I can’t remember where.”

  “I guess you were never a big documentary fan,” Dewey said. “They’re authenticity stickers for entertainment-system-compatible memory modules. That’s what we loaded back there.”

  “What does Flower want with a bunch of blank memory modules?”

  “They aren’t blank,” the assistant librarian said, and the aperture on one of his binocular lenses dialed down to a pinpoint before snapping open again in his version of a lidless wink.

  “We’re going into the video pirating business?”

  “I think you’re missing the point here,” Flower said in his head. “What’s that on your lap?”

  “A box of fake authenticity holograms.”

  “If I wanted fake authenticity holograms I’d manufacture them myself. We just paid two-hundred and eight creds for those.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s the difference between an authorized copy of a documentary and an unauthorized copy?”

  “I guess if it’s authorized, that means you pay the Grenouthians for it.”

  “And who did we just buy these from?”

  “I meant the real producers, not some bunny in a warehouse who turned down the lights so nobody could see what he was doing,” Bill protested.

  “Now you’re splitting hairs,” Flower said. “The Grenouthian with the entertainment booth at the bazaar commissioned us to pick up a shipment of documentaries from a Grenouthian on Timble, and we’re throwing in a whole box of Grenouthian-made holographic authenticity stickers. What could be more kosher than that?”