Xiu — > Lena, Miri: <sm>What about Sharif, Miri? You use him to talk to Robert, right?</sm>
Miri — > Lena, Xiu: <sm>Yes. I thought Sharif would be a perfect cat's-paw. He has the right academic background to talk to Robert. And he has terrible personal hygiene! It was easy to take him over. Trouble is, so did somebody else. Mostly we're getting in each other's way. Hey!</sm>
Xiu — > Lena, Miri: <sm>I've lost all the close-up views on your grandfather. </sm>
Miri — > Lena, Xiu: <sm>We've lost local audio, too. That was seamless. I didn't know Robert was that swift. </sm>
Lena — > Miri, Xiu: <sm>I warned you.</sm>
One child broke away from the others and raced along the golden fire, somehow guessing just where and when it would flare up. The girl gave an odd, flailing kick — and landed on her rear. For an instant there was a light in the nearest goal, so sharp and intense it was as if all the fog had suddenly coalesced into the fuzzy image of a soccer ball. Everybody was shouting, even the phantom adults in the bleachers.
Robert made a grumpy noise. Even something as simple as a schoolyard game didn't make sense. He pulled at his cuff, trying to get a clearer view.
"It's not your fault, my man. You're seeing properly." The voice seemed to be coming from right beside him. Robert glanced over, but there was no body to keep the voice company. He stared into the empty space, and after a moment, the voice continued. "Just look at the scoreboard. Everything is fuzzy about this game, even the score." On the big scoreboard facing the bleachers, the goal was recorded as 0.97. "I do think that should be rounded to one. That was an excellent, near-certain goal the girl kicked." On the field, the teams had retreated to their sides. Another phantom kickoff was in progress.
Robert kept his eyes on the action below. He didn't reply to the helpful voice. "You don't recognize the game, do you, Professor? It's Egan soccer. See — " A reference floated across his vision, everything anyone could want to know about Egan soccer. Out on the field, three kids had fallen over, and two had collided. "Of course," the voice continued, "it's really just an approximation to the ideal."
"I'll bet," said Robert, and he almost smiled. The stranger's tone was confiding, the speech affected — and almost every sentence was a mild put-down. It was a pleasure to run into a type he understood so well. He turned and looked into the empty space. "Run along, kid. You're a long way from being able to play head games with me."
"I don't play games, my man." The reply started out angry, segued back to patronizing good humor. "You are an interesting case, Robert Gu. I'm used to manipulating people, but usually through intermediaries. I'm much too busy to chat with bottom dwellers directly. But you intrigue me."
Robert pretended to watch the game, but the voice continued, "I know what's eating you up inside. I know how much it bothers you that you can't make poetry anymore."
Robert couldn't suppress a start of surprise. The invisible stranger gave a little chuckle; somehow he had distinguished the movement from Robert's natural twitchiness. "No need to be coy. You can't disguise your reactions here. The medical sensing on school grounds is so good that you might as well be hooked up to a lie detector."
I should just walk away . Instead he watched the "soccer" match for a few moments. When he was sure he had proper control of his voice, he said, "You are admitting to a crime, then."
Another chuckle. "Of sorts, though it's the crime of superior network skills. You can think of me as something of a higher being, empowered by all the tools with which mortal men have chosen to smarten the landscape."
This must be a kid . Or maybe not. Maybe the visitor was invisible because even his virtual presence on school grounds was a violation of law. Robert shrugged. "I'd be happy to report your 'superior network skills' to interested parties."
"You won't do that. Primus, because the police could never identify me. Secundus, because I can return to you what you have lost. I can give you back your poetical voice."
This time, Robert was in control and managed a creditable chuckle of his own.
"Ah," said the other, "such suspicion. But also the beginning of belief! You should read the news, or just loosen up your ad filters. In olden times, you had athletes on steroids and students on amphetamines. Those drugs were largely false promises. Nowadays, we have things that really work."
A drug dealer, by God ! Robert almost laughed for real. But then he considered himself, his smooth skin, his ability to run and jump and scarcely feel out of breath. What's already happened would be magic by the standards of my past life . Yes, this might be a drug dealer, but so what? "Where's the profit in drugs for recovering world-class poesy?" Robert spoke the words with proper flippancy, then realized how much he was revealing. Maybe that didn't matter.
"You are so old-fashioned, Professor." The stranger paused. "See those hills to the south of you?" Hills covered with endless housing. "A few miles beyond them is one of the few places on Earth where physical location is still important."
"UCSD?"
"Close. I mean the biotech labs that surround the campus. What goes on in those labs is nothing like twentieth-century medical research. Modern cures are awesome things, but often they are unique to the individual patient."
"You can't finance research that way."
"Don't get me wrong. Broad-spectrum cures are still the big moneymakers. But even those use custom analysis to guard against side effects. Yes, you are a singleton case. The Alzheimer cures are sometimes incomplete, but the failures are idiosyncratic. There is no other great poet who's had your problem. As of today , there is no cure." This clown knew how to mix the brutal putdowns with flattery. "But we live in an age of enhancement drugs, Professor, and many of them are singleton hits. There is a chance, a very good chance, that the labs can be caused to find you a cure."
Magic. But what if he can do it? This is The Future. And I am alive again, and maybe — Robert felt the hope growing within him. He couldn't help it. This SOB has me. I know it's manipulation, but that doesn't matter .
"So who am I dealing with, O Mysterious Stranger?" It was a losing question, but it just slipped out.
"Mysterious Stranger? Um — " There was a pause, no doubt as this para-literate looked up the reference. "Why yes, you got my name on the very first try! Mysterious Stranger. That is good."
Robert gritted his teeth. "And I take it that getting your help involves something dangerous or illegal."
"Definitely illegal, Professor. And somewhat dangerous — for you, that is. Whatever might cure you would be pushing into unknown medical territory. But at the same time, very much worth it, don't you think?"
Yes ! "Maybe." Robert kept the tension out of his voice, and glanced mildly at the empty space beside him. "What's the price? What do you want from me?"
The stranger laughed. "Oh, don't worry. I simply want cooperation with a project you're already involved in. Keep seeing your pals at the UCSD library. Go along with their plans."
"And keep you up-to-date on them?"
"Ah, no need for that, my man. I am an all-encompassing cloud of knowingness. No, what I need is your hands. Think of yourself as a droid who was once a poet. So, Professor, do we have a deal?"
"I'll think about it."