Chicken Little

By Cory Doctorow

  The first lesson Leon learned at the ad agency was: nobody is your
  friend at the ad agency.

  Take today: Brautigan was going to see an actual vat, at an actual
  clinic, which housed an actual target consumer, and he wasn't taking
  Leon.

  "Don't sulk, it's unbecoming," Brautigan said, giving him one of those
  tight-lipped smiles where he barely got his mouth over those big,
  horsey, comical teeth of his. They were disarming, those pearly whites.
  "It's out of the question. Getting clearance to visit a vat in person,
  that's a one-month, two-month process. Background checks. Biometrics.
  Interviews with their psych staff. The physicals: they have to take a
  census of your microbial nation. It takes time, Leon. You might be a
  mayfly in a mayfly hurry, but the man in the vat, he's got a lot of
  time on his hands. No skin off his dick if you get held up for a month
  or two."

  "Bullshit," Leon said. "It's all a show. They've got a brick wall a
  hundred miles high around the front, and a sliding door around the
  back. There's always an exception in these protocols. There has to be."

  "When you're 180 years old and confined to a vat, you don't make
  exceptions. Not if you want to go on to 181."

  "You're telling me that if the old monster suddenly developed a rare,
  fast-moving liver cancer and there was only one oncologist in the whole
  god-damned world who could make it better, you're telling me that guy
  would be sent home to France or whatever, `No thanks, we're OK, you
  don't have clearance to see the patient'?"

  "I'm telling you the monster doesn't have a liver. What that man has,
  he has machines and nutrients and systems."

  "And if a machine breaks down?"

  "The man who invented that machine works for the monster. He lives on
  the monster's private estate, with his family. Their microbial nations
  are identical to the monster's. He is not only the emperor of their
  lives, he is the emperor of the lives of their intestinal flora. If the
  machine that man invented stopped working, he would be standing by the
  vat in less than two minutes, with his staff, all in disposable,
  sterile bunny suits, murmuring reassuring noises as he calmly, expertly
  fitted one of the ten replacements he has standing by, the ten
  replacements he checks, personally, every single day, to make sure that
  they are working."

  Leon opened his mouth, closed it. He couldn't help himself, he snorted
  a laugh. "Really?"

  Brautigan nodded.

  "And what if none of the machines worked?"

  "If that man couldn't do it, then his rival, who also lives on the
  monster's estate, who has developed the second-most-exciting liver
  replacement technology in the history of the world, who burns to try it
  on the man in the vat--that man would be there in ten minutes, and the
  first man, and his family--"

  "Executed?"

  Brautigan made a disappointed noise. "Come on, he's a quadrillionaire,
  not a Bond villain. No, that man would be demoted to nearly nothing,
  but given one tiny chance to redeem himself: invent a technology better
  than the one that's currently running in place of the vat-man's liver,
  and you will be restored to your fine place with your fine clothes and
  your wealth and your privilege."

  "And if he fails?"

  Brautigan shrugged. "Then the man in the vat is out an unmeasurably
  minuscule fraction of his personal fortune. He takes the loss, applies
  for a research tax credit for it, and deducts it from the pittance he
  deigns to send to the IRS every year."

  "Shit."

  Brautigan slapped his hands together. "It's wicked, isn't it? All that
  money and power and money and money?"

  Leon tried to remember that Brautigan wasn't his friend. It was those
  teeth, they were so disarming. Who could be suspicious of a man who was
  so horsey you wanted to feed him sugar cubes? "It's something else."

  "You now know about ten thousand times more about the people in the
  vats than your average cit. But you haven't got even the shadow of the
  picture yet, buddy. It took decades of relationship-building for Ate to
  sell its first product to a vat-person."

  And we haven't sold anything else since, Leon thought, but he didn't
  say it. No one would say it at Ate. The agency pitched itself as a
  powerhouse, a success in a field full of successes. It was the go-to
  agency for servicing the "ultra-high-net-worth individual," and yet . .
  .

  One sale.

  "And we haven't sold anything since." Brautigan said it without a hint
  of shame. "And yet, this entire building, this entire agency, the
  salaries and the designers and the consultants: all of it paid for by
  clipping the toenails of that fortune. Which means that one more
  sale--"

  He gestured around. The offices were sumptuous, designed to impress the
  functionaries of the fortunes in the vats. A trick of light and scent
  and wind made you feel as though you were in an ancient forest glade as
  soon as you came through the door, though no forest was in evidence.
  The reception desktop was a sheet of pitted tombstone granite, the
  unreadable smooth epitaph peeking around the edges of the old-fashioned
  typewriter that had been cunningly reworked to serve as a slightly less
  old-fashioned keyboard. The receptionist--presently ignoring them with
  professional verisimilitude--conveyed beauty, intelligence, and
  motherly concern, all by means of dress, bearing, and makeup. Ate
  employed a small team of stylists that worked on all public-facing
  employees; Leon had endured a just-so rumpling of his sandy hair and
  some carefully applied fraying at the cuffs and elbows of his jacket
  that morning.

  "So no, Leon, buddy, I am not taking you down to meet my vat-person.
  But I will get you started on a path that may take you there, someday,
  if you're very good and prove yourself out here. Once you've paid your
  dues."

  Leon had paid plenty of dues--more than this blow-dried turd ever did.
  But he smiled and snuffled it up like a good little worm, hating
  himself. "Hit me."

  "Look, we've been pitching vat-products for six years now without a
  single hit. Plenty of people have come through that door and stepped
  into the job you've got now, and they've all thrown a million ideas in
  the air, and every one came smashing to earth. We've never
  systematically cataloged those ideas, never got them in any kind of
  grid that will let us see what kind of territory we've already
  explored, where the holes are . . ." He looked meaningfully at Leon.

  "You want me to catalog every failed pitch in the agency's history."
  Leon didn't hide his disappointment. That was the kind of job you gave
  to an intern, not a junior account exec.

  Brautigan clicked his horsey teeth together, gave a laugh like a
  whinny, and left Ate's offices, admitting a breath of the boring air
  that circulated out there in the real world. The receptionist radiated
  matronly care in Leon's direction. He leaned her way and her fingers
  thunked on the mechanical keys of her converted Underwood Noiseless, a
  machine-gun rattle. He waited until she was done, then she turned that
  caring, loving smile back on him.

  "It's all in your work space, Leon--good luck with it."

  ***

  It seemed to Leon that the problems faced by immortal quadrillionaires
  in vats wouldn't be that different from those facing mere mortals. Once
  practically anything could be made for practically nothing, everything
  was practically worthless. No one needed to discover anymore-- just
  combine, just invent. Then you could either hit a button and print it
  out on your desktop fab or down at the local depot for bigger jobs, or
  if you needed the kind of fabrication a printer couldn't handle, there
  were plenty of on-demand jobbers who'd have some worker in a distant
  country knock it out overnight and you'd have it in hermetic FedEx
  packaging on your desktop by the morning.

  Looking through the Ate files, he could see that he wasn't the last one
  to follow this line of reasoning. Every account exec had come up with
  pitches that involved things that couldn't be fabbed--precious gewgaws
  that needed a trained master to produce--or things that hadn't been
  fabbed--antiques, one-of-a-kinds, fetish objects from history. And all
  of it had met with crashing indifference from the vat-people, who could
  hire any master they wanted, who could buy entire warehouses full of
  antiques.

  The normal megarich got offered experiences: a ticket to space, a
  chance to hunt the last member of an endangered species, the
  opportunity to kill a man and get away with it, a deep-ocean sub to the
  bottom of the Marianas Trench. The people in the vat had done plenty of
  those things before they'd ended up in the vats. Now they were
  metastatic, these hyperrich, lumps of curdling meat in the pickling
  solution of a hundred vast machines that laboriously kept them alive
  amid their cancer blooms and myriad failures. Somewhere in that tangle
  of hoses and wires was something that was technically a person, and
  also technically a corporation, and, in many cases, technically a
  sovereign state.

  Each concentration of wealth was an efficient machine, meshed in a
  million ways with the mortal economy. You interacted with the vats when
  you bought hamburgers, Internet connections, movies, music, books,
  electronics, games, transportation--the money left your hands and was
  sieved through their hoses and tubes, flushed back out into the world
  where other mortals would touch it.

  But there was no easy way to touch the money at its most concentrated,
  purest form. It was like a theoretical superdense element from the
  first instant of the universe's creation, money so dense it stopped
  acting like money; money so dense it changed state when you chipped a
  piece of it off.

  Leon's predeces sors had been shrewd and clever. They had walked the
  length and breadth of the problem space of providing services and
  products to a person who was money who was a state who was a vat. Many
  of the nicer grace notes in the office came from those failed
  pitches--the business with the lights and the air, for example.

  Leon had a good education, the kind that came with the mathematics of
  multidimensional space. He kept throwing axes at his chart of the
  failed inventions of Ate, Inc., mapping out the many ways in which they
  were similar and dissimilar. The pattern that emerged was easy to
  understand.

  They'd tried everything.

  ***

  Brautigan's whinny was the most humiliating sound Leon had ever heard,
  in all his working life.

  "No, of course you can't know what got sold to the vat-person! That was
  part of the deal--it was why the payoff was so large. No one knows what
  we sold to the vat-person. Not me, not the old woman. The man who sold
  it? He cashed out years ago, and hasn't been seen or heard from since.
  Silent partner, preferred shares, controlling interest--but he's the
  invisible man. We talk to him through lawyers who talk to lawyers who,
  it is rumored, communicate by means of notes left under a tombstone in
  a tiny cemetery on Pitcairn Island, and row in and out in longboats to
  get his instruction."

  The hyperbole was grating on Leon. Third day on the job, and the
  sun-dappled, ozonated pseudoforested environment felt as stale as an
  old gym bag (there was, in fact, an old gym bag under his desk, waiting
  for the day he finally pulled himself off the job in time to hit the
  complimentary gym). Brautigan was grating on him more than the
  hyperbole.

  "I'm not an asshole, Brautigan, so stop treating me like one. You hired
  me to do a job, but all I'm getting from you is shitwork, sarcasm, and
  secrecy." The alliteration came out without his intending it to, but he
  was good at that sort of thing. "So here's what I want to know: is
  there any single solitary reason for me to come to work tomorrow, or
  should I just sit at home, drawing a salary until you get bored of
  having me on the payroll and can my ass?"

  It wasn't entirely spontaneous. Leon's industrial psychology background
  was pretty good-- he'd gotten straight As and an offer of a post-doc,
  none of which had interested him nearly so much as the practical
  applications of the sweet science of persuasion. He understood that
  Brautigan had been pushing him around to see how far he could be
  pushed. No one pushed like an ad guy--if you could sweet-talk someone
  into craving something, it followed that you could goad him into hating
  something just as much. Two faces of a coin and all that.

  Brautigan faked anger, but Leon had spent three days studying his
  tells, and Leon could see that the emotion was no more sincere than
  anything else about the man. Carefully, Leon flared his nostrils,
  brought his chest up, inched his chin higher. He sold his outrage, sold
  it like it was potato chips, over-the-counter securities, or
  under-the-counter diet pills. Brautigan tried to sell his anger in
  return. Leon was a no sale. Brautigan bought.

  "There's a new one," he said, in a conspiratorial whisper.

  "A new what?" Leon whispered. They were still chest to chest, quivering
  with angry body language, but Leon let another part of his mind deal
  with that.

  "A new monster," Brautigan said. "Gone to his vat at a mere 103.
  Youngest ever. Unplanned." He looked up, down, left, right. "An
  accident. Impossible accident. Impossible, but he had it, which means?"

  "It was no accident," Leon said. "Police?" It was impossible not to
  fall into Brautigan's telegraphed speech style. That was a persuasion
  thing, too, he knew. Once you talked like him, you'd sympathize with
  him. And vice versa, of course. They were converging on a single
  identity. Bonding. It was intense, like make-up sex for coworkers.
  "He's a sovereign three ways. An African republic, an island, one of
  those little Baltic countries. On the other side of the international
  vowel line. Mxlplx or something. They swung for him at the WTO, the
  UN--whole bodies of international trade law for this one. So no regular
  cops; this is diplomatic corps stuff. And, of course, he's not dead, so
  that makes it more complicated."

  "How?"

  "Dead people become corporations. They get managed by boards of
  directors who act predictably, if not rationally. Living people,
  they're flamboyant. Seismic. Unpredictable. But. On the other hand." He
  waggled his eyebrows.

  "On the other hand, they buy things."

  "Once in a very long while, they do."
    __________________________________________________________________

  Leon's life was all about discipline. He'd heard a weight-loss guru
  once explain that the key to maintaining a slim figure was to really
  "listen to your body" and only eat until it signaled that it was full.
  Leon had listened to his body. It wanted three entire pepperoni and
  mushroom pizzas every single day, plus a rather large cake. And malted
  milkshakes, the old-fashioned kind you could make in your kitchen with
  an antique Hamilton Beach machine in avocado-colored plastic, served up
  in a tall red anodized aluminum cup. Leon's body was extremely verbose
  on what it wanted him to shovel into it.

  So Leon ignored his body. He ignored his mind when it told him that
  what it wanted to do was fall asleep on the sofa with the video
  following his eyes around the room, one of those shows that followed
  your neural activity and tried to tune the drama to maximize your
  engrossment. Instead, he made his mind sit up in bed, absorbing many
  improving books from the mountain he'd printed out and stacked there.

  Leon ignored his limbic system when it told him to stay in bed for an
  extra hour every morning when his alarm detonated. He ignored the
  fatigue messages he got while he worked through an hour of yoga and
  meditation before breakfast.

  He wound himself up tight with will and it was will that made him stoop
  to pick up the laundry on the stairs while he was headed up and neatly
  fold it away when he got to the spacious walk-in dressing room attached
  to the master bedroom. (The apartment had been a good way to absorb his
  Ate signing bonus--safer than keeping the money in cash, with the
  currency fluctuations and all. Manhattan real estate was a century-long
  good buy and was more stable than bonds, derivatives or funds.) It was
  discipline that made him pay every bill as it came in. It was all that
  which made him wash every dish when he was done with it and assiduously
  stop at the grocer's every night on the way home to buy anything that
  had run out the previous day.

  His parents came to visit from Anguilla and they teased him about how
  orga nized he was, so unlike the fat little boy who'd been awarded the
  "Hansel and Gretel prize" by his sixth-grade teacher for leaving a
  trail behind him everywhere he went. What they didn't know was that he
  was still that kid, and every act of conscientious, precise,
  buttoned-down finicky habit was, in fact, the product of relentless,
  iron determination not to be that kid again. He not only ignored that
  inner voice of his that called out for pizzas and told him to sleep in,
  take a cab instead of walking, lie down and let the video soar and dip
  with his moods, a drip-feed of null and nothing to while away the
  hours--he actively denied it, shouted it into submission, locked it up,
  and never let it free.

  And that--that--that was why he was going to figure out how to sell
  something new to the man in the vat: because anyone who could amass
  that sort of fortune and go down to life eternal in an ever-expanding
  kingdom of machines would be the sort of person who had spent a life
  denying himself, and Leon knew just what that felt like.

  ***

  The Lower East Side had ebbed and flowed over the years: poor, rich,
  middle-class, superrich, poor. One year the buildings were funky and
  reminiscent of the romantic squalor that had preceded this era of
  light-speed buckchasing. The next year, the buildings were merely
  squalorous, the landlords busted and the receivers in bankruptcy
  slapping up paper-thin walls to convert giant airy lofts into rooming
  houses. The corner stores sold blunt skins to trustafarian hipsters
  with a bag of something gengineered to disrupt some extremely specific
  brain structures; then they sold food-stamp milk to desperate mothers
  who wouldn't meet their eyes. The shopkeepers had the knack of sensing
  changes in the wind and adjusting their stock accordingly.

  Walking around his neighborhood, Leon sniffed change in the wind. The
  shopkeepers seemed to have more discount, high-calorie wino-drink; less
  designer low-carb energy food with FDA-mandated booklets explaining
  their nutritional claims. A sprinkling of for rent signs. A
  construction site that hadn't had anyone working on it for a week now,
  the padlocked foreman's shed growing a mossy coat of graffiti.

  Leon didn't mind. He'd lived rough--not just student-rough, either. His
  parents had gone to Anguilla from Romania, chasing the tax-haven set,
  dreaming of making a killing working as bookkeepers, security guards.
  They'd mistimed the trip, arrived in the middle of an econopocalytpic
  collapse and ended up living in a vertical slum that had once been a
  luxury hotel. The sole Romanians among the smuggled Mexicans who were
  de facto slaves, they'd traded their ability to write desperate letters
  to the Mexican consulate for Spanish lessons for Leon. The Mexicans
  dwindled away--the advantage of de facto slaves over de jure slaves is
  that you can just send the de facto slaves away when the economy tanks,
  taking their feed and care off your books--until it was just them
  there, and without the safety of the crowd, they'd been spotted by
  local authorities and had to go underground. Going back to Bucharest
  was out of the question--the airfare was as far out of reach as one of
  the private jets the tax-evaders and high-rolling gamblers flew in and
  out of Wallblake Airport.

  From rough to rougher. Leon's family spent three years underground,
  living as roadside hawkers, letting the sun bake them to an ethnically
  indeterminate brown. A decade later, when his father had successfully
  built up his little bookkeeping business and his mother was running a
  smart dress shop for the cruise ship day-trippers, those days seemed
  like a dream. But once he left for stateside university and found
  himself amid the soft, rich children of the fortunes his father had
  tabulated, it all came back to him, and he wondered if any of these
  children in carefully disheveled rags would ever be able to pick
  through the garbage for their meals.

  The rough edge on the LES put him at his ease, made him feel like he
  was still ahead of the game, in possession of something his neighbors
  could never have--the ability to move fluidly between the worlds of the
  rich and the poor. Somewhere in those worlds, he was sure, was the
  secret to chipping a crumb off one of the great fortunes of the world.

  ***

  "Visitor for you," Carmela said. Carmela, that was the receptionist's
  name. She was Puerto Rican, but so many generations in that he spoke
  better Spanish than she did. "I put him in the Living Room." That was
  one of the three boardrooms at Ate, the name a bad pun, every stick of
  furniture in it an elaborate topiary sculpture of living wood and
  shrubbery. It was surprisingly comfortable, and the very subtle breeze
  had an even more subtle breath of honeysuckle that was so real he
  suspected it was piped in from a nursery on another level. That's how
  he would have done it: the best fake was no fake at all.

  "Who?" He liked Carmela. She was all business, but her business was
  compassion, a shoulder to cry on and an absolutely discreet gossip
  repository for the whole firm. "Envoy," she said. "His name's Buhle. I
  ran his face and name against our dossiers and came up with practically
  nothing. He's from Montenegro, originally, I have that much."

  "Envoy from whom?" She didn't answer, just looked very meaningfully at
  him.

  The new vat-person had sent him an envoy. His heart began to thump and
  his cuffs suddenly felt tight at his wrists. "Thanks, Carmela." He shot
  his cuffs.

  "You look fine," she said. "I've got the kitchen on standby, and the
  intercom's listening for my voice. Just let me know what I can do for
  you."

  He gave her a weak smile. This was why she was the center of the whole
  business, the soul of Ate. Thank you, he mouthed, and she ticked a
  smart salute off her temple with one finger.

  ***

  The envoy was out of place in Ate, but she didn't hold it against them.
  This he knew within seconds of setting food into the Living Room. She
  got up, wiped her hands on her sensible jeans, brushed some iron-gray
  hair off her face, and smiled at him, an expression that seemed to say,
  "Well, this is a funny thing, the two of us, meeting here, like this."
  He'd put her age at around forty, and she was hippy and a little
  wrinkled and didn't seem to care at all.

  "You must be Leon," she said, and took his hand. Short fingernails,
  warm, dry palm, firm handshake. "I love this room!" She waved her arm
  around in an all-encompassing circle. "Fantastic."

  He found himself half in love with her and he hadn't said a word. "It's
  nice to meet you, Ms.--"

  "Ria," she said. "Call me Ria." She sat down on one of the topiary
  chairs, kicking off her comfortable Hush Puppies and pulling her legs
  up to sit cross-legged.

  "I've never gone barefoot in this room," he said, looking at her
  calloused feet--feet that did a lot of barefooting.

  "Do it," she said, making scooting gestures. "I insist. Do it!"

  He kicked off the handmade shoes--designed by an architect who'd given
  up on literary criticism to pursue cobblery--and used his toes to peel
  off his socks. Under his feet, the floor was-- warm? cool?--it was
  perfect. He couldn't pin down the texture, but it made every nerve
  ending on the sensitive soles of his feet tingle pleasantly.

  "I'm thinking something that goes straight into the nerves," she said.
  "It has to be. Extraordinary."

  "You know your way around this place better than I do," he said.

  She shrugged. "This room was clearly designed to impress. It would be
  stupid to be so cool-obsessed that I failed to let it impress me. I'm
  impressed. Also," she dropped her voice, "also, I'm wondering if
  anyone's ever snuck in here and screwed on that stuff." She looked
  seriously at him and he tried to keep a straight face, but the chuckle
  wouldn't stay put in his chest, and it broke loose, and a laugh
  followed it, and she whooped and they both laughed, hard, until their
  stomachs hurt.

  He moved toward another topiary easy chair, then stopped, bent down,
  and sat on the mossy floor, letting it brush against his feet, his
  ankles, the palms of his hands and his wrists. "If no one ever has,
  it's a damned shame," he said, with mock gravity. She smiled, and she
  had dimples and wrinkles and crow's-feet, so her whole face smiled. "Do
  you want something to eat? Drink? We can get pretty much anything
  here--"

  "Let's get to it," she said. "I don't want to be rude, but the good
  part isn't the food. I get all the food I need. I'm here for something
  else. The good part, Leon."

  He drew in a deep breath. "The good part," he said. "Okay, let's get to
  it. I want to meet your--" What? Employer? Patron? Owner? He waved his
  hand.

  "You can call him Buhle," she said. "That's the name of the parent
  company, anyway. Of course you do. We have an entire corporate
  intelligence arm that knew you'd want to meet with Buhle before you
  did." Leon had always assumed that his work spaces and communications
  were monitored by his employer, but now it occurred to him that any
  system designed from the ground up to subject its users to scrutiny
  without their knowledge would be a bonanza for anyone else who wanted
  to sniff them, since they could use the system's own capabilities to
  hide their snooping from the victims.

  "That's impressive," he said. "Do you monitor everyone who might want
  to pitch something to Buhle, or . . ." He let the thought hang out
  there.

  "Oh, a little of this and a little of that. We've got a competitive
  intelligence subdepartment that monitors everyone who might want to
  sell us something or sell something that might compete with us. It
  comes out to a pretty wide net. Add to that the people who might
  personally be a threat or opportunity for Buhle and you've got, well,
  let's say an appreciable slice of human activity under close
  observation."

  "How close can it be? Sounds like you've got some big haystacks."

  "We're good at finding the needles," she said. "But we're always
  looking for new ways to find them. That's something you could sell us,
  you know."

  He shrugged. "If we had a better way of finding relevance in mountains
  of data, we'd be using it ourselves to figure out what to sell you."

  "Good point. Let's turn this around. Why should Buhle meet with you?"

  He was ready for this one. "We have a track record of designing
  products that suit people in his . . ." Talking about the vat-born lent
  itself to elliptical statements. Maybe that's why Brautigan had
  developed that annoying telegraph talk.

  "You've designed one such product," she said.

  "That's one more than almost anyone else can claim." There were two
  other firms like Ate. He thought of them in his head as Sefen and Nein,
  as though invoking their real names might cause them to appear. "I'm
  new here, but I'm not alone. We're tied in with some of the finest
  designers, engineers, research scientists . . ." Again with the
  ellipsis. "You wanted to get to the good part. This isn't the good
  part, Ria. You've got smart people. We've got smart people. What we
  have, what you don't have, is smart people who are impedance-mismatched
  to your organization. Every organization has quirks that make it
  unsuited to working with some good people and good ideas. You've got
  your no-go areas, just like anyone else. We're good at mining that
  space, the no-go space, the mote in your eye, for things that you
  need."

  She nodded and slapped her hands together like someone about to start a
  carpentry project. "That's a great spiel," she said.

  He felt a little blush creep into his cheeks. "I think about this a
  lot, rehearse it in my head."

  "That's good," she said. "Shows you're in the right line of business.
  Are you a Daffy Duck man?"

  He cocked his head. "More of a Bugs man," he said, finally, wondering
  where this was going.

  "Go download a cartoon called `The Stupor Salesman,' and get back to
  me, okay?" She stood up, wriggling her toes on the mossy surface and
  then stepping back into her shoes. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his
  palms on his legs. She must have seen the expression on his face
  because she made all those dimples and wrinkles and crow's-feet appear
  again and took his hand warmly. "You did very well," she said. "We'll
  talk again soon." She let go of his hand and knelt down to rub her
  hands over the floor. "In the meantime, you've got a pretty sweet gig,
  don't you?"

  ***

  "The Stupor Salesman" turned out to feature Daffy Duck as a traveling
  salesman bent on selling something to a bank robber who is holed up in
  a suburban bungalow. Daffy produces a stream of ever more improbable
  wares, and is violently rebuffed with each attempt. Finally, one of his
  attempts manages to blow up the robber's hideout, just as Daffy is once
  again jiggling the doorknob. As the robber and Daffy fly through the
  air, Daffy brandishes the doorknob at him and shouts, "Hey, bub, I know
  just what you need! You need a house to go with this doorknob!"

  The first time he watched it, Leon snorted at the punchline, but on
  subsequent viewings, he found himself less and less amused. Yes, he was
  indeed trying to come up with a need that this Buhle didn't know he
  had--he was assuming Buhle was a he, but no one was sure--and then fill
  it. From Buhle's perspective, Leon figured, life would be just fine if
  he gave up and never bothered him again.

  ***

  And yet Ria had been so nice--so understanding and gentle, he thought
  there must be something else to this. And she had made a point of
  telling him that he had a "sweet gig" and he had to admit that it was
  true. He was contracted for five years with Ate, and would get a hefty
  bonus if they canned him before then. If he managed to score a sale to
  Buhle or one of the others, he'd be indescribably wealthy.

  In the meantime, Ate took care of his every need.

  But it was so empty there--that's what got him. There were a hundred
  people on Ate's production team, bright sorts like him, and most of
  them only used the office to park a few knickknacks and impress
  out-of-town relatives. Ate hired the best, charged them with the
  impossible, and turned them loose. They got lost.

  Carmela knew them all, of course. She was Ate's den mother.

  "We should all get together," he said. "Maybe a weekly staff meeting?"

  "Oh, they tried that," she said, sipping from the triple-filtered water
  that was always at her elbow. "No one had much to say. The
  collaboration spaces update themselves with all the interesting leads
  from everyone's research, and the suggestion engine is pretty good at
  making sure you get an overview of anything relevant to your work going
  on." She shrugged. "This place is a show room, more than anything else.
  I always figured you had to give creative people room to be creative."

  He mulled this over. "How long do you figure they'll keep this place
  open if it doesn't sell anything to one of the vat-people?"

  "I try not to think about that too much," she said lightly. "I figure
  either we don't find something, run out of time and shut--and there's
  nothing I can do about it; or we find something in time and stay
  open--and there's nothing I can do about it."

  "That's depressing."

  "I think of it as liberating. It's like that lady said, Leon, you've
  got a sweet gig. You can make anything you can imagine, and if you hit
  one out of the park, you'll attain orbit and never reenter the
  atmosphere."

  "Do the other account execs come around for pep talks?"

  "Everyone needs a little help now and then," she said.
    __________________________________________________________________

  Ria met him for lunch at a supper club in the living room of an
  eleventh floor apartment in a slightly run-down ex-doorman building in
  Midtown. The cooks were a middle-aged couple, he was Thai, she was
  Hungarian, the food was eclectic, light, and spicy, blending paprika
  and chilis in a nose-watering cocktail.

  There were only two other diners in the tiny room for the early
  seating. They were another couple, two young gay men, tourists from the
  Netherlands, wearing crease-proof sports jackets and barely there
  barefoot hiking shoes. They spoke excellent English, and chatted
  politely about the sights they'd seen so far in New York, before
  falling into Dutch and leaving Ria and Leon to concentrate on each
  other and the food, which emerged from the kitchen in a series of ever
  more wonderful courses.

  Over fluffy, caramelized fried bananas and Thai iced coffee, Ria
  effusively praised the food to their hosts, then waited politely while
  Leon did the same. The hosts were genuinely delighted to have fed them
  so successfully, and were only too happy to talk about their recipes,
  their grown children, the other diners they'd entertained over the
  years.

  Outside, standing on Thirty-fourth Street between Lex and Third, a cool
  summer evening breeze and purple summer twilight skies, Leon patted his
  stomach and closed his eyes and groaned.

  "Ate too much, didn't you?" she said.

  "It was like eating my mother's cooking--she just kept putting more on
  the plate. I couldn't help it."

  "Did you enjoy it?"

  He opened his eyes. "You're kidding, right? That was probably the most
  incredible meal I've eaten in my entire life. It was like a parallel
  dimension of good food."

  She nodded vigorously and took his arm in a friendly, intimate gesture,
  led him toward Lexington. "You notice how time sort of stops when
  you're there? How the part of your brain that's going `what next? what
  next?' goes quiet?"

  "That's it! That's exactly it!" The buzz of the jetpacks on Lex grew
  louder as they neared the corner, like a thousand crickets in the sky.

  "Hate those things," she said, glaring up at the joyriders zipping
  past, scarves and capes streaming out behind them. "A thousand crashes
  upon your souls." She spat, theatrically.

  "You make them, though, don't you?"

  She laughed. "You've been reading up on Buhle then?"

  "Everything I can find." He'd bought small blocks of shares in all the
  public companies in which Buhle was a substantial owner, charging them
  to Ate's brokerage account, and then devoured their annual reports.
  There was lots more he could feel in the shadows: blind trusts holding
  more shares in still more companies. It was the standard corporate
  structure, a Flying Spaghetti Monster of interlocking directorships,
  offshore holdings, debt parking lots, and exotic matryoshka companies
  that seemed on the verge of devouring themselves.

  "Oy," she said. "Poor boy. Those aren't meant to be parsed. They're
  like the bramble patch around the sleeping princess, there to ensnare
  foolhardy knights who wish to court the virgin in the tower. Yes,
  Buhle's the largest jetpack manufacturer in the world, through a layer
  or two of misdirection." She inspected the uptown-bound horde, sculling
  the air with their fins and gloves, making course corrections and
  wibbles and wobbles that were sheer, joyful exhibitionism.

  "He did it for me," she said. "Have you noticed that they've gotten
  better in the past couple years? Quieter? That was us. We put a lot of
  thought into the campaign; the chop shops have been selling `loud pipes
  save lives' since the motorcycle days, and every tiny-dick flyboy
  wanted to have a pack that was as loud as a bulldozer. It took a lot of
  market smarts to turn it around; we had a low-end model we were selling
  way below cost that was close to those loud-pipe machines in decibel
  count; it was ugly and junky and fell apart. Naturally, we sold it
  through a different arm of the company that had totally different
  livery, identity, and everything. Then we started to cut into our
  margins on the high-end rides, and at the same time, we engineered them
  for a quieter and quieter run. We actually did some preproduction on a
  jetpack that was so quiet it actually absorbed noise, don't ask me to
  explain it, unless you've got a day or two to waste on the
  psycho-acoustics.

  "Every swish bourgeois was competing to see whose jetpack could run
  quieter, while the low-end was busily switching loyalty to our loud
  junk mobiles. The competition went out of business in a year, and then
  we dummied-up a bunch of consumer protection lawsuits that `forced'
  "--she drew air quotes--"us to recall the loud ones, rebuild them with
  pipes so engineered and tuned you could use them for the woodwinds
  section. And here we are." She gestured at the buzzing, whooshing
  fliers overhead.

  Leon tried to figure out if she was kidding, but she looked and sounded
  serious. "You're telling me that Buhle dropped, what, a billion?"

  "About eight billion, in the end."

  "Eight billion rupiah on a project to make the skies quieter?"

  "All told," she said. "We could have done it other ways, some of them
  cheaper. We could have bought some laws, or bought out the competition
  and changed their product line, but that's very, you know, blunt. This
  was sweet. Everyone got what they wanted in the end: fast rides, quiet
  skies, safe, cheap vehicles. Win win win."

  An old school flier with a jetpack as loud as the inside of an ice
  blender roared past, leaving thousands scowling in his wake.

  "That guy is plenty dedicated," she said. "He'll be machining his own
  replacement parts for that thing. No one's making them anymore."

  He tried a joke: "You're not going to send the Buhle ninjas to off him
  before he hits Union Square?"

  She didn't smile. "We don't use assassination," she said. "That's what
  I'm trying to convey to you, Leon."

  He crumbled. He'd blown it somehow, shown himself to be the boor he'd
  always feared he was.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess--look, it's all kind of hard to take in.
  The sums are staggering."

  "They're meaningless," she said. "That's the point. The sums are just a
  convenient way of directing power. Power is what matters."

  "I don't mean to offend you," he said carefully, "but that's a scary
  sounding thing to say."

  "Now you're getting it," she said, and took his arm again. "Drinks?"

  ***

  The limes for the daiquiris came from the trees around them on the
  rooftop conservatory. The trees were healthy working beasts, and the
  barman expertly inspected several limes before deftly twisting off a
  basket's worth and retreating to his workbench to juice them over his
  blender.

  "You have to be a member to drink here," Ria said, as they sat on the
  roof, watching the jetpacks scud past.

  "I'm not surprised," he said. "It must be expensive."

  "You can't buy your way in," she said. "You have to work it off. It's a
  co-op. I planted this whole row of trees." She waved her arm, sloshing
  a little daiquiri on the odd turf their loungers rested on. "I planted
  the mint garden over there." It was a beautiful little patch, decorated
  with rocks and favored with a small stream that wended its way through
  them.

  "Forgive me for saying this," he said, "but you must earn a lot of
  money. A lot, I'm thinking."

  She nodded, unembarrassed, even waggled her eyebrows a bit. "So you
  could, I don't know, you could probably build one of these on any of
  the buildings that Buhle owns in Manhattan. Just like this. Even keep a
  little staff on board. Give out memberships as perks for your senior
  management team."

  "That's right," she said. "I could."

  He drank his daiquiri. "I'm supposed to figure out why you don't,
  right?"

  She nodded. "Indeed." She drank. Her face suffused with pleasure. He
  took a moment to pay attention to the signals his tongue was
  transmitting to him. The drink was incredible. Even the glass was
  beautiful, thick, hand-blown, irregular. "Listen, Leon, I'll let you in
  on a secret. I want you to succeed. There's not much that surprises
  Buhle and even less that pleasantly surprises him. If you were to
  manage it . . ." She took another sip and looked intensely at him. He
  squirmed. Had he thought her matronly and sweet? She looked like she
  could lead a guerrilla force. Like she could wrestle a mugger to the
  ground and kick the shit out of him.

  "So a success for me would be a success for you?"

  "You think I'm after money," she said. "You're still not getting it.
  Think about the jetpacks, Leon. Think about what that power means."

  ***

  He meant to go home, but he didn't make it. His feet took him crosstown
  to the Ate offices, and he let himself in with his biometrics and his
  pass phrase and watched the marvelous dappled lights go through their
  warm-up cycle and then bathe him with their wonderful, calming light.
  Then the breeze, and now it was a nighttime forest, mossier and heavier
  than in the day. Either someone had really gone balls-out on the
  product design, or there really was an indoor forest somewhere in the
  building growing under diurnal lights, there solely to supply soothing
  woodsy air to the agency's office. He decided that the forest was the
  more likely explanation.

  He stood at Carmela's desk for a long time, then, gingerly, settled
  himself in her chair. It was plain and firm and well made, with just a
  little spring. Her funny little sculptural keyboard had keycaps that
  had worn smooth under her fingertips over the years, and there were
  shiny spots on the desk where her wrists had worn away the granite. He
  cradled his face in his palms, breathing in the nighttime forest air,
  and tried to make sense of the night.

  The Living Room was nighttime dark, but it still felt glorious on his
  bare feet, and then, moments later, on his bare chest and legs. He lay
  on his stomach in his underwear and tried to name the sensation on his
  nerve endings and decided that "anticipation" was the best word for it,
  the feeling you get just beside the skin that's being scratched on your
  back, the skin that's next in line for a good scratching. It was
  glorious.

  How many people in the world would ever know what this felt like? Ate
  had licensed it out to a few select boutique hotels--he'd checked into
  it after talking with Ria the first time-- but that was it. All told,
  there were less than three thousand people in the world who'd ever felt
  this remarkable feeling. Out of eight billion. He tried to do the
  division in his head but kept losing the zeroes. It was a thousandth of
  a percent? A ten thousandth of a percent? No one on Anguilla would ever
  feel it: not the workers in the vertical slums, but also not the mere
  millionaires in the grand houses with their timeshare jets.

  Something about that . . .

  He wished he could talk to Ria some more. She scared him, but she also
  made him feel good. Like she was the guide he'd been searching for all
  his life. At this point, he would have settled for Brautigan. Anyone
  who could help him make sense of what felt like the biggest, scariest
  opportunity of his entire career.

  He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, the lights were
  flickering on and he was mostly naked, on the floor, staring up into
  Brautigan's face. He had a look of forced jollity, and he snapped his
  fingers a few times in front of Leon's face.

  "Morning, sunshine!" Leon looked for the ghostly clock that shimmered
  in the corner of each wall, a slightly darker patch of reactive paint
  that was just outside of conscious comprehension unless you really
  stared at it. 4:12 am. He stifled a groan. "What are you doing here?"
  he said, peering at Brautigan.

  The man clacked his horsey teeth, assayed a chuckle. "Early bird.
  Worm."

  Leon sat up, found his shirt, started buttoning it up. "Seriously,
  Brautigan."

  "Seriously?" He sat down on the floor next to Leon, his big feet
  straight out ahead of him. His shoes had been designed by the same
  architect that did Leon's. Leon recognized the style.

  "Seriously."

  Brautigan scratched his chin. Suddenly, he slumped. "I'm shitting
  bricks, Leon. I am seriously shitting bricks."

  "How did it go with your monster?"

  Brautigan stared at the architect's shoes. There was an odd flare they
  did, just behind the toe, just on the way to the laces, that was really
  graceful. Leon thought it might be a standard distribution bell curve.
  "My monster is . . ." He blew out air. "Uncooperative."

  "Less cooperative than previously?" Leon said. Brautigan unlaced his
  shoes and peeled off his socks, scrunched his toes in the moss. His
  feet gave off a hot, trapped smell. "What was he like on the other
  times you'd seen him?"

  Brautigan tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

  "He was uncooperative this time, what about the other times?"

  Brautigan looked back down at his toes.

  "You'd never seen him before this?"

  "It was a risk," he said. "I thought I could convince him, face to
  face."

  "But?"

  "I bombed. It was--it was the--it was everything. The compound. The
  people. All of it. It was like a city,a theme park. They lived there,
  hundreds of them, and managed every tiny piece of his empire. Like
  Royal urchins."

  Leon puzzled over this. "Eunuchs?"

  "Royal eunuchs. They had this whole culture, and as I got closer and
  closer to him, I realized, shit, they could just buy Ate. They could
  destroy us. They could have us made illegal, put us all in jail. Or get
  me elected president. Anything."

  "You were overawed."

  "That's the right word. It wasn't a castle or anything, either. It was
  just a place, a well-built collection of buildings. In Westchester, you
  know? It had been a little town center once. They'd preserved
  everything good, built more on top of it. It all just . . . worked.
  You're still new here. Haven't noticed."

  "What? That Ate is a disaster? I figured that out a long time ago.
  There's several dozen highly paid creative geniuses on the payroll here
  who haven't seen their desks in months. We could be a creative
  powerhouse. We're more like someone's vanity project."

  "Brutal."

  Leon wondered if he'd overstepped himself. Who cared? "Brutal doesn't
  mean untrue. It's like, it's like the money that came into this place,
  it became autonomous, turned into a strategy for multiplying itself. A
  bad strategy. The money wants to sell something to a monster, but the
  money doesn't know what monsters want, so it's just, what, beating its
  brains out on the wall. One day, the money runs out and . . ."

  "The money won't run out," Brautigan said. "Wrong. We'd have to spend
  at ten-ex what we're burning now to even approach the principal."

  "Okay," Leon said. "So it's immortal. That's better?"

  Brautigan winced. "Look, it's not so crazy. There's an entire unserved
  market out there. No one's serving it. They're like, you know, like
  communist countries. Planned economies. They need something, they just
  acquire the capacity. No market."

  "Hey, bub, I know just what you need! You need a house to go with this
  doorknob!" To his own surprise, Leon discovered that he did a passable
  Daffy Duck. Brautigan blinked at him. Leon realized that the man was a
  little drunk. "Just something I heard the other day," he said. "I told
  the lady from my monster that we could provide the stuff that their
  corporate culture precluded. I was thinking of, you know, how the
  samurai banned firearms. We can think and do the unthink-and undoable."

  "Good line." He flopped onto his back. An inch of pale belly peeked
  between the top of his three-quarter-length culottes and the lower hem
  of his smart wraparound shirt. "The monster in the vat. Some skin, some
  meat. Tubes. Pinches of skin clamped between clear hard plastic
  squares, bathed in some kind of diagnostic light. No eyes, no top of
  the head where the eyes should be. Just a smooth mask. Eyes everywhere
  else. Ceiling. Floor. Walls. I looked away, couldn't make contact with
  them, found I was looking at something wet. Liver. I think."

  "Yeesh. That's immortality, huh?"

  "I'm there, `A pleasure to meet you, an honor,' talking to the liver.
  The eyes never blinked. The monster gave a speech. `You're a
  low-capital, high-risk, high-payoff long shot, Mr. Brautigan. I can
  keep dribbling sums to you so that you can go back to your wonder
  factory and try to come up with ways to surprise me. So there's no need
  to worry on that score.' And that was it. Couldn't think of anything to
  say. Didn't have time. Gone in a flash. Out the door. Limo. Nice babu
  to tell me how good it had been for the monster, how much he'd been
  looking forward to it." He struggled up onto his elbows. "How about
  you?"

  Leon didn't want to talk about Ria with Brautigan. He shrugged.
  Brautigan got a mean, stung look on his face. "Don't be like that. Bro.
  Dude. Pal."

  Leon shrugged again. Thing was, he liked Ria. Talking about her with
  Brautigan would be treating her like a . . . a sales target. If he were
  talking with Carmela, he'd say, "I feel like she wants me to succeed.
  Like it would be a huge deal for everyone if I managed it. But I also
  feel like maybe she doesn't think I can." But to Brautigan, he merely
  shrugged, ignored the lizardy slit-eyed glare, stood, pulled his pants
  on, and went to his desk.

  ***

  If you sat at your desk long enough at Ate, you'd eventually meet
  everyone who worked there. Carmela knew all, told all, and assured him
  that everyone touched base at least once a month. Some came in a couple
  times a week. They had plants on their desks and liked to personally
  see to their watering.

  Leon took every single one of them to lunch. It wasn't easy--in one
  case, he had to ask Carmela to send an Ate chauffeur to pick up the
  man's kids from school (it was a half day) and bring them to the
  sitter's, just to clear the schedule. But the lunches themselves went
  very well. It turned out that the people at Ate were, to a one,
  incredibly interesting. Oh, they were all monsters, narcissistic,
  tantrum-prone geniuses, but once you got past that, you found yourself
  talking to people who were, at bottom, damned smart, with a whole lot
  going on. He met the woman who designed the moss in the Living Room.
  She was younger than he was, and had been catapulted from a mediocre
  academic adventure at the Cooper Union into more wealth and freedom
  than she knew what to do with. She had a whole Rolodex of people who
  wanted to sublicense the stuff, and she spent her days toying with
  them, seeing if they had any cool ideas she could incorporate into her
  next pitch to one of the lucky few who had the ear of a monster.

  Like Leon. That's why they all met with him. He'd unwittingly stepped
  into one of the agency's top spots, thanks to Ria, one of the
  power-broker seats that everyone else yearned to fill. The fact that he
  had no idea how he'd got there or what to do with it didn't surprise
  anyone. To a one, his colleagues at Ate regarded everything to do with
  the vat-monsters as an absolute, unknowable crapshoot, as predictable
  as a meteor strike.

  No wonder they all stayed away from the office.
    __________________________________________________________________

  Ria met him in a different pair of jeans, these ones worn and patched
  at the knees. She had on a loose, flowing silk shirt that was frayed
  around the seams, and had tied her hair back with a kerchief that had
  faded to a non-color that was like the ancient New York sidewalk
  outside Ate's office. He felt the calluses on her hand when they shook.

  "You look like you're ready to do some gardening," he said.

  "My shift at the club," she said. "I'll be trimming the lime trees and
  tending the mint patch and the cucumber frames all afternoon." She
  smiled, stopped him with a gesture. She bent down and plucked a blade
  of greenery from the untidy trail edge. They were in Central Park, in
  one of the places where it felt like a primeval forest instead of an
  artful garden razed and built in the middle of the city. She uncapped
  her water bottle and poured water over the herb--it looked like a blade
  of grass-- rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb to scrub at it.
  Then she tore it in two and handed him one piece, held the other to her
  nose, then ate it, nibbling and making her nose wrinkle like a
  rabbit's. He followed suit. Lemon, delicious and tangy.

  "Lemongrass," she said. "Terrible weed, of course. But doesn't it taste
  amazing?" He nodded. The flavor lingered in his mouth.

  "Especially when you consider what this is made of--smoggy rain, dog
  piss, choked up air, and sunshine, and DNA. What a weird flavor to
  emerge from such a strange soup, don't you think?"

  The thought made the flavor a little less delicious. He said so.

  "I love the idea," she said. "Making great things from garbage."

  "About the jetpacks," he said, for he'd been thinking.

  "Yes?"

  "Are you utopians of some kind? Making a better world?"

  "By `you,' you mean `people who work for Buhle'?"

  He shrugged.

  "I'm a bit of a utopian, I'll admit. But that's not it. You know Henry
  Ford set up these work camps in Brazil, `Fordlandia,' and enforced a
  strict code of conduct on the rubber plantation workers? He outlawed
  the Caipirinha and replaced it with Tom Collinses, because they were
  more civilized."

  "And you're saying Buhle wouldn't do that?"

  She waggled her head from side to side, thinking it over. "Probably
  not. Maybe, if I asked." She covered her mouth as though she'd made an
  indiscreet admission.

  "Are--were--you and he . . . ?"

  She laughed. "Never. It's purely cere bral. Do you know where his money
  came from?"

  He gave her a look.

  "Okay, of course you do. But if all you've read is the official
  history, you'll think he was just a finance guy who made some good
  bets. It's nothing like it. He played a game against the market,
  tinkered with the confidence of other traders by taking crazy
  positions, all bluff, except when they weren't. No one could outsmart
  him. He could convince you that you were about to miss out on the deal
  of the century, or that you'd already missed it, or that you were about
  to walk off onto easy street. Sometimes, he convinced you of something
  that was real. More often, it was pure bluff, which you'd only find out
  after you'd done some trade with him that left him with more money than
  you'd see in your whole life, and you face-palming and cursing yourself
  for a sucker. When he started doing it to national banks, put a run on
  the dollar, broke the Fed, well, that's when we all knew that he was
  someone who was special, someone who could create signals that went
  right to your hindbrain without any critical interpretation."

  "Scary."

  "Oh yes. Very. In another era they'd have burned him for a witch or
  made him the man who cut out your heart with the obsidian knife. But
  here's the thing: he could never, ever kid me. Not once."

  "And you're alive to tell the tale?"

  "Oh, he likes it. His reality distortion field, it screws with his
  internal landscape. Makes it hard for him to figure out what he needs,
  what he wants, and what will make him miserable. I'm indispensable."

  He had a sudden, terrible thought. He didn't say anything, but she must
  have seen it on his face.

  "What is it? Tell me."

  "How do I know that you're on the level about any of this? Maybe you're
  just jerking me around. Maybe it's all made-up--the jetpacks,
  everything." He swallowed. "I'm sorry. I don't know where that came
  from, but it popped into my head--"

  "It's a fair question. Here's one that'll blow your mind, though: how
  do you know that I'm not on the level, and jerking you around?"

  They changed the subject soon after, with uneasy laughter. They ended
  up on a park bench near the family of dancing bears, whom they watched
  avidly.

  "They seem so happy," he said. "That's what gets me about them. Like
  dancing was the secret passion of every bear, and these three are the
  first to figure out how to make a life of it."

  She didn't say anything, but watched the three giants lumber in a
  graceful, unmistakably joyous kind of shuffle. The music--constantly
  mutated based on the intensity of the bears, a piece of software that
  sought tirelessly to please them-- was jangly and poplike, with a
  staccato one-two/onetwothreefourfive/one-two rhythm that let the bears
  do something like a drunken stagger that was as fun to watch as a box
  of puppies.

  He felt the silence. "So happy," he said again. "That's the weird part.
  Not like seeing an elephant perform. You watch those old videos and
  they seem, you know, they seem--"

  "Resigned," she said.

  "Yeah. Not unhappy, but about as thrilled to be balancing on a ball as
  a horse might be to be hitched to a plow. But look at those bears!"

  "Notice that no one else watches them for long?" she said. He had
  noticed that. The benches were all empty around them.

  "I think it's because they're so happy," she said. "It lays the trick
  bare." She showed teeth at the pun, then put them away. "What I mean
  is, you can see how it's possible to design a bear that experiences
  brain reward from rhythm, keep it well-fed, supply it with as many
  rockin' tunes as it can eat, and you get that happy family of dancing
  bears who'll peacefully coexist alongside humans who're going to work,
  carrying their groceries, pushing their toddlers around in strollers,
  necking on benches--"

  The bears were resting now, lolling on their backs, happy tongues
  sloppy in the corners of their mouths.

  "We made them," she said. "It was against my advice, too. There's not
  much subtlety in it. As a piece of social commentary, it's a cartoon
  sledgehammer with an oversize head. But the artist had Buhle's ear,
  he'd been CEO of one of the portfolio companies and had been interested
  in genomic art as a sideline for his whole career. Buhle saw that
  funding this thing would probably spin off lots of interesting
  sublicenses, which it did. But just look at it."

  He looked. "They're so happy," he said.

  She looked too. "Bears shouldn't be that happy," she said.

  ***

  Carmela greeted him sunnily as ever, but there was something odd.

  "What is it?" he asked in Spanish. He made a habit of talking Spanish
  to her, because both of them were getting rusty, and also it was like a
  little shared secret between them.

  She shook her head.

  "Is everything all right?" Meaning, Are we being shut down? It could
  happen, might happen at any time, with no notice. That was something
  he-- all of them--understood. The money that powered them was
  autonomous and unknowable, an alien force that was more emergent
  property than will.

  She shook her head again. "It's not my place to say," she said. Which
  made him even more sure that they were all going down, for when had
  Carmela ever said anything about her place?

  "Now you've got me worried," he said.

  She cocked her head back toward the back office. He noticed that there
  were three coats hung on the beautiful, anachronistic coat stand by the
  ancient temple door that divided reception from the rest of Ate.

  He let himself in and walked down the glassed-in double rows of
  offices, the cubicles in the middle, all with their characteristic
  spotless hush, like a restaurant dining room set up for the meals that
  people would come to later.

  He looked in the Living Room, but there was no one there, so he began
  to check out the other conference rooms, which ran the gamut from
  super-conservative to utter madness. He found them in the Ceile, with
  its barn-board floors, its homey stone hearth, and the gimmicked sofas
  that looked like unsprung old thrift-store numbers, but which sported
  adaptive genetic algorithm-directed haptics that adjusted constantly to
  support you no matter how you flopped on them, so that you could play
  at being a little kid sprawled carelessly on the cushions no matter how
  old and cranky your bones were.

  On the Ceile's sofa were Brautigan, Ria, and a woman he hadn't met
  before. She was somewhere between Brautigan and Ria's age, but with
  that made-up, pulled-tight appearance of someone who knew the world
  wouldn't take her as seriously if she let one crumb of weakness escape
  from any pore or wrinkle. He thought he knew who this must be, and she
  confirmed it when she spoke.

  "Leon," she said. "I'm glad you're here." He knew that voice. It was
  the voice on the phone that had recruited him and brought him to New
  York and told him where to come for his first day on the job. It was
  the voice of Jennifer Torino, and she was technically his boss.
  "Carmela said that you often worked from here so I was hoping today
  would be one of the days you came by so we could chat."

  "Jennifer," he said. She nodded. "Ria." She had a poker face on, as
  unreadable as a slab of granite. She was wearing her customary denim
  and flowing cotton, but she'd kept her shoes on and her feet on the
  floor. "Brautigan," and Brautigan grinned like it was Christmas
  morning.

  Jennifer looked flatly at a place just to one side of his gaze, a trick
  he knew, and said, "In recognition of his excellent work, Mr.
  Brautigan's been promoted, effective today. He is now manager for Major
  Accounts." Brautigan beamed.

  "Congratulations," Leon said, thinking, What excellent work? No one at
  Ate has accomplished the agency's primary objective in the entire
  history of the firm! "Well done."

  Jennifer kept her eyes coolly fixed on that empty, safe spot. "As you
  know, we have struggled to close a deal with any of our major
  accounts." He restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "And so Mr
  Brautigan has undertaken a thorough study of the way we handle these
  accounts." She nodded at Brautigan.

  "It's a mess," he said. "Totally scattergun. No lines of authority. No
  checks and balances. No system."

  "I can't argue with that," Leon said. He saw where this was going.

  "Yes," Jennifer said. "You haven't been here very long, but I
  understand you've been looking deeply into the organizational structure
  of Ate yourself, haven't you?" He nodded. "And that's why Mr. Brautigan
  has asked that you be tasked to him as his head of strategic research."
  She smiled a thin smile. "Congratulations yourself."

  He said, "Thanks," flatly, and looked at Brautigan. "What's strategic
  research, then?"

  "Oh," Brautigan said. "Just a lot of what you've been doing: figuring
  out what everyone's up to, putting them together, proposing
  organizational structures that will make us more efficient at design
  and deployment. Stuff you're good at."

  Leon swallowed and looked at Ria. There was nothing on her face. "I
  can't help but notice," he said, forcing his voice to its absolutely
  calmest, "that you haven't mentioned anything to do with the, uh,
  clients."

  Brautigan nodded and strained to pull his lips over his horsey teeth to
  hide his grin. It didn't work. "Yeah," he said. "That's about right. We
  need someone of your talents doing what he does best, and what you do
  best is--"

  He held up a hand. Brautigan fell silent. The three of them looked at
  him. He realized, in a flash, that he had them all in his power, just
  at that second. He could shout BOO! and they'd all fall off their
  chairs. They were waiting to see if he'd blow his top or take it and
  ask for more. He did something else.

  "Nice working with ya," he said. And he turned his back on the
  sweetest, softest job anyone could ask for. He said adios and buena
  suerte to Carmela on the way out, and he forced himself not to linger
  around the outside doors down at street level to see if anyone would
  come chasing after him.

  ***

  The Realtor looked at him like he was crazy. "You'll never get two
  million for that place in today's market," she said. She was young,
  no-nonsense, black, and she had grown up on the Lower East Side, a fact
  she mentioned prominently in her advertising materials: a local Realtor
  for a local neighborhood.

  "I paid two million for it less than a year ago," he said. The 80
  percent mortgage had worried him a little but Ate had underwritten it,
  bringing the interest rate down to less than 2 percent.

  She gestured at the large corner picture window that overlooked Broome
  Street and Grand Street. "Count the for sale signs," she said. "I want
  to be on your side. That's a nice place. I'd like to see it go to
  someone like you, someone decent. Not some developer"--she spat the
  word like a curse--"or some corporate apartment broker who'll rent it
  by the week to VIPs. This neighborhood needs real people who really
  live here, understand."

  "So you're saying I won't get what I paid for it?"

  She smiled fondly at him. "No, sweetheart, you're not going to get what
  you paid for it. All those things they told you when you put two mil
  into that place, like `They're not making any more Manhattan' and
  `Location location location'? It's lies." Her face got serious,
  sympathetic. "It's supposed to panic you and make you lose your head
  and spend more than you think something is worth. That goes on for a
  while and then everyone ends up with too much mortgage for not enough
  home, or for too much home for that matter, and then blooey, the bottom
  blows out of the market and everything falls down like a souffl�."

  "You don't sugarcoat it, huh?" He'd come straight to her office from
  Ate's door, taking the subway rather than cabbing it or even renting a
  jet-pack. He was on austerity measures, effective immediately. His
  brain seemed to have a premade list of cost-savers it had prepared
  behind his back, as though it knew this day would come.

  She shrugged. "I can, if you want me to. We can hem and haw about the
  money and so on and I can hold your hand through the five stages of
  grieving. I do that a lot when the market goes soft. But you looked
  like the kind of guy who wants it straight. Should I start over? Or,
  you know, if you want, we can list you at two mil or even two point
  two, and I'll use that to prove that some other loft is a steal at one
  point nine. If you want."

  "No," he said, and he felt some of the angry numbness ebb. He liked
  this woman. She had read him perfectly. "So tell me what you think I
  can get for it?"

  She put her fist under her chin and her eyes went far away. "I sold
  that apartment, um, eight years ago? Family who had it before you. Had
  a look when they sold it to you--they used a different broker, kind of
  place where they don't mind selling to a corporate placement
  specialist. I don't do that, which you know. But I saw it when it sold.
  Have you changed it much since?"

  He squirmed. "I didn't, but I think the broker did. It came furnished,
  nice stuff."

  She rolled her eyes eloquently. "It's never nice stuff. Even when it
  comes from the best showroom in town, it's not nice stuff. Nice is
  antithetical to corporate. Inoffensive is the best you can hope for."
  She looked up, to the right, back down. "I'm figuring out the discount
  for how the place will show now that they've taken all the seams and
  crumbs out. I'm thinking, um, one point eight. That's a number I think
  I can deliver."

  "But I've only got two hundred K in the place," he said.

  Her expressive brown eyes flicked at the picture window, the for sale
  signs. "And? Sounds like you'll break even or maybe lose a little on
  the deal. Is that right?"

  He nodded. Losing a little wasn't something he'd figured on. But by the
  time he'd paid all the fees and taxes--"I'll probably be down a point
  or two."

  "Have you got it?"

  He hated talking about money. That was one thing about Ria is that she
  never actually talked about money--what money did, sure, but never
  money. "Technically," he said.

  "Okay, technical money is as good as any other kind. So look at it this
  way: you bought a place, a really totally amazing place on the Lower
  East Side, a place bigger than five average New York apartments. You
  lived in it for, what?"

  "Eight months."

  "Most of a year. And it cost you one percent of the street price on the
  place. Rent would have been about eleven times that. You're up"--she
  calculated in her head--"it's about eighty-three percent."

  He couldn't keep the look of misery off his face.

  "What?" she said. "Why are you pulling faces at me? You said you didn't
  want it sugarcoated, right?"

  "It's just that--" He dropped his voice, striving to keep any kind of
  whine out of it. "Well, I'd hoped to make something in the bargain."

  "For what?" she said, softly.

  "You know, appreciation. Property goes up."

  "Did you do anything to the place that made it better?"

  He shook his head.

  "So you did no productive labor but you wanted to get paid anyway,
  right? Have you thought about what would happen to society if we
  rewarded people for owning things instead of doing things?"

  "Are you sure you're a real estate broker?"

  "Board certified. Do very well, too."

  He swallowed. "I don't expect to make money for doing nothing, but you
  know, I just quit my job. I was just hoping to get a little cash in
  hand to help me smooth things out until I find a new one."

  The Realtor gave a small nod. "Tough times ahead. Winds are about to
  shift again. You need to adjust your expectations, Leon. The best you
  can hope for right now is to get out of that place before you have to
  make another mortgage payment."

  His pulse throbbed in his jaw and his thigh in counterpoint. "But I
  need money to--"

  "Leon," she said, with some steel in her voice. "You're bargaining. As
  in denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. That's
  healthy and all, but it's not going to get your place sold. Here's two
  options: one, you can go find another Realtor, maybe one who'll
  sugarcoat things or string you along to price up something else he's
  trying to sell. Two, you can let me get on with making some phone calls
  and I'll see who I can bring in. I keep a list of people I'd like to
  see in this 'hood, people who've asked me to look out for the right
  kind of place. That place you're in is one of a kind. I might be able
  to take it off your hands in very quick time, if you let me do my
  thing." She shuffled some papers. "Oh, there's a third, which is that
  you could go back to your apartment and pretend that nothing is wrong
  until that next mortgage payment comes out of your bank account. That
  would be denial and if you're bargaining, you should be two steps past
  that.

  "What's it going to be?"

  "I need to think about it."

  "Good plan," she said. "Remember, depression comes after bargaining. Go
  buy a quart of ice cream and download some weepy movies. Stay off
  booze, it only brings you down. Sleep on it, come back in the morning
  if you'd like."

  He thanked her numbly and stepped out into the Lower East Side. The
  bodega turned out to have an amazing selection of ice cream, so he
  bought the one with the most elaborate name, full of chunks, swirls,
  and stir-ins, and brought it up to his apartment, which was so big that
  it made his knees tremble when he unlocked his door. The Realtor had
  been right. Depression was next.
    __________________________________________________________________

  Buhle sent him an invitation a month later. It came laser-etched into a
  piece of ancient leather, delivered by a messenger whose jetpack was so
  quiet that he didn't even notice that she had gone until he looked up
  from the scroll to thank her. His new apartment was a perch he rented
  by the week at five times what an annual lease would have cost him, but
  still a fraction of what he had been paying on the LES. It was jammed
  with boxes of things he hadn't been able to bring himself to get rid
  of, and now he cursed every knickknack as he dug through them looking
  for a good suit.

  He gave up. The invitation said, "At your earliest convenience," and a
  quadrillionaire in a vat wasn't going to be impressed by his year-old
  designer job interview suit.

  It had been a month, and no one had come calling. None of his queries
  to product design, marketing, R&D or advertising shops had been
  answered. He tried walking in the park every day, to see the bears, on
  the grounds that it was free and it would stimulate his creative flow.
  Then he noticed that every time he left his door, fistfuls of money
  seemed to evaporate from his pockets on little "necessities" that added
  up to real money. The frugality center of his brain began to flood him
  with anxiety every time he considered leaving the place and so it had
  been days since he'd gone out.

  Now he was going. There were some clean clothes in one of the boxes,
  just sloppy jeans and tees, but they'd been expensive sloppy once upon
  a time, and they were better than the shorts and shirts he'd been
  rotating in and out of the tiny washing machine every couple days, when
  the thought occurred to him. The two-hundred-dollar haircut he'd had on
  his last day of work had gone shaggy and lost all its clever style, so
  he just combed it as best as he could after a quick shower and put on
  his architect's shoes, shining them on the backs of his pants legs on
  his way out the door in a gesture that reminded him of his father going
  to work in Anguilla, a pathetic gesture of respectability from someone
  who had none. The realization made him oof out a breath like he'd been
  gut-punched.

  His frugality gland fired like crazy as he hailed a taxi and directed
  it to the helipad at Grand Central Terminus. It flooded him with so
  much cheapamine that he had to actually pinch his arms a couple times
  to distract himself from the full-body panic at the thought of spending
  so much. But Buhle was all the way in Rhode Island, and Leon didn't
  fancy keeping him waiting. He knew that to talk to money you had to act
  like money-- impedance-match the money. Money wouldn't wait while he
  took the train or caught the subway.

  He booked the chopper-cab from the cab, using the terminal in the
  backseat. At Ate, he'd had Carmela to do this kind of organizing for
  him. He'd had Carmela to do a hundred other things, too. In that
  ancient, lost time, he'd had money and help beyond his wildest dreams,
  and most days now he couldn't imagine what had tempted him into giving
  it up.

  The chopper clawed the air and lifted him up over Manhattan, the
  canyons of steel stretched out below him like a model. The racket of
  the chopper obliterated any possibility of speech, so he could ignore
  the pilot and she could ignore him with a cordiality that let him
  pretend, for a moment, that he was a powerful executive who
  nonchalantly choppered around all over the country. They hugged the
  coastline and the stately rows of windmills and bobbing float-homes,
  surfers carving the waves, bulldozed strips topped with levees that
  shot up from the ground like the burial mound of some giant serpent.

  Leon's earmuffs made all the sound--the sea, the chopper-- into a
  uniform hiss, and in that hiss, his thoughts and fears seemed to recede
  for a moment, as though they couldn't make themselves heard over the
  white noise. For the first time since he'd walked out of Ate, the
  nagging, doubtful voices fell still and Leon was alone in his head. It
  was as though he'd had a great pin stuck through his chest that finally
  had been removed. There was a feeling of lightness, and tears pricking
  at his eyes, and a feeling of wonderful obliteration, as he stopped,
  just for a moment, stopped trying to figure out where he fit in the
  world.

  The chopper touched down on a helipad at Newport State Airport, to one
  side of the huge X slashed into the heavy woods--new forest,
  fastgrowing carbon sinkers garlanded with extravagances of moss and
  vine. From the moment the doors opened, the heavy earthy smell filled
  his nose and he thought of the Living Room, which led him to think of
  Ria. He thanked the pilot and zapped her a tip and looked up and there
  was Ria, as though his thoughts had summoned her.

  She had a little half smile on her face, uncertain and somehow
  childlike, a little girl waiting to find out if he'd be her friend
  still. He smiled at her, grateful for the clatter of the chopper so
  that they couldn't speak. She shook his hand, hers warm and dry, and
  then, on impulse, he gave her a hug. She was soft and firm too, a
  middle-aged woman who kept fit but didn't obsess about the pounds. It
  was the first time he'd touched another human since he left Ate. And,
  as with the chopper's din, this revelation didn't open him to fresh
  miseries--rather, it put the miseries away, so that he felt better.

  "Are you ready?" she said, once the chopper had lifted off.

  "One thing," he said. "Is there a town here? I thought I saw one while
  we were landing."

  "A little one," she said. "Used to be bigger, but we like them small."

  "Does it have a hardware store?"

  She gave him a significant look. "What for? An ax? A nailgun? Going to
  do some improvements?"

  "Thought I'd bring along a doorknob," he said.

  She dissolved into giggles. "Oh, he'll like that. Yes, we can find a
  hardware store."

  ***

  Buhle's security people subjected the doorknob to millimeter radar and
  a gas chromatograph before letting it past. He was shown into an
  anteroom by Ria, who talked to him through the whole procedure, just
  light chatter about the weather and his real-estate problems, but she
  gently steered him around the room, changing their angle several times,
  and then he said, "Am I being scanned?"

  "Millimeter radar in here too," she said. "Whole-body imaging. Don't
  worry, I get it every time I come in. Par for the course."

  He shrugged. "This is the least offensive security scan I've ever been
  through," he said.

  "It's the room," she said. "The dimensions, the color. Mostly the
  semiotics of a security scan are either you are a germ on a slide or
  you are not worth trifling with, but if we must, we must. We went for
  something a little . . . sweeter." And it was, a sweet little room,
  like the private study of a single mom who's stolen a corner in which
  to work on her secret novel.

  Beyond the room--a wonderful place.

  "It's like a college campus," he said.

  "Oh, I think we use a better class of materials that most colleges,"
  Ria said, airily, but he could tell he'd pleased her. "But yes, there's
  about fifteen thousand of us here. A little city. Nice caf�s, gyms,
  cinemas. A couple artists in residence, a nice little Waldorf school .
  . ." The pathways were tidy and wended their way through buildings
  ranging from cottages to large, institutional buildings, but all with
  the feel of endowed research institutes rather than finance towers. The
  people were young and old, casually dressed, walking in pairs and
  groups, mostly, deep in conversation.

  "Fifteen thousand?"

  "That's the head office. Most of them doing medical stuff here. We've
  got lots of other holdings, all around the world, in places that are
  different from this. But we're bringing them all in line with HQ, fast
  as we can. It's a good way to work. Churn is incredibly low. We
  actually have to put people back out into the world for a year every
  decade, just so they can see what it's like."

  "Is that what you're doing?"

  She socked him in the arm. "You think I could be happy here? No, I've
  always lived off campus. I commute. I'm not a team person. It's okay,
  this is the kind of place where even lone guns can find their way to
  glory."

  They were walking on the grass now, and he saw that the trees,
  strangely oversized red maples without any of the whippy slenderness he
  associated with the species, had a walkway suspended from their
  branches, a real Swiss Family Robinson job with rope railings and
  little platforms with baskets on pulleys for ascending and descending.
  The people who scurried by overhead greeted each other volubly and
  laughed at the awkwardness of squeezing past each other in opposite
  directions.

  "Does that ever get old?" he said, lifting his eyebrows to the
  walkways.

  "Not for a certain kind of person," she said. "For a certain kind of
  person, the delightfulness of those walkways never wears off." The way
  she said "certain kind of person" made him remember her saying, "Bears
  shouldn't be that happy."

  He pointed to a bench, a long twig-chair, really, made from birch
  branches and rope and wire all twined together. "Can we sit for a
  moment? I mean, will Buhle mind?"

  She flicked her fingers. "Buhle's schedule is his own. If we're five
  minutes late, someone will put five minutes' worth of interesting and
  useful injecta into his in box. Don't you worry." She sat on the bench,
  which looked too fragile and fey to take a grown person's weight, but
  then she patted the seat next to him, and when he sat, he felt almost
  no give. The bench had been very well built, by someone who knew what
  she or he was doing.

  "Okay, so what's going on, Ria? First you went along with Brautigan
  scooping my job and exiling me to Siberia--" He held up a hand to stop
  her from speaking and discovered that the hand was shaking and so was
  his chest, shaking with a bottled-up anger he hadn't dared admit. "You
  could have stopped it at a word. You envoys from the vat-gods, you are
  the absolute monarchs at Ate. You could have told them to have
  Brautigan skinned, tanned, and made into a pair of boots, and he'd have
  measured your foot size himself. But you let them do it.

  "And now, here I am, a minister without portfolio, about to do
  something that would make Brautigan explode with delight, about to meet
  one of the Great Old Ones, in his very vat, in person. A man who might
  live to be a thousand, if all goes according to plan, a man who is a
  country, sovereign and inviolate. And I just want to ask you, why? Why
  all the secrecy and obliqueness and funny gaps? Why?"

  Ria waited while a pack of grad students scampered by overhead, deep in
  discussion of telomeres, the racket of their talk and their bare feet
  slapping on the walkway loud enough to serve as a pretense for silence.
  Leon's pulse thudded and his armpits slicked themselves as he realized
  that he might have just popped the bubble of unreality between them,
  the consensual illusion that all was normal, whatever normal was.

  "Oh, Leon," she said. "I'm sorry. Habit here--there's some things that
  can't be readily said in utopia. Eventually, you just get in the habit
  of speaking out of the back of your head. It's, you know, rude to ruin
  peoples' gardens by pointing out the snakes. So, yes, okay, I'll say
  something right out. I like you, Leon. The average employee at a place
  like Ate is a bottomless well of desires, trying to figure out what
  others might desire. We've been hearing from them for decades now, the
  resourceful ones, the important ones, the ones who could get past the
  filters and the filters behind the filters. We know what they're like.

  "Your work was different. As soon as you were hired by Ate, we
  generated a dossier on you. Saw your grad work."

  Leon swallowed. His r�sum� emphasized his grades, not his final
  projects. He didn't speak of them at all.

  "So we thought, well, here's something different, it's possible he may
  have a house to go with our doorknob. But we knew what would happen if
  you were left to your own devices at a place like Ate: they'd bend you
  and shape you and make you over or ruin you. We do it ourselves, all
  too often. Bring in a promising young thing, subject him to the dreaded
  Buhle Culture, a culture he's totally unsuited to, and he either runs
  screaming or . . . fits in. It's worse when the latter happens. So we
  made sure that you had a good fairy perched on your right shoulder to
  counterbalance the devil on your left shoulder." She stopped, made a
  face, mock slapped herself upside the head. "Talking in euphemism
  again. Bad habit. You see what I mean."

  "And you let me get pushed aside . . ."

  She looked solemn. "We figured you wouldn't last long as a
  button-polisher. Figured you'd want out."

  "And that you'd be able to hire me."

  "Oh, we could have hired you any time. We could have bought Ate. Ate
  would have given you to us--remember all that business about making
  Brautigan into a pair of boots? It applies all around."

  "So you wanted me to . . . what? Walk in the wilderness first?"

  "Now you're talking in euphemisms. It's catching! Let's walk."

  ***

  They gave him a bunny suit to wear into the heart of Buhle. First he
  passed through a pair of double-doors, faintly positively pressurized,
  sterile air that ruffled his hair on the way in. The building was
  low-slung, nondescript brown brick, no windows. It could have been a
  water sterilization plant or a dry goods warehouse. The inside was good
  tile, warm colors with lots of reds and browns down low, making the
  walls look like they were the inside of a kiln. The building's interior
  was hushed, and a pair of alert-looking plainclothes security men
  watched them very closely as they changed into the bunny suits, loose
  micropore coveralls with plastic visors. Each one had a small,
  self-contained air-circ system powered by a wrist cannister, and when a
  security man helpfully twisted the valve open, Leon noted that there
  were clever jets that managed to defog the visor without drying out his
  eyeballs.

  "That be enough for you, Ria?" the taller of the two security men said.
  He was dressed like a college kid who'd been invited to his
  girlfriend's place for dinner: smart slacks a little frayed at the
  cuffs, a short-sleeved, pressed cotton shirt that showed the bulge of
  his substantial chest and biceps and neck.

  She looked at her cannister, holding it up to the visor. "Thirty
  minutes is fine," she said. "I doubt he'll have any more time than that
  for us!" Turning to Leon, she said, "I think that the whole air supply
  thing is way overblown. But it does keep meetings from going long."

  "Where does the exhaust go?" Leon said, twisting in his suit. "I mean,
  surely the point is to keep my cooties away from," he swallowed,
  "Buhle."

  It was the first time he'd really used the word to describe a person,
  rather than a concept, and he was filled with the knowledge that the
  person it described was somewhere very close.

  "Here," she said, and pointed to a small bubble growing out of the back
  of her neck. "You swell up, one little bladder at a time, until you
  look like the Michelin man. Some joke." She made a face. "You can get a
  permanent suit if you come here often. Much less awkward. But Buhle
  likes it awkward."

  She led him down a corridor with still more people, these ones in bunny
  suits or more permanent-looking suits that were formfitting and
  iridescent and flattering.

  "Really?" he said, keeping pace with her. "Elegant is a word that comes
  to mind, not awkward."

  "Well, sure, elegant on the other side of that airlock door. But we're
  inside Buhle's body now." She saw the look on his face and smiled. "No,
  no, it's not a riddle. Everything on this side of the airlock is Buhle.
  It's his lungs and circulatory and limbic system. The vat may be where
  the meat sits, but all this is what makes the vat work. You're like a
  gigantic foreign organism that's burrowing into his tissues. It's
  intimate." They passed through another set of doors and now they were
  almost alone in a hall the size of his university's basketball court,
  the only others a long way off. She lowered her voice so that he had to
  lean in to hear her. "When you're outside, speaking to Buhle through
  his many tendrils, like me, or even on the phone, he has all the power
  in the world. He's a giant. But here, inside his body, he's very, very
  weak. The suits, they're there to level out the playing field. It's all
  head games and symbolism. And this is just Mark I, the system we
  jury-rigged after Buhle's . . . accident. They're building the Mark II
  about five miles from here, and half a mile underground. When it's
  ready, they'll blast a tunnel and take him all the way down into it
  without ever compromising the skin of Buhle's extended body."

  "You never told me what the accident was, how he ended up here. I
  assumed it was a stroke or--"

  Ria shook her head, the micropore fabric rustling softly. "Nothing like
  that," she said.

  They were on the other side of the great room now, headed for the
  doors. "What is this giant room for?"

  "Left over from the original floor plan, when this place was just
  biotech R&D. Used for all-hands meetings then, sometimes a little
  symposium. Too big now. Security protocol dictates no more than ten
  people in any one space."

  "Was it assassination?" He said it without thinking, quick as ripping
  off a Band-Aid.

  Again, the rustle of fabric. "No."

  She put her hand on the door's crashbar, made ready to pass into the
  next chamber. "I'm starting to freak out a little here, Ria," he said.
  "He doesn't hunt humans or something?"

  "No," and he didn't need to see her face, he could see the smile.

  "Or need an organ? I don't think I have a rare blood type, and I should
  tell you that mine have been indifferently cared for--"

  "Leon," she said, "if Buhle needed an organ, we'd make one right here.
  Print it out in about forty hours, pristine and virgin."

  "So you're saying I'm not going to be harvested or hunted, then?"

  "It's a very low probability outcome," she said, and pushed the
  crash-bar. It was darker in this room, a mellow, candlelit sort of
  light, and there was a rhythmic vibration coming up through the floor,
  a whoosh whoosh.

  Ria said, "It's his breath. The filtration systems are down there." She
  pointed a toe at the outline of a service hatch set into the floor.
  "Circulatory system overhead," she said, and he craned his neck up at
  the grate covering the ceiling, the troughs filled with neatly bundled
  tubes.

  One more set of doors, another cool, dark room, this one nearly silent,
  and one more door at the end, an airlock door, and another plainclothes
  security person in front of it; a side room with a glass door bustling
  with people staring intently at screens. The security person--a woman,
  Leon saw--had a frank and square pistol with a bulbous butt velcroed to
  the side of her suit.

  "He's through there, isn't he?" Leon said, pointing at the airlock
  door.

  "No," Ria said. "No. He's here. We are inside him. Remember that, Leon.
  He isn't the stuff in the vat there. In some sense you've been in
  Buhle's body since you got off the chopper. His sensor array network
  stretches out as far as the heliport, like the tips of the hairs on
  your neck, they feel the breezes that blow in his vicinity. Now you've
  tunneled inside him, and you're right here, in his heart or his liver."

  "Or his brain." A voice, then, from everywhere, warm and good humored.
  "The brain is overrated." Leon looked at Ria and she rolled her eyes
  eloquently behind her faceplate.

  "Tuned sound," she said. "A party trick. Buhle--"

  "Wait," Buhle said. "Wait. The brain, this is important, the brain is
  so overrated. The ancient Egyptians thought it was used to cool the
  blood, you know that?" He chortled, a sound that felt to Leon as though
  it began just above his groin and rose up through his torso, a very
  pleasant and very invasive sensation. "The heart, they thought, the
  heart was the place where the me lived. I used to wonder about that.
  Wouldn't they think that the thing between the organs of hearing, the
  thing behind the organs of seeing, that must be the me? But that's just
  the brain doing one of its little stupid games, backfilling the
  explanation. We think the brain is the obvious seat of the me because
  the brain already knows that it is the seat, and can't conceive of
  anything else. When the brain thought it lived in your chest, it was
  perfectly happy to rationalize that too--Of course it's in the chest,
  you feel your sorrow and your joy there, your satiety and your hunger .
  . . The brain, pffft, the brain!"

  "Buhle," she said. "We're coming in now."

  The nurse-guard by the door had apparently heard only their part of the
  conversation, but also hadn't let it bother her. She stood to one side,
  and offered Leon a tiny, incremental nod as he passed. He returned it,
  and then hurried to catch up with Ria, who was waiting inside the
  airlock. The outer door closed and for a moment, they were pressed up
  against one another and he felt a wild, horny thought streak through
  him, all the excitement discharging itself from yet another place that
  the me might reside.

  Then the outer door hissed open and he met Buhle--he tried to remember
  what Ria had said, that Buhle wasn't this, Buhle was everywhere, but he
  couldn't help himself from feeling that this was him.
    __________________________________________________________________

  Buhle's vat was surprisingly small, no bigger than the sarcophagus that
  an ancient Egyptian might have gone to in his burial chamber. He tried
  not to stare inside it, but he couldn't stop himself. The withered,
  wrinkled man floating in the vat was intertwined with a thousand fiber
  optics that disappeared into pinprick holes in his naked skin. There
  were tubes: in the big highways in the groin, in the gut through a
  small valve set into a pucker of scar, in the nose and ear. The
  hairless head was pushed in on one side, like a pumpkin that hasn't
  been turned as it grew in the patch, and there was no skin on the flat
  piece, only white bone and a fine metalling mesh and more ragged,
  curdled scar tissue.

  The eyes were hidden behind a slim set of goggles that irised open when
  they neared him, and beneath the goggles they were preternaturally
  bright, bright as marbles, set deep in bruised-looking sockets. The
  mouth beneath the nostril-tubes parted in a smile, revealing teeth as
  neat and white as a toothpaste advertisement, and Buhle spoke.

  "Welcome to the liver. Or the heart."

  Leon choked on whatever words he'd prepared. The voice was the same one
  he'd heard in the outer room, warm and friendly, the voice of a man
  whom you could trust, who would take care of you. He fumbled around his
  suit, patting it. "I brought you a doorknob," he said, "but I can't
  reach it just now."

  Buhle laughed, not the chuckle he'd heard before, but an actual, barked
  Ha! that made the tubes heave and the fiber optics writhe. "Fantastic,"
  he said. "Ria, he's fantastic."

  The compliment made the tips of Leon's ears grow warm.

  "He's a good one," she said. "And he's come a long way at your
  request."

  "You hear how she reminds me of my responsibilities? Sit down, both of
  you." Ria rolled over two chairs, and Leon settled into one, feeling it
  noiselessly adjust to take his weight. A small mirror unfolded itself
  and then two more, angled beneath it, and he found himself looking into
  Buhle's eyes, looking at his face, reflected in the mirrors.

  "Leon," Buhle said, "tell me about your final project, the one that got
  you the top grade in your class."

  Leon's fragile calm vanished, and he began to sweat. "I don't like to
  talk about it," he said.

  "Makes you vulnerable, I know. But vulnerable isn't so bad. Take me. I
  thought I was invincible. I thought that I could make and unmake the
  world to my liking. I thought I understood how the human mind
  worked--and how it broke.

  "And then one day in Madrid, as I was sitting in my suite's breakfast
  room, talking with an old friend while I ate my porridge oats, my old
  friend picked up the heavy silver coffee jug, leaped on my chest,
  smashed me to the floor, and methodically attempted to beat the brains
  out of my head with it. It weighed about a kilo and a half, not
  counting the coffee, which was scalding, and she only got in three
  licks before they pulled her off of me, took her away. Those three
  licks though--" He looked intently at them. "I'm an old man," he said.
  "Old bones, old tissues. The first blow cracked my skull. The second
  one broke it. The third one forced fragments into my brain. By the time
  the medics arrived, I'd been technically dead for about 174 seconds,
  give or take a second or two."

  Leon wasn't sure the old thing in the vat had finished speaking, but
  that seemed to be the whole story. "Why?" he said, picking the word
  that was uppermost in his mind.

  "Why did I tell you this?"

  "No," Leon said. "Why did your old friend try to kill you?"

  Buhle grinned. "Oh, I expect I deserved it," he said.

  "Are you going to tell me why?" Leon said.

  Buhle's cozy grin disappeared. "I don't think I will."

  Leon found he was breathing so hard that he was fogging up his
  faceplate, despite the air-jets that worked to clear it. "Buhle," he
  said, "the point of that story was to tell me how vulnerable you are so
  that I'd tell you my story, but that story doesn't make you vulnerable.
  You were beaten to death and yet you survived, grew stronger, changed
  into this"--he waved his hands around--"this body, this monstrous,
  town-size giant. You're about as vulnerable as fucking Zeus."

  Ria laughed softly but unmistakably. "Told you so," she said to Buhle.
  "He's a good one."

  The exposed lower part of Buhle's face clenched like a fist and the
  pitch of the machine noises around them shifted a half tone. Then he
  smiled a smile that was visibly forced, obviously artificial even in
  that ruin of a face.

  "I had an idea," he said. "That many of the world's problems could be
  solved with a positive outlook. We spend so much time worrying about
  the rare and lurid outcomes in life. Kids being snatched. Terrorists
  blowing up cities. Stolen secrets ruining your business. Irate
  customers winning huge judgments in improbable lawsuits. All this
  chickenshit, bed-wetting, hand-wringing fear." His voice rose and fell
  like a minister's and it was all Leon could do not to sway in time with
  him. "And at the same time, we neglect the likely: traffic accidents,
  jetpack crashes, bathtub drownings. It's like the mind can't stop
  thinking about the grotesque, and can't stop forgetting about the
  likely."

  "Get on with it," Ria said. "The speech is lovely, but it doesn't
  answer the question."

  He glared at her through the mirror, the marble eyes in their mesh of
  burst blood vessels and red spider-tracks, like the eyes of a demon.
  "The human mind is just kinked wrong. And it's correctable." The
  excitement in his voice was palpable. "Imagine a product that let you
  feel what you know-- imagine if anyone who heard `Lotto: you've got to
  be in it to win it' immediately understood that this is so much
  bullshit. That statistically, your chances of winning the lotto are not
  measurably improved by buying a lottery ticket. Imagine if explaining
  the war on terror to people made them double over with laughter!
  Imagine if the capital markets ran on realistic assessments of risk
  instead of envy, panic, and greed."

  "You'd be a lot poorer," Ria said.

  He rolled his eyes eloquently.

  "It's an interesting vision," Leon said. "I'd take the cure, whatever
  it was."

  The eyes snapped to him, drilled through him, fierce. "That's the
  problem, right there. The only people who'll take this are the people
  who don't need it. Politicians and traders and oddsmakers know how
  probability works, but they also know that the people who make them fat
  and happy don't understand it a bit, and so they can't afford to be
  rational. So there's only one answer to the problem."

  Leon blurted out, "The bears."

  Ria let out an audible sigh.

  "The fucking bears," Buhle agreed, and the way he said it was so full
  of world-weary exhaustion that it made Leon want to hug him. "Yes. As a
  social reform tool, we couldn't afford to leave this to the people who
  were willing to take it. So we--"

  "Weaponized it," Ria said.

  "Whose story is this?"

  Leon felt that the limbs of his suit were growing stiffer, his exhaust
  turning it into a balloon. And he had to pee. And he didn't want to
  move.

  "You dosed people with it?"

  "Leon," Buhle said, in a voice that implied, Come on, we're bigger than
  that. "They'd consented to being medical research subjects. And it
  worked. They stopped running around shouting The sky is falling, the
  sky is falling and became--zen. Happy, in a calm, even-keeled way.
  Headless chickens turned into flinty-eyed air-traffic controllers."

  "And your best friend beat your brains in--"

  "Because," Buhle said, in a little Mickey Mouse falsetto, "it would be
  unethical to do a broad-scale release on the general public"

  Ria was sitting so still he had almost forgotten she was there.

  Leon shifted his weight. "I don't think that you're telling me the
  whole story."

  "We were set to market it as an antianxiety medication."

  "And?"

  Ria stood up abruptly. "I'll wait outside." She left without another
  word.

  Buhle rolled his eyes again. "How do you get people to take antianxiety
  medication? Lots and lots of people? I mean, if I assigned you that
  project, gave you a budget for it--"

  Leon felt torn between a desire to chase after Ria and to continue to
  stay in the magnetic presence of Buhle. He shrugged. "Same as you would
  with any pharma. Cook the diagnosis protocol, expand the number of
  people it catches. Get the news media whipped up about the anxiety
  epidemic. That's easy. Fear sells. An epidemic of fear? Christ, that'd
  be too easy. Far too easy.

  Get the insurers on board, discounts on the meds, make it cheaper to
  prescribe a course of treatment than to take the call center time to
  explain to the guy why he's not getting the meds."

  "You're my kind of guy, Leon," Buhle said.

  "So yeah."

  "Yeah?"

  Another one of those we're-both-men-of-the-world smiles. "Yeah."

  Oh.

  "How many?"

  "That's the thing. We were trying it in a little market first. Basque
  country. The local authority was very receptive. Lots of chances to
  fine-tune the message. They're the most media-savvy people on the
  planet these days--they are to media as the Japanese were to
  electronics in the last century. If we could get them in the door--"

  "How many?"

  "About a million. More than half the population."

  "You created a bioweapon that infected its victims with numeracy, and
  infected a million Basque with it?"

  "Crashed the lottery. That's how I knew we'd done it. Lottery tickets
  fell by more than eighty percent. Wiped out."

  "And then your friend beat your head in?"

  "Well."

  The suit was getting more uncomfortable by the second. Leon wondered if
  he'd get stuck if he waited too long, his overinflated suit incapable
  of moving. "I'm going to have to go, soon."

  "Evolutionarily, bad risk assessment is advantageous."

  Leon nodded slowly. "Okay, I'll buy that. Makes you entrepreneurial--"

  "Drives you to colonize new lands, to ask out the beautiful monkey in
  the next tree, to have a baby you can't imagine how you'll afford."

  "And your numerate Vulcans stopped?"

  "Pretty much," he said. "But that's just normal shakedown. Like when
  people move to cities, their birthrate drops. And nevertheless, the
  human race is becoming more and more citified and still, it isn't
  vanishing. Social stuff takes time."

  "And then your friend beat your head in?"

  "Stop saying that."

  Leon stood. "Maybe I should go and find Ria."

  Buhle made a disgusted noise. "Fine. And ask her why she didn't finish
  the job? Ask her if she decided to do it right then, or if she'd
  planned it? Ask her why she used the coffee jug instead of the bread
  knife? Because, you know, I wonder this myself."

  Leon backpedaled, clumsy in the overinflated suit. He struggled to get
  into the airlock, and as it hissed through its cycle, he tried not to
  think of Ria straddling the old man's chest, the coffee urn rising and
  falling.

  She was waiting for him on the other side, also overinflated in her
  suit.

  "Let's go," she said, and took his hand, the rubberized palms of their
  gloves sticking together. She half-dragged him through the many rooms
  of Buhle's body, tripping through the final door, then spinning him
  around and ripping, hard, on the release cord that split the suit down
  the back so that it fell into two lifeless pieces that slithered to the
  ground. He gasped out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in
  as the cool air made contact with the thin layer of perspiration that
  filmed his body.

  Ria had already ripped open her own suit and her face was flushed and
  sweaty, her hair matted. Small sweat rings sprouted beneath her
  armpits. An efficient orderly came forward and began gathering up their
  suits. Ria thanked her impersonally and headed for the doors.

  "I didn't think he'd do that," she said, once they were outside of the
  building--outside the core of Buhle's body.

  "You tried to kill him," Leon said. He looked at her hands, which had
  blunt, neat fingernails and large knuckles. He tried to picture the
  tendons on their backs standing out like sail ropes when the wind blew,
  as they did the rhythmic work of raising and lowering the heavy silver
  coffee pot.

  She wiped her hands on her trousers and stuffed them in her pockets,
  awkward now, without any of her usual self-confidence. "I'm not ashamed
  of that. I'm proud of it. Not everyone would have had the guts. If I
  hadn't, you and everyone you know would be--" She brought her hands out
  of her pockets, bunched into fists. She shook her head. "I thought he'd
  tell you what we like about your grad project. Then we could have
  talked about where you'd fit in here--"

  "You never said anything about that," he said. "I could have saved you
  a lot of trouble. I don't talk about it."

  Ria shook her head. "This is Buhle. You won't stop us from doing
  anything we want to do. I'm not trying to intimidate you here. It's
  just a fact of life. If we want to replicate your experiment, we can,
  on any scale we want--"

  "But I won't be a part of it," he said. "That matters."

  "Not as much as you think it does. And if you think you can avoid being
  a part of something that Buhle wants you for, you're likely to be
  surprised. We can get you what you want."

  "No you can't," he said. "If there's one thing I know, it's that you
  can't do that."

  ***

  Take one normal human being at lunch. Ask her about her breakfast. If
  lunch is great, she'll tell you how great breakfast is. If lunch is
  terrible, she'll tell you how awful breakfast was.

  Now ask her about dinner. A bad lunch will make her assume that a bad
  dinner is forthcoming. A great lunch will make her optimistic about
  dinner.

  Explain this dynamic to her and ask her again about breakfast. She'll
  struggle to remember the actual details of breakfast, the texture of
  the oatmeal, whether the juice was cold and delicious or slightly warm
  and slimy. She will remember and remember and remember for all she's
  worth, and then, if lunch is good, she'll tell you breakfast was good.
  And if lunch is bad, she'll tell you breakfast was bad.

  Because you just can't help it. Even if you know you're doing it, you
  can't help it.

  But what if you could?

  ***

  "It was the parents," he said, as they picked their way through the
  treetops, along the narrow walkway, squeezing to one side to let the
  eager, gabbling researchers past. "That was the heartbreaker. Parents
  only remember the good parts of parenthood. Parents whose kids are
  grown remember a succession of sweet hugs, school triumphs, sports
  victories, and they simply forget the vomit, the tantrums, the sleep
  deprivation . . . It's the thing that lets us continue the species,
  this excellent facility for forgetting. That's what should have tipped
  me off."

  Ria nodded solemnly. "But there was an upside, wasn't there?"

  "Oh, sure. Better breakfasts, for one thing. And the weight
  loss--amazing. Just being able to remember how shitty you felt the last
  time you ate the chocolate bar or pigged out on fries. It was amazing."

  "The applications do sound impressive. Just that weight-loss one--"

  "Weight-loss, addiction counseling, you name it. It was all killer
  apps, wall to wall." "But?" He stopped abruptly. "You must know this,"
  he said. "If you know

  about Clarity--that's what I called it, Clarity--then you know about
  what happened. With Buhle's resources, you can find out anything,
  right?"

  She made a wry smile. "Oh, I know what history records. What I don't
  know is what happened. The official version, the one that put Ate onto
  you and got us interested--"

  "Why'd you try to kill Buhle?"

  "Because I'm the only one he can't bullshit, and I saw where he was
  going with his little experiment. The competitive advantage to a firm
  that knows about such a radical shift in human cognition--it's massive.
  Think of all the products that would vanish if numeracy came in a
  virus. Think of all the shifts in governance, in policy. Just imagine
  an airport run by and for people who understand risk!"

  "Sounds pretty good to me," Leon said.

  "Oh sure," she said. "Sure. A world of eager consumers who know the
  cost of everything and the value of nothing. Why did evolution endow us
  with such pathological innumeracy? What's the survival advantage in
  being led around by the nose by whichever witch doctor can come up with
  the best scare story?"

  "He said that entrepreneurial things--parenthood, businesses . . ."

  "Any kind of risk-taking. Sports. No one swings for the stands when he
  knows that the odds are so much better on a bunt."

  "And Buhle wanted this?"

  She peered at him. "A world of people who understand risk are nearly as
  easy to lead around by the nose as a world of people who are incapable
  of understanding risk. The big difference is that the competition is at
  a massive disadvantage in the latter case, not being as highly evolved
  as the home team."

  He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. Saw that she
  was the face of a monster, the voice of a god. The hand of a massive,
  unknowable machine that was vying to change the world, remake it to
  suit its needs. A machine that was good at it.

  "Clarity," he said. "Clarity." She looked perfectly attentive. "Do you
  think you'd have tried to kill Buhle if you'd been taking Clarity?"

  She blinked in surprise. "I don't think I ever considered the
  question."

  He waited. He found he was holding his breath.

  "I think I would have succeeded if I'd been taking Clarity," she said.

  "And if Buhle had been taking Clarity?"

  "I think he would have let me." She blurted it out so quickly it
  sounded like a belch.

  "Is anyone in charge of Buhle?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean--that vat-thing. Is it volitional? Does it steer this, this
  enterprise? Or does the enterprise tick on under its own power, making
  its own decisions?"

  She swallowed. "Technically, it's a benevolent dictatorship. He's
  sovereign, you know that." She swallowed again. "Will you tell me what
  happened with Clarity?"

  "Does he actually make decisions, though?"

  "I don't think so," she whispered. "Not really. It's more like, like--"

  "A force of nature?"

  "An emergent phenomenon."

  "Can he hear us?"

  She nodded.

  "Buhle," he said, thinking of the thing in the vat. "Clarity made the
  people who took it very angry. They couldn't look at advertisements
  without wanting to smash something. Going into a shop made them nearly
  catatonic. Voting made them want to storm a government office with
  flaming torches. Every test subject went to prison within eight weeks."

  Ria smiled. She took his hands in hers-- warm, dry--and squeezed them.

  His phone rang. He took one hand out and answered it.

  "Hello?"

  "How much do you want for it?" Buhle voice was ebullient. Mad, even.

  "It's not for sale."

  "I'll buy Ate, put you in charge."

  "Don't want it."

  "I'll kill your parents." The ebullient tone didn't change at all.

  "You'll kill everyone if Clarity is widely used."

  "You don't believe that. Clarity lets you choose the course that will
  make you happiest. Mass suicide won't make humanity happiest."

  "You don't know that."

  "Wanna bet?"

  "Why don't you kill yourself?"

  "Because dead, I'll never make things better."

  Ria was watching intently. She squeezed the hand she held.

  "Will you take it?" Leon asked Buhle.

  There was a long pause.

  Leon pressed on. "No deal unless you take it," he said.

  "You have some?"

  "I can make some. I'll need to talk to some lab techs and download some
  of my research first."

  "Will you take it with me?"

  Leon didn't hesitate. "Never."

  "I'll take it," Buhle said, and hung up.

  Ria took his hand again. Leaned forward. Gave him a dry, firm kiss on
  the mouth. Leaned back.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Don't thank me," he said. "I'm not doing you any favors." She stood
  up, pulling him to his feet.

  "Welcome to the team," she said. "Welcome to Buhle."


  Chicken Little (c) 2010 CorDoc-Co, Ltd. (UK)

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