The children looked at him with woe. “Ah, well,” said Forrester, “we’ll do it again another day. How do we get home from here?”
“A cab,” said the girl doubtfully, but the boy shouted, “Walk! We can walk! I know where we are—ten minutes will do it. Ask your joymaker if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you,” said Forrester.
“Then this way, Charles. Come on, Tunt.” And the boy led off between two towering buildings on the margin of a grassy strip, where huge hovercraft swished by at enormous speeds.
The joymaker complained, “Man Forrester, I have dichotomous instructions. Please resolve them.”
“Oh, God,” said Forrester, tired and irritable. “What’s your trouble now?”
“You have instructed me to hold messages, but I have several that are high priority and urgent. Please reaffirm holding order, stipulating a time limit if possible, or receive them now.”
The boy giggled. “You know why, Charles?” he demanded. “It tickles them when they’re holding messages. It’s like if you have to go to the bathroom.”
The joymaker said, “The analogue is inexact, Man Forrester. However, please allow me to discharge my message load.”
Forrester sighed and prepared to contemplate reality again. But something distracted him.
Besides the steady whush, whush of the passing hovercraft, besides the distant chant of a choir—they were passing some sort of church—there was another sound. Forrester looked up.
A faint tweeting sound of communications equipment was coming from a white aircraft, glass-fronted, hanging overhead. It bore the shining ruby caduceus, and behind the glass a dark-skinned man in blue was regarding Forrester gravely.
Forrester swallowed.
“Joymaker,” he demanded. “is that a death-reversal vehicle overhead?”
“Yes, Man Forrester.”
“Does that mean—” He cleared his throat. “Does that mean that crazy Martian is after me again?”
“Man Forrester,” said the joymaker primly, “among your urgent priority messages is a legal notice. The twenty-four-hour hold period having expired, and appropriate notices and action having been filed and taken, the man Heinzlichen Jura de—”
“Cut it out! Is he after me?”
“Man Forrester,” said the joymaker, “yes. As of seventeen minutes ago, the hold period having expired then, he is.”
At least the crazy Martian wasn’t in sight, thought Forrester, scanning the few visible pedestrians. But the presence of the death-reversal aircraft was a poor omen.
“Kids,” he said, “we got troubles. I’m being chased.”
“Oh, Charles!” breathed the boy, fascinated. “Will you get killed?”
“Not if I can help it. Look. Do you know any short cuts from here? Any secret ways—through cellars, over rooftops—you know.”
The boy looked at the girl. The girl’s eyes got very big.
“Tunt,” she whispered, “Charles wants to hide.”
“That’s it,” said Forrester. “What about it, son? You must know some special way. Any kid would.”
The boy said, “Charles. I know a way, all right. But are you sure—”
“I’m sure, I’m sure!” snapped Charles Forrester. “Come on! Where?”
The boy surrendered. “Follow me. You too, Tunt.” They turned and dived into one of the buildings. Forrester took a last look around for Heinzlichen whatever-his-name-was. He was not in sight. Only the hovercraft thrumming past, and the few uncaring pedestrians . . . and overhead the man in blue in the death-reversal vehicle, staring down at him, his expression both surprised and angry.
When he was safely back in the condominium building, the children returned to their own home to await the arrival of their mother, Forrester hurried to his apartment, closed the door, and locked it.
“Joymaker,” he said, “you were right. I admit it. So now let’s have all those messages. And take it slow, so I can understand what they’re about.”
The joymaker said serenely, “Man Forrester, your messages follow. Vincenzo d’Angostura states that he is still available for legal representation, but will not call again under Bar Association rules. Taiko Hironibi feels there was some misunderstanding and would like to discuss it with you. Adne Bensen sends you an embrace. A document package is in your receiving chute. Will you receive the embrace?”
“Hold it a minute. Gives me something to look forward to. Is any of the other stuff important?”
“As to that, Man Forrester, I have no parameters.”
“You’re a big help,” said Forrester bitterly. “Get me a drink while I’m thinking. Uh, gin and tonic.” He waited for it to appear and took a long pull.
His nerves began to feel less like tangled barbed wire. “All right,” he said. “Now, what was that about a package?”
“You have a document package in your receiving chute, Man Forrester. Envelope. Approximately nine centimeters by twenty-five centimeters, less than one half centimeter in thickness, weighing approximately eleven grams. Inscription: ‘Mr. Charles Dalgleish Forrester, Social Security Number 145-10-3088, last address while living 252 Dulcimer Drive, Evanston, Illinois. Died of burns received 16 October 1969. To be delivered upon revival.’ Contents unknown.”
“Hum. Is that all its says?”
“No, Man Forrester. There are machine-script handling instructions on the document. I will phonemize them as closely as possible: ‘Sigma triphase ooty-poot trip toe, baker tare sugar aleph, paraphase—’ ”