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Authors: Lawrence Watt-Evans
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at random and hope I got lucky.
I headed for the gate where the shuttles to
the port loaded, squeezed out past a waiting shuttlecar, and then
took a long, rambling route back to the Epimethean Commerce Bank,
cruising through the crowds with one eye on the overhead
traffic.
I hit the corner of Third and Kai on the dot
of 17:00, and there wasn’t a sign of the spy-eye in sight.
A moment later Mariko Cheng stepped out the
side door of the bank, and I looked up at her and smiled and said,
“Mis’ Cheng! Fancy meeting you here!”
Chapter Six
Cheng watched the show with a sort of puzzled
amusement. Blue-green light rippled across her face in time to the
music.
She hadn’t bothered to act surprised when I
greeted her at the bank. She had said hello, and after a little
chat about the weather I suggested that, as old friends bumping
into each other by chance, a celebratory drink might be in
order.
She agreed, and I suggested the Manhattan
Lounge at the New York.
That did surprise her a little, I
think, but she agreed again, and here we were. The spy-eye hadn’t
yet spotted me again, so far as I could see.
“Is it really worth the cost of a
zero-gravity field in here just for that?” she asked, pointing at
the floor show. The woman was bent almost double, the man behind
her pumping away. It wasn’t the same couple that had been in there
when I first checked the place out, but the act was the same.
“No,” I said, “It’s not. I’d bet you anything
you like that that’s not a zero-gravity field.”
She looked at me. “No? What is it, then? Or
what do you think it is?”
“It’s a holo,” I said. “A really top-quality
one, and those two lovelies are in orbit somewhere, transmitting
down here on a closed-circuit beam. It’s a lot cheaper than any
sort of zero gravity they could make at ground level. That’s why
the performers always exit through the top or bottom of the field
when they go to clean up, and never come out through the audience.
You can tell it’s not taped, because they’ll react to the audience
sometimes—I guess it’s a two-way hook-up—but those two are in
orbit. Literally.”
She looked back at the cylinder of white
light and stared for a moment, then flicked a hand in front of her
face.
“You’re right,” she said. She watched for
another moment. “It’s a good one, though—look, you can see every
hair.”
I nodded without looking, and our drinks
finally arrived, delivered by floater instead of through the table.
I suppose it had something to do with the “olde Earthe” motif.
Maybe the slow service did, too.
I sipped mine; it was decent enough. Cheng
sipped hers, and glanced back at the show.
“Mis’ Cheng,” I said, “I was hoping you could
tell me something.”
“Hm?” she said, as she turned back. “Oh, yes,
I’m sorry. Listen, call me Mariko.” She smiled.
I smiled back. “Call me Hsing,” I said.
That startled her, I think, and she looked at
me a bit more closely, but didn’t ask anything.
I appreciated that. I like my first name just
fine, but I don’t want it used lightly—and I don’t much like
discussing it, either. It’s just a quirk of mine. I have plenty.
Ask anyone at Lui’s. They call me Hsing there, and we don’t discuss
it.
I like Lui’s; they don’t discuss anybody’s
quirks there.
“Hsing,” Cheng said. “All right.” Her tone
might have been a shade hostile, but I still didn’t want her
calling me anything but Hsing.
I smiled. “I was hoping, Mariko, that you
could tell me something about Westwall Redevelopment. Anything at
all.”
She studied my face for a moment, so I tried
to look sincere and harmless—which I hope I’m not, but at times
it’s a good way to look. Then she glanced around at the neighboring
tables.
I had picked a quiet corner; the only human
within natural earshot was an old man wearing an antique videoset,
and with the plugs in his ears and patches on his eyes he wasn’t
going to be
I headed for the gate where the shuttles to
the port loaded, squeezed out past a waiting shuttlecar, and then
took a long, rambling route back to the Epimethean Commerce Bank,
cruising through the crowds with one eye on the overhead
traffic.
I hit the corner of Third and Kai on the dot
of 17:00, and there wasn’t a sign of the spy-eye in sight.
A moment later Mariko Cheng stepped out the
side door of the bank, and I looked up at her and smiled and said,
“Mis’ Cheng! Fancy meeting you here!”
Chapter Six
Cheng watched the show with a sort of puzzled
amusement. Blue-green light rippled across her face in time to the
music.
She hadn’t bothered to act surprised when I
greeted her at the bank. She had said hello, and after a little
chat about the weather I suggested that, as old friends bumping
into each other by chance, a celebratory drink might be in
order.
She agreed, and I suggested the Manhattan
Lounge at the New York.
That did surprise her a little, I
think, but she agreed again, and here we were. The spy-eye hadn’t
yet spotted me again, so far as I could see.
“Is it really worth the cost of a
zero-gravity field in here just for that?” she asked, pointing at
the floor show. The woman was bent almost double, the man behind
her pumping away. It wasn’t the same couple that had been in there
when I first checked the place out, but the act was the same.
“No,” I said, “It’s not. I’d bet you anything
you like that that’s not a zero-gravity field.”
She looked at me. “No? What is it, then? Or
what do you think it is?”
“It’s a holo,” I said. “A really top-quality
one, and those two lovelies are in orbit somewhere, transmitting
down here on a closed-circuit beam. It’s a lot cheaper than any
sort of zero gravity they could make at ground level. That’s why
the performers always exit through the top or bottom of the field
when they go to clean up, and never come out through the audience.
You can tell it’s not taped, because they’ll react to the audience
sometimes—I guess it’s a two-way hook-up—but those two are in
orbit. Literally.”
She looked back at the cylinder of white
light and stared for a moment, then flicked a hand in front of her
face.
“You’re right,” she said. She watched for
another moment. “It’s a good one, though—look, you can see every
hair.”
I nodded without looking, and our drinks
finally arrived, delivered by floater instead of through the table.
I suppose it had something to do with the “olde Earthe” motif.
Maybe the slow service did, too.
I sipped mine; it was decent enough. Cheng
sipped hers, and glanced back at the show.
“Mis’ Cheng,” I said, “I was hoping you could
tell me something.”
“Hm?” she said, as she turned back. “Oh, yes,
I’m sorry. Listen, call me Mariko.” She smiled.
I smiled back. “Call me Hsing,” I said.
That startled her, I think, and she looked at
me a bit more closely, but didn’t ask anything.
I appreciated that. I like my first name just
fine, but I don’t want it used lightly—and I don’t much like
discussing it, either. It’s just a quirk of mine. I have plenty.
Ask anyone at Lui’s. They call me Hsing there, and we don’t discuss
it.
I like Lui’s; they don’t discuss anybody’s
quirks there.
“Hsing,” Cheng said. “All right.” Her tone
might have been a shade hostile, but I still didn’t want her
calling me anything but Hsing.
I smiled. “I was hoping, Mariko, that you
could tell me something about Westwall Redevelopment. Anything at
all.”
She studied my face for a moment, so I tried
to look sincere and harmless—which I hope I’m not, but at times
it’s a good way to look. Then she glanced around at the neighboring
tables.
I had picked a quiet corner; the only human
within natural earshot was an old man wearing an antique videoset,
and with the plugs in his ears and patches on his eyes he wasn’t
going to be
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