Mary Choy was too young to attract a rejuvenator’s pitch but she had gone on eloi busts and seen the interiors of many platinum comb domiciles.
She withdrew from the elevator and walked purposefully into the lobby. From the acrophobic view of the city to this large inner directed self contained cavern, horizontal slit windows at hip-level affording little relief, was always a small shock to her. Mary felt it as an abrupt discontinuity like a change of key or even scale in music. Arbeiters moved purposefully on narrow paths near the walls leaving the center open for foot traffic. A central circular desk occupied by two young men in green office uniforms jutted from the floor. Overhead an apse sparkled with sheets and curling ribbons of peaceful light in the cathedral quiet.
“Pd investigator M Choy,” said the young man on her side of the desk as she approached. “You have a quarter till appointment with federal coordinator R Ellenshaw.”
She had made her appointment with pd supervisor D Reeve. News was speeding and she had guessed right. Large green eyes steady on the greeter’s face, she said, “Fine. Do I wait?”
“Not here, please,” the greeter said. His eyes pinpointed her with faint disapproval and obvious longing. “You’ll have a seat in third tier, lobby two.”
She narrowed her eyes and fixed on the greeter until he averted. Then she shivered slightly nodded and walked away adding an extra lilt to her stride. Disliking that common mix of critique and lust she wished to faintly strut the transform and increase the tension. It was a neutral flaw, not socially damaging but perhaps provocative. A distant revenge on Theo. The greeter would not disapprove of Theo but might not lust for her either. Why
Took an escalator to third tier lobby two. Sat with the coffee drinkers and their timeismoney expressions. Examined them casually sherlocking as hobby, and fell into her perpetual muse about how unfortunate sherlocking was a blind jape. Cannot riddle from ambiguous evidence; no detective can avoid the blunder of two or three way outcomes of deduction. Deduction and detection could not be cars on a slaveway; they must freely turn. Still, sherlocking was an amusement and sometimes its results were intriguing. Here for example: a young man on the clear turbo to a needle’s point federal/state job, dressed as second generation therapied (or natural) might dress in the younger crowds, face bland but not without character. Mary Choy guessed him a conscientious but not inspired bed partner; he had three fingernails on his right hand red and gold lacquered with marriage inquiries from large families. Only in the high federal ranks did such manners dance the norm, families clans gens statting their position in the nomenklatura made largely ceremonial by President Davis before Raphkind. Such positions did not breed high physical passions; they did breed manners, and among the therapied manners rarely hid aberrations. Nice young man in a pleasant deadend existence prime candidate for eloi upon middle age. A pretty parasite.
Coming in to the waiting area, somebody more vitaclass="underline" a female transform wearing styles to hide her orbital adaptations, an exotic in the combs. All eyes drawn. The exotic saw Mary Choy and acknowledged kinship with a smile. Came to sit.
“May I?”
Mary inclined. The orbital transform bent with strained grace; her muscles now tuned to the bonds of Earth. She obviously shuttled often and was proud possessor of two zone body chemistry; such a transform was too expensive for private payment and must have been federal or firm/house funded. The nice young man decided this orbital transform was too much even for fantasy and ignored her. Others less meshed in the hierarchy admired her openly. Mary was pleased when she sat beside her.
“Pardon my awkwardness,” the orbital said. “I’m still adjusting. Bichemical.”
“So I specked.”
“I’ve only been landed eight hours. You’re pd, aren’t you?”
Mary inclined again. No sherlocking necessary; the uniforms were commonly known and varied little from city to city.
“And you,” she said, “are from the Greenbelt?”
The orbital transform smiled. “How keen,” she said. “Who did you?”
“Dr. Sumpler.”
“His group did me too. I must visit him while down. Are you pleased?”
She considered describing the melanin depletion but since the news would have little practical value to a bichemical, simply gave the polite “Yes. Very.”
The orbital transform saw signs of Mary’s impending departure for appointment—her glance at the glowing flasher on the wall, her own symbol coming soon—and offered her a card. “I’m down for a week. Much work. I’d enjoy company. We can reminisce through old style catalogs.”
Mary laughed, took the card, offered her own. “That would be fun.”
“Everything’s on the card.” The name on the card: Sandra Auchouch. “Pronounced Awshuck.”
“Of course. Pleasure to meet you.”
The orbital transform inclined and they touched fingertips. No carnal thoughts here; the transform by dress and manner was straight as no orbit could be; Mary rarely crossed. But among professionals in going jobs friendship might be a chance thing and chances had to be advantaged.
R Ellenshaw prospered at his high desk; no sherlocking to see this. The metro-federal interface supervisor had the look of the oft therapied a man with guts stamina and manifold problems that he had spent years and hundreds of thousands of dollars to smooth.
Mary would not have entered his office with a different attitude had he been whiz natural; he was higherup and she came to him with a problem she would not have wanted had the roles been reversed. Mary Choy respected leadership and valued overhead flak armor.
“M Choy. Welcome to Valhalla.” Ellenshaw stood before his desk memo and slate in hand, not happy. “You’ve tumbled into a shink wasp’s nest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please sit.” He looked her over sharply without a flicker of judgment or even male interest. Mary’s respect for him went up a notch. Professional ice was tough to grow and maintain minus berging out and Ellenshaw did not look a berg; too therapied and self knowing for that. “I have some questions and then your instructions.”
She sat, crossing long legs, black workpants hissing faintly.
“You are convinced personally that this Emanuel Goldsmith is the murderer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve checked out this letter. It is indeed from Colonel Sir John Yardley.” The ice was transparent enough for Mary to see Ellenshaw’s political stripe; like most west coast pd he had detested Raphkind and the tumescence of the Dirty East. Old politics old dirt. “Do you have any idea where Emanuel Goldsmith is now?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s gone underground?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Hispaniola?”
“It’s possible.”
“But would Yardley have taken him in?”
Mary didn’t hazard.
“You know this will become a federal football. The possibility that Goldsmith has gone to Hispaniola makes the halls echo, M Choy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s no chance the federals can bury this. Too many gold and platinum names, too much high blood. So they’ve handed the football to us. Jurisdiction primary. To keep your grip on the football, you have to be fresh snow, M Choy. Are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve checked your record and I agree. I envy naturals, M Choy. I envy your record.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve had to spend a fortune on therapy to untangle and smooth out. It’s been worth it, but…So.” That had been a calculated ice thinning and it had worked; he had revealed enough about himself to make Mary feel she was in his confidence, that he had confidence in her.