by Larry Niven
"Why ever not?"
"Too much to see. There's every kind of store in the world, and it's pretty crowded."
Reedy frowned. "If it's so big, why is it crowded? Surely there aren't enough people living here to-"
"Not the residents," Stevens said. His face held a sour expression. "Angelinos. A lot of them come here to shop. Hell, I can't really blame them. It's convenient. All the stores in one place, and the subway system to get them here. But the money comes in, and it never goes back out, not back to LA anyway."
"But-" Reedy gasped as the floor dropped from under him. "I say, that was abrupt." He watched the floor indicator blink rapidly. "I don't suppose you can restrict your people? Keep them from coming here?"
"How?" Stevens asked. "We tried that once. Courts threw out the ordinance-and the voters wouldn't have put up with it anyway. Didn't matter, though. Todos Santos owns the subway system. This place is the hub-and it's easier to get from San Pedro to the San Fernando Valley by coming through here than it is to drive. A lot easier than riding the bus."
The elevator door opened onto a broad corridor. "We're on Level 15," Stevens said. "Mostly small industry. Electronics assembly, waldo operators-"
"Waldo operators?"
"Yeah." Stevens looked as if he were swallowing a live mouse. "It's the latest way Todos Santos drains off money from LA. Skilled machine operators are scarce. A lot of them want to live in Todos Santos, but there aren't enough jobs for them here. So they live here, and work here-the lathes and milling machines are out in LA, and controlled by TV and a telephone-computer hookup. The technical name is 'teleoperated systems.'"
Stevens led the way to a moving pedway. "Watch your step." They walked onto the moving black slideway. "This one's slower than some. If you want to get to the other side of the building, you go to another floor and catch a fast strip."
The ceiling was high, and the entrances to the chambers off the corridor were no more than a series of closed doors; at infrequent intervals there was a split-second view of the outside. Tubs of growing plants stood along some of the walls, but there was never any illusion of being anywhere but in a building.
"Todos Santos built the Los Angeles subway?" Reedy asked.
"Sure. They have the capital. Middle East oil money funneled through Zurich. Also the equipment, big semiautomatic tunneling machines. Matter of fact, they're digging a new one right under my office in City Hall. With their stuff they can dig for about 10 percent of what it would cost us."
The inward side of the corridor was another jumble: neat signs on the doors announcing electronic shops, repair services, light industries of one kind or another, interspersed with small convenience shops. Sometimes there was a long series of doors blocked off, each with a single sign: Westinghouse, Teledyne, International Security Systems, Oerlikon, Barclay-Yamashito Ltd., stood out as some of the largest.
They ended at an elevator bank. "Well, now that you've seen the drab parts, you're ready for the Mail," Stevens said. "That's a sight not to miss."
The elevator dropped like a falling safe. Stevens watched Reedy's face as the doors opened.
Reedy knew what to expect, of course. Most visitors did. And they still took several seconds to make sense of what they were seeing.
They were looking down a broad corridor that stretched diagonally through the ground floor of Todos Santos. It was almost three miles long. Moving pedways in the center were a blur of human figures approaching and receding, though they stood motionless. Lines met at infinity. The pedways were flanked on both sides by walks, and people strolled along these, looking into shop windows, going in and out of stores, clumping to hold animated discussions where they would block the passage of others. Tiers of balconies rose high above them. Residents strolled along the balconies or idly leaned over to look down. Glass-sided elevators clung to walls and moved at impossibly high speeds. Gigantic spaces, and wails and a roof enclosing all; that was what confused the mind; but the real shock was to see all these shoppers taking it so lightly.
Stevens chuckled. "Tell yourself you can get used to anything." He led the way out onto the floor.
They passed under an enormous sign:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. PERMISSION TO PASS REVOCABLE AT ANY TIME.
"Which means?" Sir George asked.
"Exactly what it says," Stevens answered. They stood looking for another moment, then Mac escorted his visitor onto the pedway strip. Sir George seemed accustomed to them. Most new shopping centers and airports had them, although not as elaborate as these.
The outer strip was broad and had seats. A series of much narrower strips separated it from another broad seat-laden belt in the center. Each strip moved faster and faster until the inner one flashed past at fifty kilometers an hour. They moved progressively across strips until they reached the fast one, and sat next to the transparent windscreen partition that moved with them.
Parallel lines converged ahead at the vanishing point. There was a medium-sized city poised over their heads. Mac knew it, but he had never been able to sense it, not even here, in this tremendous ... room.
Through the Plexiglas they could see the flicker of faces and bright clothing of passengers coming in the opposite direction, a blur of humanity. Both sides of the barrier were lined with shops, all doing a brisk business. Reedy noticed a branch of Dream Masters, the chain of fantasy art galleries. They swept past a side corridor that led upward to another level with more walkways and conversation areas. More changes of level; balconies overhanging the pedway itself, with more shops.
There was no special order to the shops, but the signs - Reedy frowned, puzzled. What was it about the signs on the shops?
"See it? The Corporation permits advertising," Mac Stevens said, "but they regulate the size of the signs, and they've got an aesthetics committee that sets up standards. If Art Bonner doesn't like something, it'll probably be found to be unaesthetic."
Sporting-goods shops, stationery, clothing, bicycles, restaurants, banks, electronics, music, bookstores. People moved in and out in random patterns. The buildings had a fragile look: not made to withstand weather. Sir George grinned at the sudden incongruous sight of a tobacconist's shop, built apparently of brick, and as solid-looking as a Mayan pyramid.
"Does anyone buy?" Reedy asked. "No one seems to carry packages."
"Security," Stevens said. "Visitors have their purchases delivered. Either to the exit plaza, or directly to their homes. Residents don't usually carry much around either. The guards don't like it."
"I should think Americans have a long tradition of telling the police off," Reedy said.
"Sure. But the residents of Todos Santos are different. I didn't say the guards won't put up with residents carrying packages. They just don't like it. And the residents don't deliberately annoy the guards. They'd rather cooperate." They had reached the opposite corner of the building, and Stevens led the way across the slow strips and finally to the corridor.
"I don't see badges on everyone," Reedy said. "In fact, not more than half."
Stevens nodded and led the Canadian to the end of the diagonal. A series of exits funneled the traffic and they went through. "If we hadn't had unrestricted visiting badges, we'd have been stopped back there," he said. "The Mall is an open area. They let in nearly anyone. They only watch for known criminals and terrorists." His lips tightened. "With their fast transportation system they siphon off a lot of business from the city."
He pointed down a long corridor. "East perimeter, Mall level. Mostly apartments, of course. The outside view is a first choice f or living quarters."
"Totally? That seems a poor design-"
"No, not totally. There's a mix here, as everywhere. Night clubs, restaurants, private clubs, even some exclusive shops. Of course any business out here draws only customers from inside, except for favorite customers with permanent Visitor badges."
"Strange," said Reedy. "I'd think they'd want visitors. Why all the restrictions?"
"Oh, the
re're reasons." Stevens indicated a door. As they approached it, it slid open. A red-and-blue-uniformed guard stood inside. The rent-a-cop smiled pleasantly as they passed and headed for another bank of elevators.
About fifty people were waiting for elevators with them. All had badges, and very few bore the bright VISITOR label. Reedy looked at the badges and people, saying nothing.
There was no way to characterize them. Pick fifty random citizens from any major city and you would find as much variety. What was it about them that made them seem like a gathering of distant cousins? Reedy couldn't put his finger on it.
The elevator rose swiftly and deposited them at another moving pedway. They were on the outside periphery, and they passed apartments, open areas leading to outside enclosed decks; it was obvious that this was an affluent area.
"All right," Sir George said. "I've been unable to work it out. What is it about the people-the sameness? They don't dress as flashily as one expects of Southern Californians, but it can't be merely that."
Stevens grinned. "Termites. No? Well, I admit I don't know either, not completely. But did you notice how quiet it was, even in the Mall, among those people?"
"Why-yes. Not at all the noise level I'd have expected. Is it some regulation?"
"Custom. Customs are very powerful here. By the way, I wouldn't be surprised if some Company policeman were listening to us through those badges."
Sir George looked at his badge as if he had discovered a poisonous spider on it. "Do the residents put up with this?"
Stevens shrugged. "Resident badges are different. Or so they're told. But, Sir George, the residents want surveillance. It's another custom. The Law and Order tradition is very strong in here. A kind of siege mentality-"
"Paranoia?"
"Oh, they've got their reasons. Paranoids have enemies too," Stevens said. "Here, that's where we're going, the exit up ahead. Have you been following the news? The FROMATES, the Friends of Man and The Earth Society, keep trying to sabotage Todos Santos. Not to mention various other hate groups. And just plain gangsters out to extort money. Stink bombs. Hornet nests. That kind of thing, mostly, but sometimes the terrorists come up with something really nasty, like the grenade that killed a dozen people in the Crown Center Arcology in Kansas." He shrugged helplessly. "My police haven't had much luck at catching them outside, so the Company has its own police."
"But doesn't that play into the terrorists' hands?" Reedy asked. "One purpose of terror is to provoke a reaction. Make things so bad that people welcome any change-"
"Any change that will protect them," Stevens said.
The journey ended at another elevator plaza, and they took an Up car to the Executive Suite. They emerged into thick carpets and walnut paneling. It came to Sir George that he was lost.
Every resident of Todos Santos had known that moment of shock, save only the children and Tony Rand. One can lose one's way among city streets, but being lost in Todos Santos was like being last in Carlsbad Caverns. Lost in three dimensions, in a maze almost a cubic mile in extent!
The moment passed. It didn't matter that Sir George had followed an impossibly twisted path. He had guides; he wasn't trapped. But there was always that moment.
MacLean Stevens was in his mid-thirties, and very athletic, while Art Bonner was ten years older and walked with a limp he'd picked up in the Army. Stevens's hair was light tan, Bonner's dark and thinning on top, with a bare spot his hair stylist had more and more trouble covering. Both were tall men, over six feet, Bonner perhaps an inch higher and twenty pounds heavier than Stevens.
Put that way the two men didn't look alike at all; yet those who knew them, and sometimes even visitors who met both casually, were more impressed with their similarities than their differences. It wasn't anything you could put your finger on. Certainly you would never mistake one man for the other. But both looked at people in the same way, and both spoke in the same tone: the tone of command, of a man so thoroughly accustomed to being obeyed that he did not have to raise his voice or resort to threats.
"Good to see you again, Mac," Bonner was saying.
"Been a while," Stevens responded automatically. "Art, this is the Honorable Sir George Reedy, Deputy Minister for Development and Urban Affairs for the Canadian government. Sorry we're a touch late, but I took the liberty of showing Sir George the shopping mall-"
"Sure, I know," Bonner said. "Come in, please, have a seat. Drink? We've got nearly anything you could possibly want, and a lot you wouldn't."
"You sound as if you're showing off," Reedy said. He smiled broadly. "Pimm's Cup, if you please."
"Certainly. Mac? The usual?"
"Yes, please."
Bonner waved them to leather chairs and took another in the conversation group with them, leaving his desk in the background. The office lighting adjusted subtly so that only the conference area stood out.
There was a low hum in the background. Otherwise the office was silent. "Quite a place you have here," the Canadian said. "I'm very impressed." But he looked uneasy. Too much of the touch of strange ... and the moment of being lost was still with him.
"Thank you," Bonner said. "Would you like to see more of it? Let me show you around." He gestured toward the wall and the decorative art works vanished to be replaced by an enormous cutaway view of Todos Santos in three dimensions. Colored dots seemed to crawl through the holographic presentation; it was all diagrammatic, with the too-realistic lines of an architect's drawing. That vanished to show a montage of color pictures, each a blur of motion: shops, people getting onto a moving pedway, a riot of color.
Sir George frowned. "Why, that's the route we came here by-"
Bonner smiled. "That's right." The diagram reappeared. "You see the moving dots? Those are members of my staff that we want to keep track of. Your badges are tagged VIP so I was able to see where you went. Not that I paid a lot of attention, but the route is recorded anyway-"
There was a slightly louder hum. "Here we are," said Bonner. He was having fun. The solid black rectangle of a coffee table in the conversation group opened to reveal three glasses. Bonner reached down and lifted the tray. "Pimm's Cup. Talisker. And Mac's Royal Gin Fizz. Don't know how he can drink that mess. Cheers."
Sir George laughed, and was joined by the others. "Well done. I will admit I thought you had forgotten-" The smile faded into something else. "Just whom do you have listening to us?" he demanded.
"Nobody," Art said. "Oh - my apologies, Sir George. I like doing this with drinks and food orders, but believe me, nobody is listening to us. I used my implant to tell MILLIE what we wanted and she took care of it."
"I see." Sir George's eyes focused on nothing for a moment--
Bonner grinned. "Try again. Use your last name for the key."
"Ah. Thank you."
"You're welcome. I've given you a visiting VIP access clearance. Mac, have they made any progress on swinging an implant for you?"
"Think the city's got an extra million bucks?" Stevens asked. "Hell, we haven't got an extra five hours' overtime for a sanitary engineer." Stevens eyed Sir George warily. "I hadn't known you were one of the elite."
Reedy looked sympathetically at Stevens. "Don't rate it, actually. Family helped PSYCHIC LTD. once and they paid off with this." He paused, searching for words. "Very useful gadget, but you know, you can communicate with a computer about as well with a good briefcase console."
Reedy and Bonner looked knowingly at each other. It was a look that left MacLean Stevens out. It was the look that sighted men might give each other in the presence of the blind.
"Well, what would you like to see, Sir George?" Bonner asked. "As you've gathered, we're rather proud of Todos Santos. I have us scheduled for dinner a bit early, 1900, but we've plenty of time before then. Oh, and Mr. Rand, our Chief Engineer, will be joining us."
"Will we be eating in the Commons?" Stevens asked.
"I thought Schramm's. Best Hungarian food in the country."
"Hell, Mac, I
'm not trying to hide anything," Bonner said. He grinned. "There's nothing alcoholic to drink there, and the food's nothing special in Commons, but there's plenty of it. Shall I cancel out Schramm's?"
"Commons by all means," Reedy said. It was obvious to him that Stevens thought he had scored a point in some complex game.
There was an awkward silence, and Sir George said into it, "As you know, we're thinking of building units like this one. We must construct the housing at any event, and the Government is wondering if we should not do it rationally as you have. There are a quarter of a million people here, as I understand."
"About that," Bonner said. "MILLIE could tell you. But we ought to let Mac listen in, and we can't." He looked thoughtful for an instant, and words flowed on the wall screen.