Before long, the fifth-floor manager approached Wanda, wearing nose plugs, and said, “I really must insist that you leave.” Behind him stood three uniformed jerrys. “These gents will see you to the door.”
“Fine,” Wanda said, “I was just leaving.” She touched the simcaster to her forehead and squeezed the scan button. The moment its field penetrated her skull and combed through the tangled skein of neurons within, her cellular wardens went critical. Smoke seeped from her nose and ears, and she fell back into the silky embrace of the sofa. Her skull split open with several resounding cracks, and gouts of cooking brains spewed forth. Then she burst into flame.
It was a bonfire seen around the world.
Samson eased his grip on the banister and continued down to the sixth-floor landing. Hubert said, “Your blood sugar is low, Sam, and you are dehydrated. You should drink something and have a bite of Gooeyduk.”
But Samson had built up an impressive momentum, his old knees click-clacking like a metronome down the steps, and he didn’t stop until the fifth-floor landing where Hubert warned him that two housemeets—Francis and Barry—were on their way up. So Samson ducked into the hallway to wait for them to go by. He was standing across from Kitty’s bedroom, and when he looked at her door, he remembered that he’d intended to come here all along.
“Are Kitty and Denny at the park yet?”
“Yes, Sam. She’s into her second set.”
Samson entered Kitty’s room. It was in shambles, as usual. Her busking outfits were piled on the floor and bed and draped over the room’s two chairs. A tower of soiled house togs and dirty dishes leaned against the wall behind the door. Dust, spills, clutter—Kitty worked hard at her twelve-year-old persona. The tiers of shelves covering all four walls were lined with dolls and plush animals. Some of them, those he’d bought for her as gifts, peeped greetings to him.
Yet, no matter how hard Kitty pursued her childishness, she couldn’t hide all the evidence of her underlying maturity: the carousels of shoes under the bed; the carefully pruned allfruit tree under a light hood, its branches heavy with tiny assorted fruit; the workstation and its datapin collection on such practical topics as micromine waste sites and chartist torts; and an extensive library on microhab landscape engineering. Kitty Kodiak had pursued several careers in her long life before discovering her true vocation as a child.
Samson opened the wardrobe and shifted a stack of linen to reveal a squat, ceramic, four-liter canister. “Hello, guy,” he said.
“It’s almost noon,” Hubert replied through the canister speaker. “What are we doing still in the house?”
Samson pulled a chair to the wardrobe and sat. “There are things to discuss.”
“Can’t we discuss them en route?”
“Better face-to-face.”
“In that case,” Hubert said, “let me summarize what I already know in order to save us time.
“First, your body is no longer viable. When it dies, so does your personality.
“Second, all of your worldly goods pass to Charter Kodiak, including your sponsorship of me—if I agree.
“Third, if I don’t agree, I am free to seek another sponsor on my own.
“What else do you wish to say, Sam?”
Samson cleared his throat. Now that the time for this little chat had come, he found it much more difficult than he had imagined. “That’s good, Hubert. I don’t know if I told you those things, or if you puzzled them out by yourself, but I’m glad you’ve been thinking about them.”
“Really, Sam, they are self-evident.”
“Yes, I suppose they are. And there are two more points we must consider. First, although you’ve assured me otherwise, today’s action might lead the HomCom to you. If that happens, I want you to surrender yourself peacefully. Understood?”
“Yes, Sam, though your fears are unfounded. I’ve hired a very reliable wedge. All will go as planned.”
Samson shook his head. Hubert was young and should probably be forgiven his overconfidence. “Second,” he continued, “let’s assume you are not arrested, and you choose to stay with the Kodiaks. The truth of the matter is that they can’t afford to keep you.”
“What’s to afford?” said Hubert. “There are no liens against my medium; I’ll sail through probate free and clear.”
“That’s not the point, little friend. Haven’t you noticed all the large house expenses lately? Denny’s treatment, the wind ram replacement, the court costs. Kitty’s and Bogdan’s rejuvenation. Where did the credit for all that come from?”
“I don’t know, Sam. The houseputer doesn’t list any loans or asset sales. Are you saying the charter has some off-the-books source of income?”
Samson fished a towelette from a pocket and tore it open. He draped it over his steamy bald head. “I’m saying it must have come from somewhere. I’ve been carrying this house for years, but my private resources—as you keep telling me—have all but dried up. When I go—the charter won’t inherit enough from my estate to pay its property taxes, let alone their deferred body maintenance. No, I’d say Kale and Gerald have embarked on some foolish course to dig the charter out of its financial hole, something that even April is too ashamed to tell me about.”
“I fail to see how that relates to keeping me.”
Samson leaned toward the wardrobe to lay his hand on Hubert’s ceramic canister. “I bought only the finest paste for you, back when I still had gobs of credit, didn’t I, Skippy?”
Hubert was perplexed by the use of his valet name. “Yes, Grade A virgin General Genius Neuro-chemical Triencephalin. But I’m a mentar now, with sentient rights. Under UD law, my paste belongs to me, not to you or the charter.”
“A total of four liters, if I recall,” Samson continued.
“Forty-three deciliters.”
“And how much would forty-three deciliters of GG paste bring on the recycling market?”
At last Hubert was able to connect the dots. “You think our family is capable of senticide?”
“Desperate times, desperate solutions.”
“I see. What do you suggest I do, Sam?”
Samson sat up straight and searched his many pockets for a bar of Gooeyduk. “I suggest you try to make yourself indispensable to the house, Hubert. Why, for instance, haven’t you repaired the houseputer yet?”
“Because it’s beyond repair, Sam. It needs total replacement.”
“In that case, stand in for it.”
“You want me to become a houseputer?”
“Yes, if that’s what it takes. And why aren’t you out there selling your excess capacity on the distributive market? Why aren’t you bringing in more income?”
“But I am. I earn more for this house than the rest of them combined.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s never enough for you, Sam. I’m not Henry, therefore, I will never be enough for you.”
Samson opened the Gooeyduk and bit off a corner. He chewed slowly before continuing. “I also suggest you redouble your efforts to find a new sponsor for yourself. Start immediately, and don’t be so goddam picky.” He leaned forward and began searching his pockets again. Where was it? Did he leave it in the garden shed? He didn’t think he had the strength to climb back up for it. But no, here it was—his pocket simcaster. He relaxed and leaned back in the chair. “Sorry for the hard words, Hubert, but they needed saying.”
“I understand.”
“So, now, tell me how my Kitty’s doing?”
“Millennium Park is busy today because of the canopy holiday,” Hubert said. “That and the fine weather. But despite the foot traffic, her morning’s proceeds are under par. At her current rate, she will not recoup expenses.”
“Show me.”
An income projection graph appeared before Samson, but he said, “No, show me Kitty.”