The sun passed behind a broad cubical comb in New Jersey and lights flashed on, pouring golden illumination through the gentle drizzle.
Advertising images leaped from walls, a flood of insistent icons that meant little to me. Spot marketing had been turned into a perfected science. Consumers were paid to carry transponders which communicated their interests to adwalls. The adwalls showed them only what they might want to purchase: products, proprietary LitVids, new sims, live event schedules. Being a consumer had become a traditional means of gainful employment; some New Yorkers floated careers allowing themselves to be subjected to ads, switching personal IDs as they traveled to different parts of the city, trading purchase credits earned by ad exposure for more ad income.
Lacking a transponder, all I saw were the icons, projected corporate symbols floating above my head like strange hovering insects.
According to what I had been taught in govmanagement at UM, Earth’s economic systems had become so complicated by the twenty-first century that only thinkers could model them. And as thinkers grew more complicated, economic patterns increased in complexity as well, until all was delicately balanced on less than the head of a pin.
No wonder cultural psychology could play a key role in economic stability.
“Casseia!” Orianna stood on a low wall, peering over the crowds. We hugged at the edge of the walkway. “It’s great to see you. How was the trip?”
I laughed and shook my head, drunk with what I had seen. “I feel like a — ”
“Fish out of water?” Orianna said, grinning.
“More like a bird drowning!”
She laughed. “ Calcutta would kill you!”
“Let’s not go there,” I said.
“Where we’re going, my dear, is a quiet place my Mom owns up on East 64th, in an historic neighborhood. A bunch of friends want to meet you.”
“I only have a few days…”
“Simplicity! This is so exciting! You’re even in the Lit-Vids, did you know that?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
We took an autocab and she projected the news stories from her slate. She had hooked an Earthwide ex net and scanned for all material related to our visit. The faces of Bithras, Allen and myself floated like little doll heads in the autocab. Condensed texts and icons flashed at reduced speed for my unaccustomed eyes. I picked up about two-thirds of what was being said. GEWA and GSHA had linked with Eurocom to propose a world-wide approach to what was being called the Martian Question: Martian reluctance or inability to join the Push.
“You’re being pre-jammed,” Orianna said cheerfully.
I was horrified.
The sidebars detailed our personal histories and portrayed us as the best Martian diplomacy had to offer; the last seemed ironic, but I really couldn’t fathom the spin.
“You’re famous, dear,” Orianna said. “A frontier girl. Little House on the Planum. They love it!”
I was less interested in what was being said about me than in the backslate details. GEWA, leading the other alliances, would start negotiating with Mars after completion of what the US government was characterizing as “polite dialogues” with members of the standing Congressional committee.
I had a role to play. True shock would only grace my performance. “It’s terrible,” I said, frowning deeply. “Completely rude and impolite. I’d never expect it from Earth.”
“Oh, do!” Orianna said, creasing her brow in sympathy. The cab stopped before a stone and steel eight-story building with dazzling crystal-paned glass doors. The first-floor door popped open with a sigh and she danced ahead of me through crowds flowing along the walkway. “By the time my friends and I are done with you, you’ll expect anything.”
“We don’t stay here often,” Orianna said, emerging from the elevator. Her long legs carried her down the hall like an eager colt. She slowed only to allow me to catch up with her. “Mother’s given us the space here for a few days. My hab is just like the one in Paris . I’ve kept it since I was a kid.”
The door to apartment 43 looked tame enough — paneled wood with brass numbers. Orianna palmed entry and the door swung inward. “We have a guest,” she called. Beyond stretched a round gray tunnel with a white strip of walkway. The tunnel ballooned around us, unshaped.
“Welcome home. What can we do for you, Orianna?” a soft masculine voice asked.
“Fancy conservative decor — for our guest — and tell Shrug and Kite to rise and meet my friend.”
The tunnel quickly shaped a cream-colored decor with gold details, a rosewood armoire opening its doors to accept my coat and Orianna’s shoulder wrap. “English Regency,” Orianna said. “Kite’s idea of conservatism.”
Shrug, Kite — it all sounded very drive. I wondered if I would regret coming.
“Don’t stick on the names,” Orianna said, shaping the living room into more Regency. “All my friends are into Vernoring. They work and play with fake names. I don’t know their true ones. Not even their parents know.”
“Why?”
“It’s a game. Two rules — nobody knows what you’re doing, and you do nothing illegal.”
“Doesn’t that take the fun out of doing crypto?” I asked.
“Wow — crypto! Hide in the tomb. Sorry. I shy from two-edged words. We call it Vernoring.”
“Doesn’t it?” I persisted.
“No,” Orianna said thoughtfully. “Illegal is harm. Harm is stupid. Stupid is its own game, and none of my friends play it. Here’s Kite.”
Kite came through a double door dressed in faded denim shirt and pants. He stood two meters high, minus a few centimeters, and carried a green-and-white mottled sun kitten.
Orianna introduced us. Kite smiled and performed a shallow bow, then offered his free hand. He seemed natural enough — handsome but not excessively so, manner a little shy. He squatted cross-legged on the oriental carpet and the sun kitten played within a Persian garden design. A light switched on overhead and bathed the animal in a spot of brightness. It mewed appreciatively and stretched on its back.
“We’re going out tonight,” Orianna said. “Where is Shrug?”
“Asleep, I think. He’s spent the last three days working a commission.”
“Well, wake him up!”
“You do it,” Kite said.
“Pleasure’s mine.” Orianna leaped from the chair and returned to the hall. We heard her banging on doors.
“She could just buzz him,” Kite said ruefully, shaking his head. “She pretends she’s a storm, sometimes.”
I murmured assent.
“But she’s really sweet. You must know that.”
“I like her a lot,” I said.
“She’s an only and that makes a difference,” Kite added. “I have a brother and sister. You?”
“A brother,” I said. “And lots of blood relations.”
Kite smiled. The smile rendered his face transcendentally beautiful. I blinked and looked away.
“Is it rough, having everyone vid you?”
“I’m getting tired of it.”
“You know, you should watch whom you touch… Shake hands with. That sort of thing. Some of the LitVids are casual about privacy. They could plant watchers on you.” He held up pinched fingers and peered through a tiny gap. “Some are micro. Hide anywhere.”
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“If you haven’t filed for privacy rights, they could argue you’re common-law open. Then you’d only be protected in surveillance negative areas. The watchers would turn off… Most of the time.”
“That’s bolsh,” said a deep, lion-like voice. I turned to see Orianna dragging into the room by one hand a very large, blocky man with a very young face. “Nobody’s planted a watcher without permission in four years,” the young-faced man said. “Not since Wayne vs. LA PubEye.”