Garth pulled out his datapad and scanned the items on his List. “Thanks for giving me another item for my List, Bernard. Would you be willing to hopscotch with me today? Or should we wait awhile?”
The screen flickered for a moment, and Garth watched the bartender's expression shift. “Whoa, I didn't mean it as an invitation.”
“Why not? You're right. You've got a kind of life I've never experienced before. Besides, you know what I'm after, why I'm doing this. How about . . . say, an hour? That'll give me a good impression of what you're all about, and you'll have a chance to do a few things. Minimal risk, for either of us.”
Rovin paused, decidedly uncomfortable. “But I've got the Club to run, Garth. I'd have to stay right beside you. Some of this gets very complicated. I'll need to monitor what you're doing, help you out every second—”
“No you won't,” Garth said, already starting toward the closed door to the central control chamber. “You are going to go for a walk.”
Though it was his job to seek hopscotch opportunities for the artist, Pashnak fought his inner anxiety. He hated putting himself in front of strangers, making odd requests and negotiations. However, he was willing to do it for Garth.
By now his employer had absorbed the easy things on his List, and Pashnak had to go far afield. In the lull after the frantic activity of the FRUSTRATION debut, he went out to scout candidates. At least the money derived from licensing the successful exhibition had given him sufficient funds to make decent offers on Garth's behalf.
Some things, though, made Pashnak feel very much out of his depth.
Wearing a forced smile, he stood in front of a work crew of convicted criminals. The unfettered labor gang was composed of hirsute, muscular bodies, squat and ugly forms like the museum paintings of Neanderthals.
As punishment for certain crimes, guilty parties were forced to hopscotch into undesirable bodies, enduring sentences in lumpy, unpleasant forms. The only way a felon could have his or her own physique back was to hope for parole. Rarely were the criminals desperate enough to flee in their stunted bodies. Ugliness itself was often sufficient deterrent.
Such a tradition created a misshapen “criminal class,” a caste system within legal boundaries. The original owners of these hideous forms often made good lives for themselves as they swapped into the varying bodies of criminals awaiting the ends of their sentences. It was like a vacation.
The crew boss clearly thought Pashnak was mad to make such a ridiculous request. Pashnak paced back and forth under the hot sun, looking at the crooked teeth and matted hair of the labor gang. Their musky perspiration smelled of animals, though their eyes held the fire of people who had once lived successful lives, but were now trapped in hideous shells.
“These are your best candidates?” Pashnak asked the boss.
The man was blocky and strong, with broad shoulders. “This lot has plenty at stake—enough that you can probably trust them to make your trade.” The boss obviously remained skeptical. “Still sounds like a fool's errand to me.”
“Regular people always have trouble understanding artists.” Pashnak turned his attention to the hairy, misshapen men on the labor gang. “You'll get a day's reprieve from your sentence, while my employer does your labor for you. He wants to sweat like you sweat. He wants to feel the eyes of the public loathing him, the way you experience it every day.”
“And every night,” another ugly male snapped. “I'm testing the limits of my husband's devotion to me.”
Pashnak felt a lump in his stomach. What marriage could withstand that?
“Well, your mate won't get any benefit out of Garth's body. You'll still have to remain under tight security, in prison instead of out here on the labor gang. But you get a normal body again, healthy and strong and attractive—and a day to relax instead of work.” Pashnak looked at the repulsive band and raised his head high, trying to appear tough—or at least confident. “You know the terms, and the restrictions, and the pay. One day, that's all. Any takers?”
The crew boss rolled his eyes, but Pashnak had far more volunteers than Garth could ever use.
Like a thief entering a forbidden temple, Garth slipped past the busy mechanical arms to the isolated central control chamber where Bernard Rovin lived. The metal doors unsealed, and Garth ducked inside. The barricade automatically closed before any curious customers could peer inside. This was a private matter between him and the bartender.
Garth stood in a womblike chamber surrounded by videoscreens, microphone pickups, and display monitors. In the middle of it all sat the ruined lump of the bystander who had almost died in a hovercraft crash years earlier. The real Rovin was little more than a scarred head and part of a spinal column implanted in a network of pseudo-body parts that extended to all corners of Club Masquerade.
“You sure you want to do this?” Rovin asked, his voice uncertain.
Garth stared, more intrigued now than he had ever been. “Without a doubt.” He came close enough to touch the living flesh of Rovin's head.
“I haven't done this in a long time.” The bartender's real lips moved now, his skin pale. If he'd had a body to move, he probably would have fidgeted.
“Hopscotching isn't the sort of thing you forget how to do.” Garth touched the waxy, scarred skin. Rovin flinched.
They swapped.
Garth suddenly felt as if he were falling. He tried to catch himself with a thousand flailing hands. A dizzying snowstorm of images poured into his optic nerves, as if he were now looking through a fly's compound eye.
“Focus! Garth, focus!” a man called in a very familiar voice.
Garth funneled his attention and noticed his blond-haired form standing in the control chamber. He centered on that image alone, and found himself looking at Bernard Rovin, now occupying his home-body.
“Some things you do forget after all.” Rovin stared down at Garth's broad hands, wiggling his fingers experimentally. Then he snapped his head up to look at where Garth now rested in the middle of his own sensations.
“Okay, I've tried to prep plenty of things here for you. Don't mess it up for me. I've set the secondary systems on autopilot. Your hypothalamus automatically regulates things like lights and temperature, the plumbing, the doors. The music selections are based on random patterns, so don't worry about monitoring them.”
Garth's attention splintered into fragments, full of innumerable sensations pouring in from different directions. He wanted to explore and think and see everything from the bartender's perspective. Despite the distractions, though, he also heard and understood everything Rovin said.
“I take it you don't need any instructions on how to use my body?” Garth asked. Simply finding his vocal cords posed a small challenge.
“Not like that!” Rovin slapped his forehead. “You just broadcast to all the screens in the Club.” He hurried to adjust several controls. “There, that'll help you select where to direct your conversations. Remember, you're wired to do many different things at once.” Using Garth's nimble hands, he fiddled with the monitors. He paused, sick and uncertain, sweating profusely. “Maybe this was a bad idea. We should just swap back.”
“Not a chance, Bernard. Now get out of here, and come back in an hour.”
Dubiously, Rovin left the central chamber. Wearing Garth's body, he wandered around inside the Club, touching things, studying tiny details that were out of range of his optical sensors. He picked up small objects, holding them in front of his face, smelling and feeling.
With his new optical sensors, Garth watched him move about, inspecting his beloved Club from a new perspective. As Rovin brushed his fingers against the smooth surface of an empty chair, Garth used his new equipment to eavesdrop on a nearby conversation.
“Look, it's that artist again. The FRUSTRATION guy.” A ginger-haired woman shook her head, bemused. “You gotta expect odd behavior from him.”
Rovin showed no sign of ever intending to leave the Club. He seemed intimidated, preferred sta
ying close to home. He moved meticulously, each step a conscious effort, as if afraid he might damage himself in some way.
Finally, as Rovin passed an empty table, Garth used his new skills to illuminate the screen. His voice rang out, scolding. “Bernard, you've got places to go. You can see this old place anytime. Do I have to call security to remove you by force?”
“All right, all right.” Rovin reluctantly headed for the nearest labyrinthine exit. “I'll be back soon. Don't worry.”
Garth switched from one camera to another to another. Rovin chose to use the passage through the Titanic chamber, modeled to look like a large stateroom on the ancient ocean liner. Finally, he went out into the streets.
Now Garth had Club Masquerade to himself.
Though only moments had passed, he noted that customers were already clamoring for drinks, talking to screens and expecting answers. He had work to do here!
Like a sentient centipede, Garth flexed his mechanical arms, then he tapped into the bartending database so he could program the requested drinks. So many variations! With a distracted corner of his mind, he discovered the actual contents of the slushy blue drink Eduard always requested; he wasn't sure his friend would actually want to know the recipe.
At first, Garth panicked, but he worked through it, feeling his extensions one at a time and figuring them out. Through this disjointed body, he experienced the cybernetic bartender's extensions and connections. Inside the Club he was omnipresent, a hundred places at once. He could listen to overlapping conversations, take care of simultaneous requests for drinks—he could do it all.
He was Club Masquerade, a biomechanical Wizard of Oz running a circus of tables and drinks, lights and music, conversations and secrets. He laughed, his chuckle ringing out simultaneously from all the substations in the bar.
He maintained a conversation with twelve different groups of people at once. He found it confusing, but delightful and exhilarating. The customers didn't seem to notice any change, more interested in hearing themselves talk than in his responses.
So this was how Bernard Rovin experienced each day. The man's body had been crippled, destroyed except for the control center in his brain. But these new and complex sensations made up for the difference.
Garth learned how to multiprocess, how to trust his body's enhancements. Mechanical arms delivered drinks without spilling a drop; credit recorders deducted appropriate amounts from customer accounts; music played and changed and kept the dancers happy. Acquaintances engaged in banal chitchat that required very little effort for Garth to uphold his end of the conversation.
Using external cameras under the arched entrances, he spied on his own body as Rovin wandered around outside in the fresh air. The bartender stretched his legs, smelled the leaves on trees, stared up at the sun gleaming off polished windows of the skyscrapers. But he didn't venture far. Rovin kept looking toward the sparkling Club, then checking the time.
Well before the hour was up, Rovin hurried back, slipping past the surrounding rooms into the main bar. He practically ran to the central control chamber and pounded on the sealed door. “Okay, come on, Garth. Come on!”
“Are you bored out there already?” Garth asked, using parts of his mind to carry on four other conversations in various rooms, tables, and alcoves. “I was just starting to get the hang of this.”
Rovin's bright eyes carried an edge of fear. “I was afraid you might refuse to hopscotch back if you spent too much time as me.”
Garth considered the absurdity of the comment. The bartender was a wreck of flesh, only fractionally human, trapped inside a single building for all of his life . . . and he was afraid that Garth wouldn't give him his body back? The insight took him aback. Clearly, everyone had their own standards, their own needs—and Rovin had fashioned a life that satisfied him.
“Don't worry about that. I've learned what I need to,” Garth said. “It's . . . strange, but oddly compelling. Let's get back into our own shoes.”
Once restored, Rovin took a deep breath, his disembodied head barely moving in its harness. His eyes took on a glassy look as he scanned the Club through remote eyes, as if afraid Garth had conspired to burn it down or let barbarians trash the place.
His scarred head smiled at Garth, using his own eyes and mouth. The screens flickered, the views changed, and all of Club Masquerade seemed alive around them. Rovin took a few moments to settle into himself, to pick up his mechanical arms, to listen in on the conversations from tables around the bar. He cleaned a spilled drink and altered the tempo of the music to time it better with the throbbing lights.
“Thanks for the experience, Bernard,” Garth said. “Now I need to jot down some notes.”
The metal door to the control chamber unsealed itself. Offhandedly, the bartender chased Garth away, his voice somewhat embarrassed. “Go on, get out of here. I've got work to do.”
39
She saved the last rose for Arthur, a beautiful cream-white bud. She thought about plucking the thorns from the stem, but Arthur would never have liked that. He wanted the whole object, the good parts together with the bad, the way nature had intended.
After tucking the flower at the bottom of her basket, she completed her delivery rounds through buildings, lobbies, and open-air markets. When she reached their usual fountain, however, she did not find the old man watching the water dance over the geometric shapes and flint mirrors.
Teresa sat holding the creamy rose, waiting for him. She had arranged a special surprise for Arthur. Garth had given her passes to see his FRUSTRATION exhibit, and that afternoon she would take Arthur through the wonderful maze of experiential art. The old man had helped Teresa to understand so much about her inner workings, and she wanted to share back with him.
She couldn't help smiling in anticipation. Her eyes flicked from person to person as she stared at passing businessmen, shoppers, young couples. She paced the square, peering down side streets and alleys. Expectant, she waited the better part of an hour. Arthur had never missed an appointment before. With growing alarm, she knew that it would not have slipped his mind.
Feeling a tug of urgency, Teresa didn't know where to look. The old man had no home that she knew of. He simply stayed wherever he liked. But she knew he'd been sick the last time they were together.
She went first to the automated cafeteria where they had planned to eat, hoping that Arthur had just confused their plans. When she saw no sign of him there, she moved to other places where the two of them had talked, shops and stores they sometimes visited. Teresa hurried down side streets, went to parks and other fountains, looked under trees and playground equipment.
But Arthur wasn't there.
Finally, she remembered Arthur's delight when he'd taken her through the maintenance corridors of the skyscraper where he had once worked. He had seemed so alive and excited that day.
Dodging pedestrians, Teresa ran until she found the maintenance access door Arthur had used. When she reached the rear of the building by the heating systems and air ducts, she let herself in with the simple code she'd seen him use.
She wandered the passages, following water and electrical conduits, squeezing into the tiny spaces between walls. She couldn't remember the exact route Arthur had taken when he'd showed her this place, but she was determined to look everywhere if she needed to.
“Arthur!” The sound echoed among the pipes. Rodents and insects stirred in the shadows, but she heard no answer, only her own voice thundering in the confined space. Its loudness frightened her. She hurried onward.
Suddenly she saw a pale object at the bottom of a steep stairwell. She rushed forward to see the heavy book, Gray's Anatomy with its cover open, facedown on the syncrete floor. Arthur must have dropped the book from above . . . but this was his most prized possession. He would never have just abandoned it.
“Arthur!” she called. “Oh, Arthur, are you up there?”
She thought she heard a sound and raced up the stairs, grabbing the metal rail
s. Her legs worked like pistons as she pumped up one floor after another, paralleling the elevator shaft.
She found the old man collapsed on the fourth landing, huddled in a corner and unable to get up. He gazed at her with dull eyes and tried to sit straighter. “Teresa, you found me. I must have led you . . . on quite a chase.” She knelt next to him, grasping his bony shoulders. Arthur was clearly dying. “Didn't mean to be so difficult,” he gasped.
“You always told me I should welcome challenges,” Teresa said. “Here, let me help. I need to get you to a medical center.”
He just smiled up at her. The skin on his face looked like a leather wrapping, slowly sagging. “I'm not sure that'll do any good. We're probably too late.” He forced a brief chuckle that degenerated into a wheezing cough. “You know how often I've told you about the complexity of the human body. Okay, the problem with a system so complicated is that too many little unexpected things can go wrong.”
Frantic, Teresa hauled the old man to his feet. Though she was not very muscular, she found the strength to lift him. “I've got to get you out of here. You can't die yet.”
He leaned on her and coughed again. “I'm afraid I don't have much choice in the matter.”
Teresa refused to give up. Slipping an arm around his waist, she wrapped one of his bony arms around her shoulder. “Let's get you down these stairs.”
Arthur struggled to assist her, but he was helpless. “That's too much trouble, Teresa. My only real request is for you to get me outside again.” His cracked lips curved upward. “I'd rather die surrounded by sunshine than walls and shadows.”
She struggled to haul him down one narrow metal step at a time. Her waifish body was small and weak. At any moment she feared she might drop him, letting the frail man tumble downstairs with a crack and a snap of bones. Teresa wished she had somehow managed to keep her home-body, that she had not let the Sharetakers blur her mind as she swapped from person to person. As someone else, maybe she could have helped Arthur more now.
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