—” “Maybe they've become aware of the black market in tapes lately, that's the word on the street in fact, and so they're trying to send a little message. They don't like us ogling their apartments, even vicariously.” “You can't ogle vicariously, I think. Sounds wrong. Anyway, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever—” “Or maybe I'm in on it, maybe I'm the killer, have you considered that?” “Now you're making fun of me.” “Why? If you can solve crimes on the other side of the barrier why can't I commit them?” The dealer laughed, hyena-like. “Now seriously,” he continued, “if you want to exchange for one without a murder I'll give you a credit toward the next, half what you paid—” “No thanks. I'll hold on to it.” Discouraged, hungry, but he couldn't really bother being angry. What help did he expect from the dealer anyway? This was a larger matter, above the head of a mere middleman. “Good luck, Sherlock,” the dealer was saying. “Spread word freely, by the way, don't hold back. Can't hurt my sales any. People like murder, only it might be good if there was skin instead of only shadow, a tit say.” “Yes, very good then, appreciate your help. Carry on.” The dealer saluted. He saluted back, started off through the traffic, stomach growling, ignoring it, intent. A killer was at large. Weaving past kids terrorizing an entire block of cars with an elaborate tag game, cornering around the newly washed neighborhood now wringing itself out, muddy streams between the cars and crying babies ignoring vendors with items he couldn't afford and a flatbed farmer offering live kittens for pets or food and a pathetic miniature start-up, three cars idiotically nosing rocking jerking back and forth trying to rearrange themselves pointlessly, one of them now sideways wheels on the curb and nobody else even taking the bait he made his way back to his car and key in the lock noticed the girl from the Pacer standing in her red dress on the hood of the car gazing skyward, waiting for the Advertising people to take her away. Looking just incidentally like a million bucks. Her kid brother was away, maybe part of the gang playing tag, and her parents were inside the car doing housework Dad scraping the grill out the window Mom airing clothes repacking bundles so he went over, suddenly inspired. “Margaret, isn't it?” She nodded, smiled. “Yes, good, well you remember me from next door, I'm looking for a day or two's work and do you think they'll take me along?” She said, “You never know, they just take you or they don't.” Smiling graciously even if a little confused, neighbors so long and they'd never spoken. “But you always—” he began pointing out. She said, “Oh once they've started taking you then—” Awkwardly, they were both awkward for a moment not saying what they both knew or at least he did, that she was an attractive young girl and likely that made a huge difference in whether they wanted you. “Well you wouldn't mind if I tried?” he said and she said, “No, no,” relieved almost, then added, “I can point you out, I can suggest to them—” Now he was embarrassed and said hurriedly, “That's so good of you, thanks, and where should I wait, not here with you at your folks' car, I guess—” “Why not, climb up.” Dad looked out the door up at them and she waved him off. “It's okay, you know him from next door he's going to work, we're going to try to get him a job Advertising.” “Okay, sweetheart, just checking on you.” Then she grabbed his arm, said, “Look.” The Advertising hovercraft she'd been watching for landed on the curb a half block ahead, near the giant hideous sculpture at an office building main entrance, lately sealed. Dad said, “Get going you guys, and good luck,” and she said, “C'mon.” Such neighborliness was a surprise since he'd always felt shut out by the family in the Pacer but obviously it was in his head. And Margaret, a cloud of good feeling seemed to cover her. No wonder they wanted her for Advertising. “Hurry,” she said and took his hand and they hopped down and pushed their way around the cars and through the chaos of children and barking dogs and vendors trying to work the crowd of wannabes these landings always provoked, to join the confused throng at the entrance. He held on to his satchel with the video and his socks making sure it didn't get picked in this crowd. She bounced there trying to make herself visible until one of the two robots at the door noticed her and pointed. They stepped up. “Inside,” said the robot. They were ugly little robots with their braincases undisguised and terrible attitudes. He disliked them instantly. “I brought someone new,” she said, pulling him by the hand, thrusting him into view. “Yes, sir, I'd like to enlist—” he started, grinning madly, wanting to make a good impression. The robot looked him over and made its rapid-fire assessment, nodded. “Get inside,” it said. “Lucky,” she whispered, and they stepped into the hovercraft. Four others were there, two men, two women, all young. And another woman stumbled in behind them, and the door sealed, and they were off. Nasty little robots scurrying into the cockpit, making things ready. “Now what?” he said and she put her finger to her lips and shushed him, but sweetly, leaning into him as if to say they were in this together. He wanted to tell her what he was after but the robots might hear. Would they care? Yes, no, he couldn't know. Such ugly, fascistic little robots. Nazi robots, that's what they were. He hated placing himself in their hands. But once he was Advertising he would be through the barrier, he'd be able to investigate. Probably he should keep his assignment to himself, though. He didn't want to get her into trouble. The hovercraft shuddered, groaned, then lifted and through the window he could see the cars growing smaller, his neighborhood, his life, the way the traffic was so bad for hundreds of miles of street and why did he think a start-up would change anything? Was there a place where cars really drove anymore? Well, anyway. The robots were coming around with the Advertising Patches and everyone leaned their heads forward obediently, no first-timers like himself apparently. He did the same. A robot fastened a patch behind his right ear, a moment of stinging skin, nothing more. Hard to believe the patch was enough to interfere with the function of the One-Way Permeable Barrier, that he would now be vivid and tangible and effective to those on the other side. “I don't feel any different,” he whispered. “You won't,” she said, “not until there's people. Then you'll be compelled to Advertise. You won't be able to help it.” “For what, though?” “You never know, coffee, diamonds, condoms, vacations, you just never know.” “Where—” “They'll drop us off at the Undermall, then we're on our own.” “Will we be able to stick together?” The question was out before he could wonder if it was presuming too much, but she said, “Sure, as long as our products aren't too incompatible, but we'll know soon. Anyway, just follow me.” She really had a warmth, a glow. Incompatible products? Well, he'd find out what that meant. The hovercraft bumped down on the roof of a building, and with grim efficiency the ugly Nazi robots had the door open and were marching the conscripts out to a rooftop elevator. He wanted to reach out and smack their little exposed-braincase heads together. But he had to keep his cool, stay undercover. He trotted across the roof toward the elevator after her, between the rows of officious gesticulating robots, like they were going to a concentration camp. The last robot at the door of the elevator handed them each an envelope before they stepped in. He took his and moved into the corner with Margaret, they were really packing them in but he couldn't complain actually being jostled with her and she didn't seem to be trying to avoid it. He poked into the envelope. It was full of bills, singles mostly. The money was tattered and filthy, bills that had been taken out of circulation on the other side of the barrier. Garbage money, that's what it was. The others had already pocketed theirs, business as usual apparently. “Why do they pay us now?” he whispered. She said, “We just find our way out at the end, when the patch runs out, so this way they don't have to deal with us again,” and he said, “What if we just took off with the money?” “You could I guess, but I've never seen anyone do it since you'd never get to come back and anyway the patch makes you really want to Advertise, you'll see.” Her voice was reassuring, like she really wanted him not to worry and he felt rotten not telling her about his investigation, his agenda. He put the envelope into his satchel with tape and socks. The elevator sealed and whooshed them down through the building, into the Undermall, then the doors opened and they unpacked from the elevator, spewed out into a gigantic lobby, all glass and polished steel with music playing softly and escalators going down and up in every direction, escalators with steps of burnished wood that looked good enough to eat, looked like roast chicken. He was still so hungry. Margaret took his hand again. “Let's go,” she said. As the others dispersed she led him toward one of the escalators and they descended. The corridor below branched to shops with recessed entrances, windows dark and smoky, quiet pulsing music fading from each door, also food smells here and there causing his saliva to flow, and holographic signs angling into view as they passed: FERN SLAW, ROETHKE AND SONS, HOLLOW APPEAL, BROKEN SMUDGED ALPHABET, BURGER KING, PLASTIC DEVILS, OSTRICH LAKE, SMARTINGALE'S, RED HARVEST, CATCH OF THE DAY, MUTUAL OF FOMALHAUT, THNEEDS, etcetera. She led him on, confidently, obviously at home. Why not, this was what she did with her days. Then without warning, a couple appeared from around a corner, and he felt himself begin to Advertise. “How do you do today?” he said, sidling up to the gentleman of the couple, even as he saw Margaret begin to do the same thing to the lady. The gentleman nodded at him, walked on. But met his eye. He was tangible, he could be heard. It was a shock. “Thirsty?” he heard himself say. “How long's it been since you had a nice refreshing beer?” “Don't like beer,” said the gentleman. “Can't say why, just never have.” “Then you've obviously never tried a Very Old Money Lager,” he heard himself say, still astonished. The barrier was pierced and he was conversing, he was perceptible. He'd be able to conduct interrogations, be able to search out clues. Meanwhile he heard Margaret saying, “Don't demean your signature with a second-rate writing implement. Once you've tried the Eiger fountain pen you'll never want to go back to those henlike scratchings and scrawlings,” and the woman seemed interested and so Margaret went on “our Empyrean Sterling Silver Collection features one-of-a-kind hand-etched casings—” In fact the man seemed captivated too. He turned ignoring the beer pitch and gave Margaret his attention. “Our brewers handpick the hops and malt,” he was unable to stop though he'd obviously lost his mark, “and every single batch of fire-brewed Very Old Money Lager is individually tasted—” Following the couple through the corridor they bumped into another Advertising woman who'd been on the hovercraft, and she began singing, “Vis-it the