Выбрать главу

ing surprise at the news. "You're trapped in there?"

"This  is where we  live"  the woman  said.  "You're trapped

outside."

"That's a shame," Lindsay said. "I wanted to do some recruit-

ing here. I was trying to be fair." He shrugged. "I've enjoyed our

talk, but time presses. I'll be on my way."

"Stop," the woman said. "You don't go until I say you can go."

Lindsay feigned alarm. "Listen," he said. "No one doubts your

reputation. But you're trapped in there. You're of no use to

me." He ran his long fingers through his hair. "There's no point

in this."

"What are you implying? Who are you, anyway?"

"Lindsay."

"Lin Dze? You're not of oriental stock."

Lindsay looked into the lens of the camera and locked eyes

with her. The impression was hard to simulate through video,

but its unexpectedness made it very effective on a subconscious

level. "And what's your name?"

"Cory Prager," she blurted. "Doctor Prager."

"Cory, I represent Kabuki Intrasolar. We're a commercial the-

atrical venture." Lindsay lied enthusiastically. "I'm arranging a

production and I'm recruiting a cast. We pay generously. But, as

you say, since you can't come out, frankly, you're wasting my

time. You can't even attend the performance." He sighed.

"Obviously this isn't my fault. I'm not responsible."

The woman laughed unpleasantly. Lindsay had grasped her

kinesics, though, and her uneasiness was obvious to him. "You

think we care what they do on the outside? We have a seller's

market cornered here. All we care about is their credit. The rest

is of no consequence."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. I wish other groups shared your

attitude. I'm an artist, not a politician. I wish I could avoid the

complications as easily as you do." He spread his hands. "Since

we understand each other now, I'll be on my way."

"Wait. What complications?"

"It's not my doing," Lindsay hedged. "It's the other factions. I

haven't even finished assembling the cast, and already they're

plotting together. The play gives them a chance to negotiate."

"We can send out our monitors. We can watch your production."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Lindsay said stiffly. "We don't allow our plays

to be taped or broadcast. It would spoil our attendance." He

was rueful. "I can't risk disappointing my cast. Anyone can be

an actor these days. Memory drugs make it easy."

"We sell memory drugs," she said. "Vasopressins, carbolines,

endorphins. Stimulants, tranquilizers. Laughers, screamers,

shouters, you name it. If there's a market for it, the Nephrine

black chemists can make it. If we can't synthesize it, we'll filter

it from tissue. Anything you want. Anything you can think of."

She lowered her voice. "We're friends with Them, you know.

The ones beyond the Wall. They think the world of us."

Lindsay rolled his eyes. "Of course."

She looked offscreen; he heard the rapid tapping of a key-

board. She looked up. "You've been talking to the whores,

haven't you? The Geisha Bank."

Lindsay looked cautious. The Geisha Bank was new to him. "It

might be best if I kept my dealings confidential."

"You're a fool to believe their promises."

Lindsay smiled uneasily. "What choice do I have? There's a

natural alliance between actors and whores."

"They must have warned you against us." The woman put a

pair of headphones against her left ear and listened distractedly.

"I told you I was trying to be fair," Lindsay said. The screen

went silent suddenly and the woman spoke rapidly into a pin-

head microphone. Her face flashed offscreen and was replaced

by the wrinkle-etched face of an older man. Lindsay had a brief

glimpse of the man's true appearance-white hair in spiky dis-

array, red-rimmed eyes -before a video-manicuring program

came on line. The program raced up the screen one scan line at

a time, subtly smoothing, deleting, and coloring.

"Look, this is useless," Lindsay blustered. "Don't try to talk

me into something I'll regret. I have a show to put on, I don't

have time for this-"

"Shut up, you," the man said. The steel vault door slid open,

revealing a folded packet of transparent vinyl. "Put it on," the

man said. "You're coming inside."

Lindsay unfolded the bundle and shook it out. It was a full-

length decontamination suit. "Go on, hurry it up," the Black

Medical insisted. "You may be under surveillance."

"I hadn't realized," Lindsay said. He struggled into the booted

trousers. "This is quite an honor." He tunneled into the gloved

and helmeted top half of the suit and sealed the waist.

The airlock door shunted open with a scrape of grit. "Get in,"

the man said. Lindsay stepped inside, and the door slid shut

behind him.

Wind stirred the dust. A light, filthy rain began to fall. A

skeletal camera robot minced up on four tubular legs and

trained its lens on the door.

An hour passed. The rain stopped and a pair of surveillance

craft kited silently overhead. A violent dust storm blew up in

the abandoned industrial zone, to the north. The camera continued to watch.

Lindsay emerged from the airlock, weaving a little. He set a

black diplomatic bag on the stone floor beside him and struggled out of the decontamination suit. He stuffed the suit back

into the vault, then picked his way with exaggerated grace along

the stepping-stones.

The air stank. Lindsay stopped and sneezed. "Hey," the cam-

era said. "Mr. Dze. I'd like a word with you, Mr. Dze."

"If you  want  a  part  in  the  play  you'll   have  to  appear   in

person," Lindsay said.

"You astonish me," the camera remarked. It spoke in trade

Japanese. "I have to admire your daring, Mr. Dze. The Black

Medicals have the foulest kind of reputation. They could have

rendered you for your body chemicals."

Lindsay walked north, his flimsy shoes scuffing the mud. The

camera tagged after him, its left rear leg squeaking.    .

Lindsay  descended  a  low hill  into an  orchard  where fallen

trees, thick  with black smut, formed a  loose, skeletal  thicket.

Below the orchard was a scum-covered pond with a decayed

teahouse at its shore. The once-elegant wooden and ceramic

building had collapsed into a heap of dry rot. Lindsay kicked

one of the timbers and broke into a coughing fit at the explosion of spores. "Someone ought to clean this up," he said.

"Where would they put it?" the camera said.

Lindsay looked around quickly. The trees screened him from

observation. He stared at the machine. "Your camera needs an

overhaul," he said.

"It was the best I could afford," the camera said.

Lindsay swung his black bag back and forth, narrowing his

eyes. "It looks rather slow and frail."

The robot prudently stepped backward. "Do you have a place

to stay, Mr. Dze?"

Lindsay rubbed his chin. "Are you offering one?"

"You shouldn't stay in the open. You're not even wearing a

mask."

Lindsay smiled. "I told the Medicals that I was protected by

advanced antiseptics. They were very impressed."

"They must have been. You don't breathe raw air here. Not

unless you want your lungs to end up looking like this thicket."

The camera hesitated. "My name is Fyodor Ryumin."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Lindsay said in

Russian. They had injected him with vasopressin through the

suit, and his brain felt impossibly keen. He felt so intolerably

bright that he was beginning to crisp a little around the edges.

Changing from Japanese to his little-used Russian felt as easy as