"Just a minute, Hsing," it said. "I'll consult with my superiors." It hummed briefly, then informed me, "I can't tell you anything, and my boss says that if you shoot, he'll sue."
"And I'll claim self-defense, and I've got a hell of a good case," I said. "How do I know you weren't sent to kill me?"
"Why would I want to kill you?" it asked.
"How the hell should I know?" I said. "I don't know who sent you, or what you're capable of, or what the fuck you think you're doing in the first place."
It hummed again, then said, "All right, all right, don't shoot; I'm expensive."
That was a lie, in a way, because it wasn't exactly top of the line, but then, any eye costs serious juice.
"I'm just keeping an eye on you, Hsing," it told me. "You're not welcome in the Trap, and I'm here to make sure that you don't do anything you might regret later, that's all. No harm meant. Look, I'm not armed." It popped its inspection panels. The side compartments, where the armament normally goes, were empty. So was the belly chamber. The opened panels ruined its streamlining, and it began to drift off to the right as the wind whistled across the curved surfaces. I followed it with the gun.
"Don't give me that," I said. "You could be hiding almost anything in there. Your fucking motherboard could be explosive, for all I know."
The thing had me rattled, or I wouldn't have said that. It's a hell of a thing to say to a machine. It's true, but it's a hell of a thing to say.
"Take it easy, Hsing," it said. "Look, if I were going to kill you, I'd have done it already, wouldn't I?"
I knew that; that's why I hadn't already fired. The thing was a machine; its responses had to be faster than mine. But it had made its point, really. What could I do about it? The streets were public; it could follow me if it wanted to. And I sure as hell couldn't afford the bill if I shot it down and it turned out to be harmless.
"All right," I said. I lowered the gun and turned it off.
And damn it, I couldn't think of a graceful exit line. I just shoved the HG-2 back where it belonged, gave the spy-eye the three-finger curse, and turned away.
I almost ran into a tall tourist in a vermilion party coat, who had been staring at our little confrontation. His eyes were blue and milky, with no pretense of nature at all. I pushed past him and marched on.
The spy-eye cruised along, following me.
I had a pretty good idea who had put it there. IRC wasn't petty enough to bother, and most of my other enemies couldn't afford it or wouldn't have thought of it. I figured it had to be Big Jim Mishima, still pissed at me over the skimmer at the Starshine Palace. The bastard wanted to make things difficult for me, same as I had for him.
I debated turning around and yelling a message for Big Jim at the damn floater, but I resisted the temptation. Shooting off my mouth wouldn't do any good, any more than shooting off the gun would, I told myself. Pulling the gun at all had probably been a mistake.
Then it occurred to me that Mariko Cheng might not like having Big Jim's little toy watching us.
Well, there were plenty of floaters around; she wouldn't notice that one in particular unless it did something to draw her attention.
I decided to shoot my mouth off, after all. I turned and said, "Hey! You!"
"Yeah, Hsing?" it replied. The inspection panels were sealed again, and it cruised up smoothly to look me in the eye.
"I just want to tell you something," I said. "I'm working. It's a case that nobody in the Trap would touch, and it's a waste of time, but I need to eat. Mishima would laugh at what I'm getting paid for this, but it'll buy me a dinner. Now, I guess I can't get rid of you while I'm on the street, but by god, if you interfere in my work I'll slap your master-and yes, I know who it is-with a harassment suit and I'll make it stick, too. And I will blow you into scrap. So you don't talk to me or anybody with me, and you don't get too close, unless you see me do something you don't like-which you won't, because this case isn't for the casinos and it isn't any polish off your nose. And if I lose you, and you find me again, you just keep quiet-I probably had a hell of a good reason. You got that?"
"I hear you," it said.
I opened my jacket again and put my hand on the gun.
"Have you got that?" I said.
"Yeah, I got it," it answered.
An advertiser cruised up beside the spy-eye and said, "Hi there, and welcome to Nightside City! Say, if you haven't dined yet…" Its holo was warming up.
I pulled the gun and pointed it at the advertiser. "I'm a native. Beat it."
Those things have always annoyed me.
The advertiser beat it. The spy-eye didn't say anything, and I put the gun away. I hadn't bothered to turn it on.
I'd been pointing that thing a lot, I realized. I was edgy. I couldn't name a single big reason for it, but there were plenty of little ones. Dawn was closer every day, business was bad, my social life wasn't any better, and this case I was on sucked-my com bill on it might already be more than my advance on the fee. So I was edgy, which still didn't make flashing the HG-2 all over the place a good idea. I sealed the front of my jacket; I'd need a second or two more to get the gun out next time, and that might give me time to calm down and reconsider.
After all, I didn't think the thing was legal. Pulling it out and waving it around every few minutes wasn't a really brilliant idea. And my reaction to the spy-eye probably just got Mishima more interested.
With or without the gun, though, I was in a foul mood. I stamped off down the plastic pavement.
The spy-eye followed, but it kept a discreet distance and it didn't say anything.
I turned on Fifth, and there above the tourists hung the New York's marquee, old-fashioned neon tubes rotating three meters above the street. That harsh red glare lit the black glass walls the same color as the eastern horizon.
That was the main entrance, but I suddenly decided I didn't want the main entrance; after all, that was a casino, and I didn't want Big Jim misinterpreting anything. Around the corner of Deng was a side entrance into the Manhattan Lounge; I'd be heading there later anyway, to get Cheng that drink, so it wouldn't hurt to take a look at the crowd.
As I turned the corner I wondered who the hell Manhattan ever was that they should name a bar after him, and what he had to do with New York. All these weird old names are so damn confusing.
Traffic on Deng was lighter, and by walking through the light fog of Stardust that drifted along the facade I had a clear path to the entrance. The door slid open as I walked up to it, and the music and light and smoke poured out at me, unhindered by suppression fields-a sort of advertisement, I guess, for what was inside. The wind whipped the smoke away immediately and tore at the music, as well.
The music was something slow and rhythmic, and when I stepped across the threshold I saw why.
The show was in full swing, in a column of white light at the center of the room, where a man and a woman hung, weightless and naked, in midair. She had her face in his crotch and was moving her tongue in long, slow caresses. He was trying not to look bored.
About half the crowd was watching, while the other half went about their business. I sympathized with the second group; the entertainment value of watching other people screw has always escaped me. Even in zero gravity, there just isn't that much variety to it, and I'd seen it all before. Hell, I'd done it all before-though not in zero gee. And not recently. Not in too damn long, in fact, not since I moved out to Juarez. I'd never had anyone who was serious enough to follow me when I left the Trap, and I'd never found anyone out in Westside I wanted. I'd always been too picky for my own good, I suppose-every time I broke up with a man, I hated it, but I never rushed to find another.