“That’s insid… insid… wicked. How did I survive?”
“A Besortican wouldn’t have. As I said, it isn’t that common here yet and the Besorticans’ AI algorithms for us were just that far off the mark. It just put you out. A lady named Francia Bowd called Emergency Services and said you’d missed a rehearsal of your play and she couldn’t reach you. At that point we think you were in a coma for at least eight hours. I had a flag out on the nets for anything with your name, so I got to the hospital about the same time you did. Good thing, too—the doctors here had never seen this before.”
Rabinowitz was quiet for a while, then said, “So what’s the prog… prog… prog…”
She slammed her fist against the side rail in frustration. “Prognosis,” she finally said. “Am I going to have mental malarial relapses? Facial tics? Will I attack anyone who mentions Niagara Falls?”
“The only permanent side effect we know about is death. You seemed to have avoided that. Oh, and none of the surviving victims has ever played the contrabassoon afterwards. Of course, our records on this only go back about seven years. We’ll want to monitor you closely from now on.”
“Does that mean I’m off your suspect list?”
Hoy smiled. “Not at all. A falling out between conspirators could make one try to down the other.”
“Someone with resources, you said. Were you thinking of Jivin Rashta… Rashta… that grocer guy?”
“A distinct possibility. He’s been unofficially linked to several previous Besortican-style attacks.”
“So how can I protect myself in the future?”
“You could keep your veering set permanently turned off. Or you could let us monitor all your sessions.”
“Neither appeals to me.”
“Does death?”
“Did any of them play the contrabassoon before they were attacked?”
Hoy stood up and walked to the door. “You know, I really do hope you’re innocent. You’re a lot of fun in bed.”
“Treasure the memory. It’s the most you’ll ever get.” She turned over, facing away from him, and pretended to sleep. The pretending lasted less than two minutes.
Rabinowitz was not allowed to leave the hospital for another thirty-six hours, during which she was subjected to multiple brain scans, neurological examinations, and tests of both physical and mental coordination. It was almost as bad as renting her own body. When she could get through the tests without embarrassing herself, the doctors said she could go home.
She walked straight through the front door and down the hallway to the veering room. She stared at the set as though it were a puppy that had peed on her carpet. The room was not as she had left it; it must have been a mess while she was lying unconscious on the floor. “Probably Hoy,” she muttered. “He straightens bookshelves. I wonder what else he did to the room while I was gone.”
She ran her hand along the side of the veering set for a moment, then turned away from it to the ordinary telephone. She placed a call to Peter Whitefish, but only reached his recorded message. She left her name and number, asking him to phone back as soon as possible.
By calling in two different favors she got the direct number to the executive offices of Indra Entertainment. The secretary told her Mr. Rashtapurdi was unable to see anyone today; she could have an appointment in three weeks.
“Please tell him I know a few things about Path-Reynik Levexitor from Jenithar,” Rabinowitz said.
The secretary put her on hold. Rabinowitz hummed to herself for thirty-seven seconds. When the screen woke again, she was facing Jivin Rashtapurdi.
Rashtapurdi was an older, dark-complected man whose white hair was in sharp contrast to his skin. He had a wide face and intelligent eyes. White teeth showed in the smile that seemed as wide as a barn door and as shallow as a sidewalk puddle two days after the last rain.
“My secretary tells me your name is Rabinowitz,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Rabinowitz looked at him appraisingly. “I’m a business associate of Path-Reynik Levexitor from Jenithar.”
Rashtapurdi’s smile never wavered. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means something to your secretary.”
“Then perhaps you should talk to her.” He started to reach for the disconnect switch.
“Eighty-seven billion dollars,” Rabinowitz said.
Rashtapurdi paused in mid-gesture. “You have an endearing way of making idle conversation, Ms. Rabinowitz.”
“I understand Indra Entertainment is the legal successor to dozens of Indian movie companies from the mid-twentieth century. Your library is said to contain well over ten thousand films, valued at around eighty-seven billion dollars.”
“My publicity department has obviously done its job well.”
“But it’s not worth eighty-seven billion dollars to you,” Rabinowitz continued. “You can reprocess the films with every new technology that comes along and copyright each new version, but the basic library itself is world domain. It’s only worth all that money to the UN, because they’re the only ones who can license it.”
“I fail to see your point—if indeed you are making one.”
“Have you ever been to Jenithar, Mr. Rashtapurdi?”
“Not in person. I did try once, but the local authorities are overly strict about who they will let teep there. I committed some indiscretions in my youth, a misunderstanding with the law, and the Jenitharp used that as a pretext to deny me access.”
“That is a shame. You might have found it quite familiar. Jenithar is a grossly overpopulated world and very class-oriented, much like twentieth-century India. Perhaps its people would share the same values with those olden-day filmmakers. The films in your vaults, even as outmoded as they are by our modern standards, might be worth a great deal of money if they couid be sold there.”
“Are you offering your brokerage services to sell the films on Jenithar, Ms. Rabinowitz?”
“Of course not. I operate within the law.”
“Then this conversation has been a waste of both our time.” Rashtapurdi severed the connection.
“Oh no it wasn’t, Mr. Rashtapurdi,” Rabinowitz said quietly to the blank screen. “I never told you I was a literary broker. You already knew that when I called.”
The next day Rabinowitz placed a call to third level constable Feffeti rab Dellor on Jenithar, who told her Chalnas was not allowed access to veering units, though he could have physical visitors. When Rabinowitz told him she had to ask Chalnas about some details of her business deal with Levexitor, Dellor even gave her clearance for a short visit, under rigidly supervised conditions. She thanked him and, with a sigh, veered to the rent-a-bod agency.
The process was mercifully short this time. With her status already on file, it was merely a question of finding the proper size body. As it turned out, there was nothing in her size available at the moment.
“This sort of thing can in future be avoided,” the clerk said. “As I told you last time, we can for a very reasonable fee set aside the perfect body for you, ready at any time to be activated by you without further inconvenience.”
“I don’t think I’ll be teeping to Jenithar all that often. I’d be willing to settle for a slightly smaller body, if you have one.”
“Indeed we do, though you must sign a waiver relieving from all responsibility this company.”
Rabinowitz did so gladly, and less than an hour later she stood in a visiting cell as Chalnas was brought in to her. He was far smaller than she was, and much of his plumage had been thinned out. Prison life must not be agreeing with him.
“Hello Chalnas,” she said. “I’m sorry to see you under such tragic circumstances.”