"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 — investi
gator." 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.
Dydeetown World lf-4 Page 2