the
garden well, with their breezes and laughter and classy women leaning out of
them. It was a nice goal, stealing for windows. It certainly felt more romantic
than stealing for money, which is what it looked like he was doing most of the
time.
Bruce spotted the address, 2835 Begonia, and walked in the
front door. Taking the stairs up to the third floor he examined the interior
halls thoughtfully. Dust and grime, but much, much less than in his place. Ms.
Redelso had done quite well for herself since selling the old family studio in
the aft. Finding the right apartment, Bruce rang the buzzer and waited.
He had to hurry, window–wise. There was no point getting a
window after the ship had stopped and they were all living in caves or
whatever. Then everyone would have windows. They would be worthless. Worse than
worthless — they would be liabilities. Letting in cold and dirt and leopards.
He had no use for those windows.
The door opened, revealing a modestly attractive middle–aged
woman. Bruce recognized her from his research: she was the semi–famous,
artistically–middling painter, Charlotte Redelso.
“Maintenance,” Bruce said, by way of introduction. “You have
a problem with your heat?”
Confused, Charlotte shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”
She looked behind her. “Nope, we never have problems here.”
Of course not, woman, you live in a tropical paradise.
“Hmmmmmmmm,” Bruce said, checking his terminal. “Looks like we’ve got a problem,
then. Do you mind if I come in and take a look?”
“Well, actually…”
“Thanks,” Bruce said, “my boss will kill me if this doesn’t
get looked at. I’m not kidding. She has these knives, and is just constantly
looking for an excuse to use them. It’s a real bad scene. Thank you for your
understanding.” As predicted, this barrage of information overwhelmed Redelso,
who retreated inside the apartment, wide–eyed.
Bruce followed her inside, putting his terminal carefully
into his webbing. At the center of the room, he stopped and looked around
slowly, turning a complete circle. Spotting the membrane above the door he had
just entered with a look of surprise, he reached up and prodded it with a
temperature probe. After examining the probe with the most thoughtful
expression he could muster, he made a noise that he hoped sounded like
something a man who was solving a complicated problem would make. He turned
again, passing a quick smile at Redelso as he did so. “Looks okay so far.” He
moved across the apartment to one of the two — two! — windows and peered
outside.
“You open these windows very often?”
“Sometimes. How often is often?”
Bruce furrowed his brow. “I honestly don’t know. Eighty?” He
turned back to the window, opened it, and stuck his head out.
“Eighty what?” she asked.
“That’s an excellent question,” he responded, closing the
window. “I’ll have to look it up. Anyways, our sensors might be getting
confused when you open or close the window. I’ll make a note of it, so we don’t
bother you anymore.”
“Thanks,” she said, exasperation showing. “I guess?”
“You’re very welcome,” he said with a big smile. “Have a
nice day.”
§
From the roof of the building directly across from Charlotte
Redelso’s window, Bruce aimed the piton gun and fired. As the piton sailed
away, the thought occurred to him that he probably should have aimed above the
window rather than directly at it. The nano–piton smacked into the window,
bouncing off it with a crack before clattering to the ground below. Wide–eyed,
Bruce quickly recoiled the piton and cable before ducking down behind the short
wall at the edge of the roof. After a couple of minutes had passed without any
cries of alarm, he cautiously peeked over the edge. No lights on.
Let’s try
that again.
Another thought lurched into view, this time thankfully
before he fired. Redelso had two windows in her apartment, and he had
garden well, with their breezes and laughter and classy women leaning out of
them. It was a nice goal, stealing for windows. It certainly felt more romantic
than stealing for money, which is what it looked like he was doing most of the
time.
Bruce spotted the address, 2835 Begonia, and walked in the
front door. Taking the stairs up to the third floor he examined the interior
halls thoughtfully. Dust and grime, but much, much less than in his place. Ms.
Redelso had done quite well for herself since selling the old family studio in
the aft. Finding the right apartment, Bruce rang the buzzer and waited.
He had to hurry, window–wise. There was no point getting a
window after the ship had stopped and they were all living in caves or
whatever. Then everyone would have windows. They would be worthless. Worse than
worthless — they would be liabilities. Letting in cold and dirt and leopards.
He had no use for those windows.
The door opened, revealing a modestly attractive middle–aged
woman. Bruce recognized her from his research: she was the semi–famous,
artistically–middling painter, Charlotte Redelso.
“Maintenance,” Bruce said, by way of introduction. “You have
a problem with your heat?”
Confused, Charlotte shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”
She looked behind her. “Nope, we never have problems here.”
Of course not, woman, you live in a tropical paradise.
“Hmmmmmmmm,” Bruce said, checking his terminal. “Looks like we’ve got a problem,
then. Do you mind if I come in and take a look?”
“Well, actually…”
“Thanks,” Bruce said, “my boss will kill me if this doesn’t
get looked at. I’m not kidding. She has these knives, and is just constantly
looking for an excuse to use them. It’s a real bad scene. Thank you for your
understanding.” As predicted, this barrage of information overwhelmed Redelso,
who retreated inside the apartment, wide–eyed.
Bruce followed her inside, putting his terminal carefully
into his webbing. At the center of the room, he stopped and looked around
slowly, turning a complete circle. Spotting the membrane above the door he had
just entered with a look of surprise, he reached up and prodded it with a
temperature probe. After examining the probe with the most thoughtful
expression he could muster, he made a noise that he hoped sounded like
something a man who was solving a complicated problem would make. He turned
again, passing a quick smile at Redelso as he did so. “Looks okay so far.” He
moved across the apartment to one of the two — two! — windows and peered
outside.
“You open these windows very often?”
“Sometimes. How often is often?”
Bruce furrowed his brow. “I honestly don’t know. Eighty?” He
turned back to the window, opened it, and stuck his head out.
“Eighty what?” she asked.
“That’s an excellent question,” he responded, closing the
window. “I’ll have to look it up. Anyways, our sensors might be getting
confused when you open or close the window. I’ll make a note of it, so we don’t
bother you anymore.”
“Thanks,” she said, exasperation showing. “I guess?”
“You’re very welcome,” he said with a big smile. “Have a
nice day.”
§
From the roof of the building directly across from Charlotte
Redelso’s window, Bruce aimed the piton gun and fired. As the piton sailed
away, the thought occurred to him that he probably should have aimed above the
window rather than directly at it. The nano–piton smacked into the window,
bouncing off it with a crack before clattering to the ground below. Wide–eyed,
Bruce quickly recoiled the piton and cable before ducking down behind the short
wall at the edge of the roof. After a couple of minutes had passed without any
cries of alarm, he cautiously peeked over the edge. No lights on.
Let’s try
that again.
Another thought lurched into view, this time thankfully
before he fired. Redelso had two windows in her apartment, and he had
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