Meerm room top floor. Meerm like look window at sky. Dark now. See light on street down below. Sometime Meerm wish—
“Helloooo, Meerm!”
Meerm turn, see Needle Man come through door. Needle Lady come behind. They ver happy. Needle Man hold big bottle, drink yellow bubble water in glass.
“Your latest test results are in,” Needle Lady say, “and we love you, Meerm!”
“Why love Meerm?”
Needle Man laugh, say, “Because you’re going to make us rich!”
“Yes!” Needle Lady yell. “We’re going toown SimGen!”
“Now, now, Eleanor,” Needle Man say. “Let’s not be greedy. We’ll settle for half!”
They laugh-laugh-laugh.
“Who’d ever think,” Needle Man say, “that two humble globulin farmers would be able to put a company like SimGen up against the wall?”
“We haven’t put it there yet,” Needle Lady say. “I still have to get up the nerve to make the call.”
“And when we do, we’ve got to be careful. We’ll be playing with the big boys, and they’re not going to like what we have to tell them.”
They stop laugh, stop smile. Drink more.
Ooh! Tummy hurt. Meerm want feel better. Why hurt?
14
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY
NOVEMBER 13
“I’ve got to tell you,” Patrick said to Romy as they sat in the sim barrack. Anj was going through her now standard routine of draping herself across Patrick’s lap whenever he visited. He’d found it cute before; a warm-fuzzy moment. Now…“After what I saw in that brothel, I’m not as comfortable with this as I used to be.”
“That’s understandable,” she said. “You never viewed them in a sexual context before.”
“I still don’t…can’t.” The memory of the brothel still gave his gut a squeamish twist. “But knowing that other people do…”
She was out from the city again, checking on her investment, as she liked to put it. Night had fallen but she’d hung around. For the past week Patrick had entertained a faint hope that their ordeal in the ravine might forge a bond that would lead to a closer, more intimate relationship. That hope was fading. She seemed warmer toward him, but for the most part Romy remained all business.
“How’s your car?”
“Totaled. Just like my house.” And my love life, he mentally added. Why don’t I just join a monastery and make it official? “Haven’t seen any insurance money on either, but I’m making do.”
“You still haven’t been scared off then?” she said.
“I’m not looking to be a martyr, but no.”
She smiled. “I never took you for the martyr type.”
“You mean there’s a martyr type? Who the hell would want to be a martyr?”
“More than you’d think. In the right setting it can be a form of celebrity.”
“I guess so. Who was it who said that some people climb onto the cross merely to be seen from a greater distance?”
“Camus, I believe.”
Patrick was startled—happily. “You’ve read Camus?”
She shrugged.
Here was a side of Romy he’d never imagined. He wanted to delve deeper but she steered him right back to business.
“Do you see any legal speed bumps ahead?” she asked.
“Not in the immediate future,” he began, then noticed Tome hovering at his shoulder.
“’Scuse, Mist Sulliman, but Anj must eat.” He tugged the sleeve of the young sim’s T-shirt. “Come, Anj. Dinner come.” As he led her toward the tables, Tome turned and said, “You eat too?”
Patrick glanced around. Most of the sims had gone through the line and were chowing down. He eyed the rich dark stew being ladled from the big pot and wasn’t even tempted.
“No, thanks, Tome. I’m, uh, cutting back.”
Romy lowered her voice. “Maybe we should give it a try. Just a taste…to be good guests.”
“It’s made from dining-room leftovers,” he whispered from a corner of his mouth.
“I believe I’ll pass too,” Romy called out, then turned to Patrick. “By the way, are you still living in that motel?”
“Still.”
“Aren’t you cramped?”
“Yes and no. I thought I’d go nuts in a place like that—you know, without all my things. But I’ve found I don’t miss them as much as I thought I would. No house, no furniture, no office, no status car…I should be in a deep depression but oddly enough I’m not. I’ve got this strange, light feeling…unencumbered, I guess you could say. I feel as if I’ve been cut free from weights I didn’t even know were there. That sound weird to you?”
“No,” she said softly, and he thought he detected some warmth in her smile. “Not weird at all.” She seemed to catch herself and looked away in the direction of the sims. “By the way, if we’re not eating here, where do you suggest?”
“How do you feel about Cajun food?”
“Love it. I’ll eat anything blackened—catfish, redfish, potholders, you name it.”
“Great. I know this little place in Mount Kisco…”
They talked about their favorite foods—one of Romy’s was sushi which, despite heroic efforts, Patrick had never developed a taste for. He was beginning to believe that the evening was shaping up to be ripe with promise when a loud groan and a clatter interrupted them.
Patrick turned and saw that one of the caddie sims had knocked his plate off the table and was doubled over, clutching his abdomen. As he watched, a second sim slipped off the bench and slumped to her knees, moaning.
“What the hell’s going on?” Patrick said.
But Romy was already on her feet. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Something’s wrong with the food!” She rushed forward, shouting. “Don’t eat the food! It’s bad!Bad! ”
Too late. Patrick watched helplessly as one sim after another doubled over and crumpled to the floor, writhing in pain.
“What is it?” he said. “Ptomaine?”
She shook her head, her face ashen. “Spoiled food doesn’t act this quickly. They’ve been poisoned, damn it! Somebody’s poisoned their food!”
Patrick pulled out his PCA and punched in 911. “I’ll call an ambulance—lotsof ambulances!”
“To take them where?”
“To the emer—” He stopped. “Shit!”
“Right. No hospital’s going to take them. They’re not human.”
“Then how about a veterinary hospital?”
“Is there one around? And even if there is, how do we get them there? I don’t know of an ambulance service in the world that’ll transport animals.” She pulled out her own PCA. “But I know someone…”
“This organization of yours?”
She glanced at him, then turned away. He thought he heard her say “Zero.”
Patrick had to do something. With frustration mounting to the detonation point he looked around and saw Tome still standing.
“Tome! You didn’t eat?”
The older sim shook his head. “Not chance.”
“Get up to the clubhouse! Fast! Tell them you’ve all been poisoned!”
As Tome ran off, Patrick hurried to the dorm area and began pulling blankets and pillows from the bunks. He couldn’t do anything about whatever toxin had been used to poison them, but at least he could try to make the sims more comfortable.
“Good idea,” Romy said, close by. He looked up and saw her beside him with an armful of blankets. “Help is on the way.”
“Who? How much?”
“I don’t know.”
They hurried back to the eating area where it looked like a bomb had exploded: benches on their sides, tipped tables, spilled trays, and moaning, pain-wracked casualties strewn about the floor. Patrick recognized Nabb, his caddie when he’d played golf here—the last time he’dever play golf here—that fateful September day he became involved with these sims. He lay doubled over on his side, arms folded across his abdomen.