Unfortunately, as soon as I merged, the new lane came to a stop, and I had to sit there while the others passed by. The robogoose was airborne, and as it flew by it imitated an obscene gesture with a wing tip and laughed.
Pushing the interior volume as far as it would go, I was surrounded in an insulating hush like wind coursing through massive stone turrets, vast subterranean ocean flows, or a spiral galaxy blasting through the perfect and silent vacuum of space.
I rubbed my eyes for a second and wondered what was beneath Vada's cloth. Was she as badly injured and disfigured as I had imagined, or was the fabric just to cloak her identity and escape? That Vada had somehow sneaked through the catacombs of the building between walls and floors, through ductwork and forgotten spaces, and then retreated through a floorboard, did not surprise or intrigue me as much as her choice of material.
Traffic was still crawling. I dialed Pheff. "Put that basketweave under the magnitron and tell me if the yarn's labeled-"
"Tailor," he cried, "you're back!"
"I'm not even on the ramp to the Loop yet."
"Cut it off! You're joking!"
"City traffic is its usual dreadful." Since I figured he'd already forgotten my request I repeated it. "See if the basketweave is labeled."
"Listen," he said, "I just got a call. The delivery vessel will be late."
When he didn't elaborate, I asked, "When is late?"
"It won't be here for another hour! That means it's not going to get there on time. That means someone is going to have to apologize. That I can't do!"
"The first week my original shop was open," I said, as I nudged the car forward, "I didn't sleep for a week. And when I delivered my first suit, my hands shook. I kept expecting the sleeves to fall off or the buttons to explode. And you know what actually happened?" He didn't respond, but I knew he was listening. "I had used an incompatible interfacing in the collar. The stuff began to combust and when the man put it on, it scorched his neck and shoulders. Had he not attacked me and broken my collar bone, he would have probably won his lawsuit, and I would not be here."
"Cut it!" he said with a nervous laugh. "What'd you use?"
"Fuse-i-Lok D6… industrial base." He laughed harder. "You'll be fine," I concluded. "What about the basketweave?"
"Um… nothing. No label."
Almost all yarn had identifying manufacturing marks. That limited this fabric's origins. "Thank you," I said. "I'll call when I'm on the Loop."
Lost in the hypnotic crawl of the traffic, I thought back to my first days, weeks, months in Seattlehama. Back then the city was growing rapidly. New buildings were being erected every few weeks. They built them on the ground and raised them floor-by-floor.
The whole plan for the city had been the brainchild of a textile engineer who figured out how to spin microscopic metal strands into a kind of yarn that was amazingly strong. Enormous buildings could be woven into the sky at high speed, much like a length-wise or warp-knit tricot loom.
My lane moved forward, and I came up on robogoose again. He spied my Chang, turned and offered the single black dot of his hind end. I thought about stepping on the accelerator, bumping the Haier-Sapporo hard enough to knock the birdbot onto the pavement, but my lane was still moving, and that was what mattered.
I passed him and had a thought: flying and landing. A chill ran down my neck, but I couldn't make the connection.
We continued about a hundred yards ahead before coming to another stop. Foot against the brake pedal, I closed my eyes and an image came to me:
I was looking down at the road and the tops of the cars from a hundred feet in the air, peering through the white gaze of a chiffon window. Above me, stitched to the top edge of the cloth wall, was a large, hydrogen-filled batiste balloon. I couldn't see it, except for a slight curve of its blue-gray flank, but more sensed its shape and buoyancy. Below my feet was a dark and textured fabric floor. Stooping, I touched it, and knew instantly what it was.
I heard a voice behind me. It wasn't words or speech, but a long vocalization-a cry of pain. When I turned from the chiffon window and the view of the road and the cars below, the interior of the airship was too dark to see, but I stepped forward, my hands outstretched, and thought I felt something, but whether it was a cloth wall, a pile of fabric, or just my imagination, I couldn't tell. Beneath my bare feet, I stroked the gridlike pattern of the basketweave.
I woke back in my car. A wagon pulled in front of me and then a long, white limo did the same. Other vehicles streamed around me. The purple-and-beige-check Haier-Sapporo was long gone and so was the robogoose. The sound I had thought was Vada's voice was actually the distant wail of several horns behind me. I pushed the accelerator and the vision slipped behind me.
SEATTLEHAMA: THE PURPLE AND GOLD ROCOCO ENTERVATOR
The last yarn rip Withor wanted me to do wasn't from the split trundle skirt of some giant Seattlehama celeb, or even a sample from some obscure black and white kalamkari for a designer's mega-creation. Instead it was from an unnamed woman who was going to be in a certain obscure hallway at a certain moment. The only feature I had to identify her was the cloth of her suit: drap-de-Berry, a heavy woolen twill. The details were something of a letdown, but I was just thrilled that it was to be my last, and spent most of the day dreaming about what I might do next.
And as the hour approached, I ate a light meal, bought myself a new navy serge suit and trimmings in the Full-Fashion Hallway
403. The saleswarrior dressed in nothing but gemstones and a belt skirt. "Before my vocal cords are severed tonight," she whispered, "I want you to hear my last words, my last whispers, and smell the smoke of my moans."
I was more surprised that she had finally spoken to me than what she had said. By then I had heard lines like these-warTalk, it was called-from other saleswarriors.
"The fumes of our destiny are salt, acid, and semen." Her eyes, like those of most other warriors, were large, beautiful, but empty.
"I'm busy," I said, shaking my head. "Sorry."
The Full-Fashion Hallway was just five floors above Withor's office in the color building. The rip was to take place on floor 881 in the Parfum Spaceship. All the buildings had wide sets of showstairs, filled with performers, singers, organ jugglers, fortune advisors, and massagers. They also had internal elevators, but the way to get around, the real way to get from floor to floor and building to building, was one of Seattlehama's most famous attractions: the entervator.
Between the buildings hundreds of cables, leads, wires, lines, and supports connected the city. Shuttling travelers along this cacophony of greased links were tiny theaters featuring dial bands, howlers, peek shows, voice wrestlers, tongue cappers, cat-walkers, cheeps, and push shows.
When I first traveled on these odd ships to yarn-rip assignments on the high floors, I found them alien and tedious. In one a band of five men wearing chartreuse crinoline screamed in unison. In another females stabbed each other with satin pins and sewing needles. In another a woman punched herself as she sang about being a cat. But on the way to my last yarn rip, I happened to take the Europa Showhouse. The interior was decorated in purple with gold ornate accents, and the air smelled of smoke and pollen. Once the ship started up, a man in a large red suit and red top hat came on the stage.
"I now present to you, graceful shoppers and consumers, the star of the Europa Showhouse-the only fully invented Baroque-style entervator serving the south and west side-the lovely, the talented, the erotic, the mysterious, the genetically patented Vada!"
The crowd cheered and hollered. The woman on my left removed the chrome gag from her mouth and screamed. "I love you, you treasonous whore!" From the point on the chrome plug came a viscous stream of saliva that dripped like spider's silk onto the purple carpet.
Although I had never seen a doll before, in retrospect that's what Vada looked like. Two large circles of rouge dotted her cheeks. Atop her head, her luminous auburn hair was wound into a pile and ornamented with tiny birds, ba
ubles, and golden rickrack. Her burgundy dress was part corset, part gown, and part giant insect shell. She wore the most fantastic and elaborate pair of deep-red boots I had seen, glazed with glowing beads of various shapes and luminosity. The pointed toes curled up and around. And the heels were made of what looked like little machines, with spinning gears, pistons, and exhaust pipes that puffed tiny, pearly beads of smoke.
And unlike most of the faultless saleswarriors and their beautiful and plasticott faces, Vada was obviously in her middle years with a few wrinkles on her neck and an appealing laxity in her face and body. She seemed real and alive.
As I watched her sing a ballad, read someone's fortune, and strip down to her red pellicule underwear, I was mesmerized.
SEATTLEHAMA: DEATH IN THE PARFUM SPACESHIP
From the 888 entervator port in the Parfum Spaceship, I soon found the quiet hallway of my assignment for my last yarn rip. I was early, so I headed to an empty enterjohn beside the Fat White Ninja Chocolate Finger Dipper Bistro, closed and bolted the door, and undid my slacks.
As I shucked myself to climax into the bowl, the blue knitterkritter frog that hopped around inside the enterjohn glared at me.
"Hey, sh-hopper!" it said. "This porcelain pooper is for select evacuations. Here in Seattlehama, if you want that kind of fun, go to Teensy Town Tea and Pillow Room on 621 or Mr. Matto's Hanky Parlor on 622. Be sure to mention me, EnterJohn Frog the Seattlehama Sh-Hopper, for a ten percent discount on your first visit!" His speech doubled in speed. "This offer may not be combined with any other and is time limited for twenty-three hours and forty-three minutes starting now. It is not redeemable for credit, and the terms and conditions of this offer may change at any time. SO 94-B."
After splashing myself with water, I hurried out guiltily. For the next quarter hour I paced the hallway anxiously, trying to convince myself that there wasn't anything wrong with me, that my root wasn't rotting, and that the frog wasn't going to report me to the authorities.
The stores here were filled with electro-logo t-shirts with celebs' faces, the towers, and all manner of logos. There were plush dolls of characters and critters. I saw miniatures of the city made out of every conceivable material: wood, metal, meat, light, and ice. In one store was a selection of carved mini-entervators with suspension wire kits. I stopped for a moment. The most famous entervators were all there: The Ring Bell, SkyPod, The Infinite Puddle, but I didn't see the Europa Showhouse. I thought of Vada and my root started to stiffen again. I thought about finding another enterjohn-one without an annoying knitter-kritter, but by now it was almost time for the rip.
The place Withor had described was an intersection of plain hallways where the lights were dim and clumps of dust littered the floor. The cloth was supposed to head toward the main shopway, so I waited around the corner. Soon hard-soled footsteps approached. A man in a bright yellow suit came around the corner. He was watching a screen in his hand and didn't even see me as he passed. I relaxed, but a moment later I heard several small grunts, a muffled scream, and the pas de deux of footwork.
A woman in a mahogany drap-de-Berry suit stumbled from the doorway on the right. She slammed into the opposite wall, fell to the floor, and let out a raw cry. An instant later she was silent, but her body twitched like a dead spider.
I started toward her to help, but a hazy shimmer appeared in the air between us. I heard hard breathing. The shape bent over the drap-de-Berry woman and pulled a rough heather scarf from around the woman's neck. I guessed that the scarf was being tucked into an invisible pocket, but it looked like the material was pushed into another dimension.
I moved to back away, and the hazy figure came at me. I was shoved backward and might have been knocked to the floor, but I grabbed onto the shimmer with my yarn pulls and stayed afoot.
I waited, ready to defend myself, but saw and heard nothing. Seconds passed and then I heard footsteps quickly disappear down the hallway. It was gone.
Drap-de-Berry had come to rest with her face toward the wall, but when I stepped over her, I was surprised to find her eyes and mouth wide open. She looked like she was frozen in screaming pain, and even as I touched her neck to feel for a pulse, I knew something terrible had just happened.
Turning, I ran before it happened to me.
A LOOP NEAR-DISASTER
Once I had turned off Route 6002 into the verification port and my Chang-P had been sniffed, I steered it toward the Loop access ramp, engaged all of the forward motors, and primed the accelimeter, and put the steering on lock, requesting a lane course to Nug Yar on the East Coast, where Ark Textiles and the jobber Ryder was located. A route came back instantly and as the car accelerated to 4.3, pushing me far into the upholstery of my seat, I finally felt my frustration lift. I would be in Nug in twenty-one minutes and eight seconds, and while it would probably take me twice as long to get to the address and find suitable parking, at least I was moving. Although I had said I would call Pheff, I did not. He would be busy with the preparations by now and the frenzy of last minute hemming, pinning, steaming, ironing, and folding would be adequate distraction from his anxiety. If he needed anything, he would be sure to check my status, see the blip of my existence reassuringly simmering along the red line of the Loop. Once the car had reached final speed and the g-forces had released me, I selected a sample book of Probiotic Plurex Maxi-Gabardines from the shelf on my door. I idly fingered the squares as a blind man might read a magazine. For the past ten years, my work had consumed me. Tailoring clothes for the richest and most famous men in the world had become my life, my calling, and my identity. But it was a lonely existence. My friends-mostly associates-were limited to those in the business, clients, and my assistant Pheff. Vada's visit reminded me of all those before, the phalanx of people I had met on my journey, those I had known, those I had loved, those who died beside me, those who had tried to kill me, the few I killed.
Tossing the fabric samples aside, I turned on the driver's mirror and looked at myself. A wrinkle, which dipped slightly above my nose, scored my forehead. My eyebrows had recently begun to wane. The left, especially, seemed to have thinned from the depth of its youth. On my chin, I touched the single black hair that grew there, tugged at it, and pulled a tiny spike of skin taut. If I tugged another quarter of an inch, I would yank it out and a bead of blood would grow in its place.
Did I feel like a fake? I was indeed a successful and desired tailor. I had taught myself everything from yarn composition, fiber texturizing, backing, weaving and de-weaving, stitching, tailoring, pressing, and all the hundreds of skills I employed with unconscious dexterity. But somewhere else in me, beyond the polished palladium suit racks, the black nano-velvet shirt boxes, the walrus ivory collar stays, the rhino-leather soled shoes, I had never left the cornfields of my youth-still struggling to help the crop, honor M-Bunny, and be loyal to my reps.
The clan I once belonged to had grown stronger and larger. The slubs of my childhood had stretched from Wiskon to Seattlehama, but now reached even farther, pressing north and south. M-Bunny men even worked the land in Antarctica. And while M-Bunny once existed as parts of a larger patchwork with the soy, potato, and truck clans, now it had become a near monoculture up and down the continent.
The hormones previously sprayed onto our B-shirts and shorts were an abandoned practice and so, too, was the gentleness with which we treated one another. Gone was the reverence for corn above all. And instead of the strange loyalty-based mating system, women were allowed in special reproductive zones. The life I knew had vanished.
Despite the hardships-and there were many-my early years had been filled with blissful delusion. I believed that M-Bunny was going to save the world, that our subservience to the crop, our worshipping and genuflection before the ears, was making a difference-and that those greedy and selfish creatures who lived in the towers were ruining everything.
And then, when I was seventeen, I had an insight that changed everything. I realized just how awful M-Bunny's shirts
were. Back then they were made of a stiff and scratchy non-woven corn fiber. They went "on sale" twice a year after the spring and fall harvests. It was one per man, which meant we wore the things for six months. We didn't care. We didn't know better. Besides, we were making a sacrifice; we were saving the planet.
I, like many, developed a rash from the front of the neck hole. Our armpits grew sore where the stiff fabric bunched up, and for those who had put on weight, the things didn't stretch gracefully over the belly, but tore in long frayed lines.
One night, I took off my B-shirt and laid it flat on the floor. The neck hole was cut at the top and the sleeves stuck out at ninety degrees, but as I studied my body and the structure of others, I understood that it didn't match. Our necks didn't come straight up out of the top of our shoulders, but angled forward. And, of course, our arms didn't stick straight out but hung at our sides.
In the beginning I was confused. I asked my rep why M-Bunny's shirts didn't fit.
"We don't ask questions," I was told.
I came to understand that M-Bunny's shirts weren't made for us. They were stamped out of the material without regard to our bodies and our movements. It was wrong. Worse, it seemed easy to fix. And when I told my rep, he forbade me from talking about B-shirts again.
"Another word, and you'll be recycled!"
I felt betrayed! And worse, it meant that if M-Bunny wasn't right about B-shirts, she might not be right about anything.
For weeks I tried not to think about it. I didn't speak to my rep or tell any of the men. I told myself it was my own problem, that I didn't understand something larger. And then, one evening when I had tugged the front of my shirt from the sore spot on my Adam's apple for the millionth time, I headed out into the dim of the cornfield outside the house. Using a bit of wire and some corn silk, I tacked down the front of the neck hole so that it fit. The difference was so wonderful and freeing, I spent the next several days giggling.
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