Dydeetown World

"It's Be Kind To Buttonheads Week. Let your neighborhood wired wonder plug himself into your wall." (datastream graffito)

— 1-

The next two years were pretty uneventful until I lost my head.

Literally.

Being decapitated will always rank as my most memorable experience. Not my favorite, but very memorable. Happened right in my own home, too.

Someone had strung a strand of molly wire across my compartment doorway. Neck high. Couldn't see it, of course, so I stepped right through it. Correction: It stepped through me. A submicroscopic strand of single molecules strung end to end. If it hadn't made that faint little skitch as it cut through one of my neck bones, don't know what would have happened.

Yes, I do. Would have died right inside my doorway.

Wouldn't have been pretty, either. A turn to the left or right, or a slight lean forward, and my head would have fallen off in a gaudy spray of red and bounced along the floor.

Didn't feel a thing. But that's supposed to be typical of molecular wire. Could guess what brand it was, too: Gussman Alloy. Hundred-kilo test. Cuts through a human body like a steel-trimming razor through cheesoid.

As the door slid shut behind me, my skin began to burn from a line just below my Adam's apple all the way down to my toes — a million white hot needle pricks. My knees were getting soft. That was on the outside. Panic was roaring to life on the inside. Had to do something — but what?

Gently clamped my weakening fingers around my neck and shuffled across the single room in the direction of the only chair like someone balancing live dissociator grenades atop his head. My legs were starting to give way as I neared it. If I fell or even stumbled, my head would slip and loosen all the connections with the rest of my body and it would all be over. Forced myself to turn slowly, got the backs of my knees against the seat, and lowered myself down as gently as I could. My arms were getting tired from holding my head on, but at least I was seated.

Relief, but not much. Had to stay stiffly erect. Couldn't last like this very long, though. Risked taking a hand away from my neck to press the reform button. Felt the chair move up against my spine and the back of my neck and head, fitting itself to me. Kept the button pressed for maximum fit until the padding had formed forward to my ears and had wormed its way between my arms and body. Thanked myself sincerely for investing in a top-of-the-line polyform recliner like this.

Safe for the moment. Swallowed and felt something tear free in my throat. Got my hand back up there real fast. But how long could I hold it there? Everything was going numb.

At least now I could think. Still alive — but how? Even more pressing — Why and who? Who would want to behead me? Could only be one -

Saw movement outside my door and had the answer to my question. But not quite the answer I had expected. The custom chair and the one-way transparent door were a couple of instances of inconspicuous consumption I'd splurged on since the windfall of the Yokomoto affair. The door had appealed to the voyeur in me, I guess. Mine is an end-corridor compartment and my door faces down the hall. The door lets me get to know all my neighbors without them knowing me. Nice that way.

But the guy coming down the hall now was no neighbor. He was pale and pudgy, had a high forehead, with beady little eyes and a small mouth crowded around a fat nose. Never saw him before. He came up to the door, glanced around, then pulled a tiny aerosol cannister from his pocket. Thought I saw a brief blur of motion back in the hall but my attention was centered on him as he sprayed the air in front of the door at the neck-high level. He waited a couple of seconds, then waved the cannister through the fading spray. The molly wire was gone, its molecular bonds dissolved. The murder weapon was now just a bunch of Gussman alloy molecules floating randomly through the air of the hallway.

The guy didn't leave right away. He stood and stared longingly at the door. Could tell from his expression he wished he could see through it so he could dwell on the end result of his handiwork. Almost wished the door could go transparent both ways so he could see me sitting here looking back at him, giving him the finger. With a sigh and a wistful little smile he turned and walked away.

Who the hell was he? And why had he tried to kill me?

Tried? He hadn't failed yet. Didn't know how I had hung on this long and didn't know how much longer everything in my head would stay lined up with my neck. Needed help, and fast!

Wheeled the chair over to the comm unit and told it to call Elmero's private number. Knew he was there. Just left him.

"El!" I said when his sallow, skeletal face appeared on the screen. My voice was soft and hoarse.

"Sig! Why're you whispering? And why're you holding your throat? Sore?"

"Need help, El. Real bad."

He smiled that awful smile. "What you into now?"

"Trouble. Doc still there?"

"Out in the barroom."

"Send him over. Gonna die if you don't get him here real quick. Molly wire."

The smile disappeared. He could tell I wasn't joking. "Where are you?"

"Home"

"He's on his way."

The screen blanked. Swiveled the chair around and stared down the empty hall, trying to figure out why that guy wanted me dead. Had only been back in business for two weeks…

— 2-

The life of the idle rich had become a real bore, mainly because I couldn't act rich. All I could do was be idle. That was the problem with getting a windfall in something illegal like gold. Had to fence it through Elmero and keep my spending at a level that would not attract attention in Central Data.

But even if it had all been legal, it was hard for me to spend anything near what I had. Didn't like to travel, didn't drink or sniff much, didn't do luce or stim, didn't have friends to squander it on. Did buy some top quality buttons as a treat. Spent a lot of time in pleasureland with a succession of them snapped onto my scalp, trying to saturate my limbic system before beginning the slow, painful process of cutting myself off.

Then the wean began, stretching out the intervals between buttoning up, lengthening them to the point where I'd feel safe getting dewired. The wean was now almost a year along. Hardest thing I've ever done, and idleness only made it harder.

So I opened my office in the Verrazano Complex again. Thought that would be pretty idle for a while, too, but who shows up the first day? Ned Spinner. Didn't call, didn't knock, just strutted into my office and started yelling in that nasal voice.

"Dreyer, you lousy rotten dregger! I knew you'd be back sooner or later! Where is she?"

"Where is who?"

Knew he meant Jean. Spinner had hounded me for months after her "disappearance," even at home. Finally I'd moved to an outer wall compartment and lost him for a while. Now he was back. Must have had my office cubicle watched all this time.

Hated the jog. He was in the same dark greeen pseudovelvet jumpsuit he always wore. He thought he had friends, thought he had influence, thought he was a talented entrepeneur. And he was…but only in his own mind. In real life he was a lousy pimp clonemaster.

"Don't know any more than Central Data tells you, Spinner: She took a shuttle off-planet and from there emigrated to the Outworlds."

"Dreck! She's still on-planet and you know where!"

"In all honesty, I don't know where she is. But if I did know, sure wouldn't tell you."

His face reddened. "If that's your game, fine. But sooner or later you're gonna slip up. And when I catch you with her, it'll be all over for you, Dreyer. I won't bother with grand theft charges. I'll take care of you myself. And when I'm through with you, even the garbage chute in this roach-hole building won't accept you."

The man had a way with words.

Shortly after he left, a real customer showed up. He was slim, smooth, maybe thirty, his shiny hair leaf-sculpted in the latest, tinted perfectly to match the lemon yellow of his feather-trimmed clingsuit. The height of fashion. Up on the latest. Hated guys like this. Maybe because his clothes would look ridiculous on my cuboid frame, but mostly because he dressed to proclaim that he was up to the minute on style and all he really advertized to me was that he didn't have a mind of his own.

His name was Earl Khambot and he said he needed help finding someone.

"My specialty," I said. "Who're we looking for?"

He hesitated, uncertainty breaking through the high fashion facade for the first time since he'd stepped in. For an awful minute I thought he was going to name some clone that had wandered off. Didn't want any more clone work. But he surprised me.

"My daughter," he said.

"That's a job for the M.A., Mr. Khambot, and they don't like independent operators making waves in their pond."

"I…I haven't told the Megalops Authority.

A definite glitch here. A missing kid was cause for hysteria. After all, you were only allowed one. That was the law. You had one chance to duplicate yourself and after that the population problem was left to natural attrition. That one chance was damn valuable to you. You couldn't buy a second for anything. Anything. If that one precious child disappeared, you went screaming to the Megalops Authority. You sure as hell didn't come to some hole-in-the-wall independent operator in the rundown Verrazano Complex. Unless…

"What's the glitch, Mr. Khambot?"

He sighed resignedly. "She's an illegal."

Ah! That explained it. An extra. And above-and-beyonder. A one-more-than-replacement kid.

"Take it she's an urch now? You want to hire me to find an urch? How long since you placed her with a gang?"

He shrugged sullenly. "Three years ago. We couldn't let them terminate her. She was — "

"Sure," I said. "Save it."

Hated irresponsible jogs. No excuse for having an illegal. A no-win situation. The only alternative to risking the kid being yanked and terminated by Population Control — a retro-active abortion, as some called it — was to give it over to the urchingangs. And that was no picnic.

Was thinking: You idiot.

My thoughts must have shown. He said: "I'm not stupid. I got sterilized. Guess it didn't take." He read my mind again. "And yes, the baby was mine. Genotyping proved it."

"And you wanted your wife to carry it?"

"She wanted to. And if she wanted it, so did I."

Earl Khambot went up a notch or two in my estimation. He could have sued for a bundle of credit — malpractice and wrongful conception and all that — and got a nice settlement. And a terminated fetus. So he passed it up. Odd to find someone who's not for sale. Can't figure some people.

"Let's get clean," I told him. "What's your angle?"

His expression was all innocent bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Come on!" Patience was slipping away real fast. "Even if I find her for you, you can't take her back! So what's the dregging angle?"

"I just want to make sure she's all right."

That got me.

"'All right?' What's that supposed to mean?"

Didn't understand. The guy had given up his kid. She wasn't his anymore. She belonged to the urchingangs now.

"Don't you watch the graffiti?"

"Only sometimes."

Usually I just watched Newsface Four. That was my total exposure to the datastream. Didn't want to tell him I'd spent so much time buttoned up over the last half-dozen or so years that I'd got out of the habit of checking the graffiti.

"Never been too sure how accurate that stuff is, anyway. Those graffiti journalists always seem to have an ax to grind."

"They're more reliable than the datastream, I assure you."

"If you say so."

Wasn't going to argue with him. Some people swore by the underground journalists who spent their days slipping uncensored capsules into the datastream, supposedly reporting "news that won't stand the light of day."

"Then I guess you haven't heard about the two urchins they found splattered at the base of the Boedekker North building two days ago."

Shook my head. No, I hadn't. But it figured that it hadn't been mentioned on the datastream. Two dead kids with no unregistered genotypes were undoubtedly urchins. Officially, urchins didn't exist, therefore news of their deaths wouldn't appear in the datastream.

Everyone knew the Megalops had its share of urchins, but their existence was never mentioned by anyone connected with the M.A. or the official media. To admit the existence of urchingangs was to admit there was a problem, and that would lead to someone having to find a solution to that problem. Nobody wanted to tackle that.

So the urchingangs lived on in legal limbo: Illegal children of Realpeople, as real as Mr. Khambot or myself, but nonexistent as far as Central Authority was concerned. Even clones had higher status.

"You mean you want me to check and see if your kid is one of the dead ones?"

That would be easy. I'd just have to -

"I've already done that myself. She's not. I want you to find her and bring her to me."

"What 'round Sol for?"

"I just want to know she's alive and well."

Mr. Khambot went up another notch. Beneath the window dressing lurked a guy who still had a lot of feeling for the kid he'd been forced to dump on the street. There was a real human being under all that make-up.

Didn't like the odds of locating a particular kid among the urchingangs, though. Kids were picked up as infants and had no identity outside their particular group. The one I was looking for would have no idea that she was Little Khambot, and neither would anybody else.

"I don't know…" I said slowly.

He leaned forward, hovering over the desk. "I've got prints — finger, foot, and retinal. Even have her genotype. You've got to find her for me, Mr. Dreyer. You've got to!"

"Yeah, but — "

"I'll pay you in gold — in advance!"

"Guess I could give it a try."

— 3-

Went down to the Battery Complex that afternoon. Three years ago, according to Khambot, he had left the kid near the base of the Okumo-Slater Building where it arched over to Governor's Island. Before heading down there, I'd stocked a big bag with bread, milk, cheesoids, and soy staples. Now I stood and waited.

Gloomy down here at sea level. The calendar said summer but it could have been any season for all the sky you could see. The tight-packed skyscrapers with all their show-off overhangs did a great job of keeping the seasons out. Their shadows blocked the sun in the summer, and the heat leaking from their innards nullified the cold of winter. No day or night, just a dank, perennial twilight.

Far above I could see the gleaming southern face of the Leason Building looking like something from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Outside every window that opened — and some that didn't, probably — hung an overloaded window box festooned with green. Window gardening was the latest rage in the Megalops. Strange on some buildings to see blotches of green poking through their holographic envelopes. Recently started a little plot right outside my own compartment window. And why not? With the price of fresh vegetables, it made excellent sense to grow your own wherever you could. And if you were on the north side or on the lower levels in perpetual shade, you grew mushrooms.

And further down, way down here in the shadows, the urchins grew.

Thought about what it must be like to have to give up your kid. Didn't think I could ever do that. I'd lost Lynnie, but that was different. She was taken from me by her mother — one day I looked around and she was gone. But at least I knew she was alive and well. Better than having her in an urchingang. And a hell of a lot better than having Population Control terminate her for being excess.

No reprieve for a kid who went beyond replacement value. The state extended the old Abortion Rights laws to itself and dictated mandatory termination in utero. If the kid was somehow carried all the way to term, the child was terminated post-term. You couldn't even trade your own life for the kid's. No exceptions. The C.A. was ultrastrict on that. Only way they could make the Replacement Quota stick was to enforce it across the board. If news of one exception — just one — got out, there'd be chaos. The population would be up in arms and the whole Alliance would come crashing down.

Maybe it had all been necessary a couple of generations ago, what with the planet on the brink of starvation and all. But times were better now. Population had dropped to a more manageable level, and with photosynthetic cattle in Antarctica and the deserts, and grain shipments coming in from the outworlds, food was getting steadily more plentiful. Wondered if we had to keep up the quota system. Maybe the C.A. was afraid that loosening up even a little bit would lead to a people explosion, the biggest baby boom in human history.

Even though it had started long before I was born, the whole thing had always seemed pretty drastic to me. Most people figured the end justified the means — if the C.A. hadn't taken Draconian measures, we all would have starved. Mandatory sterilization after you'd replaced yourself wasn't so bad, but termination of babes born in excess of replacement never sat well. One good thing seemed to come out of the Replacement Act: parents really appreciated their kids.

Had appreciated mine like crazy while she was here. And it had hurt like hell when her mother took her away.

"Gim sum, san?"

Looked down and around and there was this three-year old beaming up at me and holding out her hand. She was dressed in a little pink jump, face scrubbed, cheeks glowing, smile beatific, her hair a blonde cloud around her head. That little face made you want to empty your pockets and take off your rings and shoes and give it all to her.

Looked around for her guardians and found two groups of them — a couple of twelve year olds at the corner, and a slightly younger pair fifty meters away in a doorway. If I tried anything cute with her, they'd be on me like a pack of wild dogs.

Pulled off a cheap ring I'd bought just for the occasion.

"Take this," I said, handing it to her. "And tell your friends they can have all the food in this bag if I can have a talk with them."

Her smile widened as she grabbed the ring and ran down the block. Watched her talk to the two on the corner, saw them signal to the two in the doorway. Suddenly another pair appeared from the other direction. Six guards for one little beggar — either she was as valuable as all hell or they were very nervous about losing her. In no time I was surrounded by the whole crew.

Something was up.

"Wan jaw, san?" the leader said in urchin pidgin.

He looked barely thirteen, but he and his friends were all lean and angular, armed and wary, ready to fight.

"Want to ask you some questions."

"Bow wha?"

"About a babe someone left right here three years ago."

"Lookee bag firs, san. Den jaw."

"Sure."

Opened the bag and let them all take a long look at the goodies. A couple of them licked their lips. Hungry kids. Gave me a pang in my gut. Pulled out a bag of cheesoids and unsealed it.

"Here. Pass this around."

"Filamentous!" they chorused.

Their dirty hands dug in, then stuffed the soft creamy balls into their mouths. Noticed that the bigger ones made sure the little blonde got her turn. I liked that.

The leader swallowed his mouthful and said, "Who dis babe? Lookee how? Got pickee-pickee?"

"No. No picture. Guess she'd be her size" — Pointed to the little beggar blonde — "but with black hair."

He shook his head. "No Lost Boy dat."

"'Lost Boys,' eh? Well, do you remember any babe like that three years ago?"

"Nine den. D'know. Probee trade, stan, san?"

Nodded. Traded. Damn! Hadn't thought of that. Obvious though. The older kids took care of the babes until they were old enough to beg. If one urchingang was low on babes or beggars, it would trade for them with another. As the beggars grew older, they became nurturers, then graduated to guards, then to gangleaders, then out into the underworld. An endless cycle.

"Take me to your leader," I said.

It was lost on him.

"Takee halfway. Wendy meetee."

Wendy? Had someone been reading stories to the Lost Boys?

"Fair enough, I guess."

They led me north for a bunch of blocks, then down a stairway into the ancient subway system. Unimaginable that people used to prefer traveling underground to traveling in the air, but these tunnels were real, so I guessed those old stories were, too. The kids all pulled out pocket lights as we made our way along a white-tiled corridor. The leader stopped and faced me after we had descended a second stairway.

"Waitee here, san. Wendy be back. Waitee here."

"Bloaty. How long?"

"N'long, san. Waitee. We takee bag. Giftee. Kay, san?"

Handed over the bag of food.

"Okay. But don't make me wait too long."

"N'long, san. N'long."

They left me one of their lights. As they hurried off into the darkness with my bag of goodies cradled in their midst like the Ark of the Covenant, I listened to the sound of their giggling and it occured to me that maybe I was being played for a Class A jog.

After an hour of sitting alone in that damp, tiled hole with no sign of Wendy, I was sure.

Well, not the first time. Surely not the last. In truth, I'd half expected to be rougued but figured it was worth the risk. After all, the food hadn't cost me much. Felt bad, though. Sort of hoped for better from them.

Headed upstairs and back to my compartment, realizing for the first time what an impossible job this was: Trying to find a kid with no identity, a kid who didn't know who she was, with no picture, not even an identifying characteristic to go by, along a trail that was three years cold.

And to think I'd left being idly rich for this. Sometimes think I'm crazy.

— 4-

As I turned on the compartment lights, Iggy scrabbled across the floor and chomped on a fleeing cockroach, then retreated to a corner to chew. He wasn't much company. Iquanas aren't known for their warmth.

One minute home and I knew I'd made a mistake. Was feeling down and that was when my resistance was at its lowest. No sooner had I loosened my jump than the buttons began calling me from the back of the drawer where I kept them.

Twenty days now. Twenty full days since I'd snapped on a button. A record. Proud of myself. But felt myself weakening steadily. Hard to resist after that length of deprivation, no matter how much you wanted off.

Began thinking of that group button I had bought with during my first flush with the gold — all those bodies going strong, all funneled into that one little button. Threatened me with overload every time. Very hard to resist. Nothing I would have liked better right now than to snap it on and just lose myself in all that sensation. But was never going to kick this if I didn't show a little more spine.

Maybe I should have gone the cold turkey route and just had the wire yanked and let it go at that. But I'd heard horror stories about guys who'd got themselves dewired that way and went black hole shortly after. Not for me, thanks. This wasn't the greatest life, but it was the only one I had. Chose the wean. And by the Core, it was killing me.

Tried to keep busy tilling the window garden but it wasn't working. Finally closed up and ran out into the night, vowing to find some real flesh, even though I knew it wouldn't help much, even if I had to go to Dydeetown and pay for it.

— 5-

In the morning I was about to put a call into Khambot to tell him what a lost cause this case was when a kid came through my office door. A skinny little twelve-year old. He had thin lips, dark hair, and dark eyes that darted all over the place. He was wearing the upper half of a blue jumpsuit and the lower end of a brown, and they weren't joined in the middle. He looked dirty and scared.

An urch. No doubt about it. Certainly not the Wendy they'd told me about. Maybe a young lieutenant.

"You Dreyer-san?" he said in a voice that had a good ways to go before it would even consider changing.

"That's me. What can I do for you?"

He took a seat. "Still lookee three-year babe?"

"Maybe, Why didn't Wendy show up yesterday?" I said, leaning back in my chair.

"Din know you, san. So we wait, watch, follow home, then out, then home, then here." He was speaking very carefully. Probably thought he was putting on a good show of Realpeople talk. That was a laugh.

"She satisfied?"

He shrugged. "M'be."

"She send you?"

A nod.

"And you think you can help find this kid?"

Another shrug, another, "M'be. But cost."

"Never any doubt in my mind about that."

"N'hard barter — soft f'soft."

Soft barter? "Like what?"

"Info for us."

"Who's 'us'?"

"Urchingangs."

"You're an 'us' now? Thought you were always scrapping with each other over begging turf and spheres of influence. Thought you got together for babe trades and that was about it."

"Used t'be. Be again, san. B'now lookee — look for — answer to same question."

"Which is?"

"Dead urches."

"Ah! That means, I take it, that the gangs don't know what happened to them either."

"B'blieve no, san — " He coughed and raised the level of his dialog. "No, but we find out sooner-late."

"If you're so sure of that, why do you need my help?"

"Need Realworld connect."

"You mean to tell me that with all the graduates from the urchingangs floating through the Megalops, not one of them will help out?"

He lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"No lookee backee."

"Oh. Right."

Remembered: Once you're out of the gang and topside in the shadow economy where everything's barter and nothing's connected to Central Data, you're who you are — no past. No one admits they're from urchinland — ever. Urchins don't exist.

The more I thought about it, the better this looked to me. The urchins would search out little Khambot among the gangs for me while I worked in the Realworld for them. Didn't see why they were so determined to find out what happened to the two little kids. No one had mentioned foul play. But why argue? The way I saw it, we'd both come out ahead.

"Okay. Got a good contact who can help us out."

"Come?"

Shook my head. "No place for a kid. Especially an urch."

True. Elmero's was not for kids, but even truer was that I didn't want to go sliding into Elmero's with an urch in tow.

"Nev know," he said.

"They'll know as soon as you open your mouth. The only kids who talk pidge are urchins."

"Helpee Realfolk?"

Shook my head again. "No time."

He lowered his voice and spoke haltingly. "I…know…some. I…can…do."

Had to laugh. "You've been practicing that? Getting ready for the Realworld?"

He looked at me with his big bown eyes. "Please, san?"

Something in a dusty, almost forgotten corner inside went soft and mushy.

"Okay," I said, wondering why even as the words came out. "Just keep your mouth shut. And if you have to say something, don't use 'san.' That's a dead give away. It's 'Mr. Dreyer.' Got it?"

Now he smiled. "Kay."

"Okay."

Called Elmero's. The man got on the screen. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked him if he could do a jack for me later today."

"How deep?"

"Top sector."

"That will cost."

"Don't I know. Can pay the freight if you can do the jack."

"Do I ever let you down?" Elmero said with his awful smile.

"Not never," I said, "but hardly ever. Doc around?"

"Should be soon. Bout time for his midday wiff."

"If you see him, ask him to wait around for me. Be by in a tenth or so."

"Sure." The screen blanked.

"Fees fren, come he — ?"

"Say it in Realtalk," I told him.

"If…he's…you…friend, how…come…he…charge?"

"'How come he charges.'" Felt like a tutor machine. "He charges because that's his business — one of his businesses. We're friends, but that doesn't mean I dip into his trade whenever I want. Business is business."

Could tell he wasn't following me too well so shifted to a topic I was sure he could track. "Interested in lunch?"

"Course. Y'got?"

"Not here. A restaurant."

His eyes saucered. "Mean sitdown?"

You'd think he'd just been offered a trip to Skyland Park.

"Yeah. There's a nice place on level 12 that has — "

He was out of his chair and heading for the door. "S'go!"

— 6-

"Don't make yourself sick, now," I told him. The urch was ready to order two of everything on the menu.

"Nev had steak."

He was talking more carefully now. I guess sitting in a roomful of Realpeople was influencing him.

"Won't get one here, either."

"Said 'steak'?" he said, pointing to the glowing tabletop menu in front of him. The table had read off the menu selections in its feminine monotone, brightening each line as it went. Searched through the printed list. My reading skills left much to be desired, though I'd improved them a lot in the past year.

"Yeah. Here it is: steak with mushroom gravy. But it isn't real grass-fed steer steak." Not with the economic stratum this place serviced — no one could afford it. "You can either get chlorcow or soysteak."

"'Chlorcow'?"

Didn't want to go into an explanation of photosynthetic cattle so I told him, "The soysteak tastes pretty much like the real thing. And it's bigger."

"Soysteak me. Two."

"'I'll have two soysteaks, please,' and no, you won't. You'll have one. It's a big one — half a kilo." He made a face so I said, "If you finish it and you're still hungry, I'll get you another."

He smiled and for a fleeting moment he was a real little boy.

Ordered a shrimp culture sandwich and a beer for myself. Felt like his father or something as I helped him punch his order into the console, letting him add sides of chocolate soymilk and double speedspuds. Hadn't been called on to act like a father in an awful lot of years. Ten, to be exact. Gave me an odd little warm feeling, one I might want to get used to if I wasn't careful.

"What's your name, kid?"

"B.B."

Easy enough. "Okay, B.B. Your meal will be here soon. Just sit back and relax.

Watched him as we waited. He couldn't take his eyes off the servers wheeling by. On two occasions I thought he was going to lunge at the dessert cart. Finally a server wheeled up and slid our meals onto the table. When it asked if we wanted to modify our order, I told it no and stuck my thumb in its pay slot. As it trundled away, I turned back to the urch. He had the steak in both hands and was gnawing at it.

"Put that down!" I said in as forceful a whisper as I dared. To his credit, he didn't drop it, and he didn't buck me on it. He eased it back onto his plate.

"S'mat?" he said with a wounded expression as he licked the gravy off his lips.

"You trying to embarrass me? Ever hear of a knife?"

"Course."

"Well, unless you want everybody in this place to know you're an urch, use it!"

He proceeded to hold the steak down with his left hand while he cut with the knife in his right. Was ready to get real angry when I realized he wasn't trying to turn my screws.

"Okay, drop everything," I said softly.

He did, reluctantly, and sat there sucking his fingers.

If I was going to have to sit here with him, I didn't want him making a spectacle of himself. Held up my fork and said, "This takes the place of your fingers when you're eating with Realpeople. It's called a fork. Here's how you use it."

As I picked up my knife and reached across to demonstrate, he lunged forward and covered his plate with his hands. Just as quickly, he pulled them away and leaned back. Instinct, I guessed. I speared the gnawed corner of the soysteak, sawed through his teeth marks, and handed him the loaded fork. Watched him grab it and shove it into his mouth, watched him close his eyes as he chewed.

"S'steak?" he said in a hushed voice after he had swallowed.

"Well, something that tastes a lot like steak. Only the mushrooms are real."

He attacked the meal. My shrimp culture sandwich was only half gone when he looked up at me from his empty plate. Nice thing about soysteak — no fat, no bone, no gristle.

"Said nother."

"Look, if you're not used to gravy and that sort of — "

"Said!"

"All right, all right!"

Punched in a reorder of the soysteak but skipped the speedspuds. Finished my sandwich and watched him work his way through the second steak. Knew he was going to have a bellyache by the way he was wolfing it down. Surprised me, though. Asked for dessert. Treated him to a chocolate gelato-to-go as we left. He had it finished by the time we got up to midlevel. As we waited on the platform for a slot in the crossBrooklyn tube, he turned green.

"You feeling all right?" I asked.

"Na' s'good, san."

"Not surprised after the way you — "

And then he was running for the pissoir. Never made it. Chocolate-colored soysteak-speedspud stew splattered the platform. When he was empty, he returned to the boarding area, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Told you not to have that second soysteak."

He smiled up at me and jerked his thumb at the gravity chute that led back to the restaurant. "Third now?"

Took a halfhearted swing at his head. He ducked easily, laughing.

— 7-

"An urch search, ay?" Elmero said, smiling horribly after I'd explained Khambot case. He repeated the phrase. Seemed to like the sound of it.

Doc was there, wiffing a pale yellow gimlet. He had a round black face, a portly body, and owlish eyes. He still had a year to go before his license suspension ran out and tended to spend a lot of time here.

"Where do I come in?" he said.

"Need an opinion on the autopsies of those dead kids. What's your consultation fee?"

Doc snorted a laugh. "I believe it would approximate my tab at this establishment."

Glanced at Elmero who shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"Not unreasonable," he said.

"But I don't have access to those data," Doc said. "Can't tell you anything without data."

"That's okay. Elmero can jack into — "

"Elmero can't jack anywhere!" Elmero said, his face a stoney mask. He was looking past me at the urch.

"He's secure," I said quickly, placing a hand on the kid's shoulder. He'd been good. Hadn't said more than one hello since he came in. "B.B. is tight. Tight as can be."

Elmero arched his eyebrows and cocked his head. "You guarantee that?"

"To the Core." Knew I was safe saying that. Not being Realpeople, urches couldn't testify in court.

"Good enough."

Elmero rode his chair over to his comm chassis and began his jacking procedure. He broke into the coroner's datafile and then we began to search. In the under age five category, we found one John Doe and one Jane Doe, each with an unregistered genotype, deceased on the date in question. Doc took over then and scanned the data. Twice.

"Nothing here but trauma, all simultaneous, consistent with a fall. No biological or chemical toxins or contaminants, no molestations. Generic foodstuff in the intestines. What we have here are two otherwise healthy kids dead as a result of a fall from a height consistent with the middle sixty floors of the tower complex they were found next to."

B.B. piped in. "No drug? No sex?"

It was the most he had said since we'd entered Elmero's.

"I believe I covered those fields," Doc said.

"Has to be drug!"

Looked at him. "Why does there 'has' to?"

He glared at me, then turned and stalked out.

"'B.B.' is an urchin name," Elmero said.

"Really?" Hadn't known that.

"Common one. The other most common is 'B.G.'"

"That's all very interesting, "Doc said, "but what I'd like to know is why a couple of toddler urchins were up on the middle level of the Boeddeker North building in the first place."

"Something nasty, I'll bet," Elmero said with a sour grin. "Something very nasty."

This was getting interesting. Intriguing, even. But it was time to settle up accounts: Elmero canceled Doc's balance, then deducted that amount plus his jacking fee from the big store of credit I had with him from the gold he'd fenced for me after the Dydeetown girl job.

Then I hurried out, looking for B.B. Found him watching somebody playing the new zap game. Procyon Patrol was passe now. Bug Wars was the current rage. Grabbed his arm and pulled him outside where we stood in the midst of Elmero's latest holo envelope — a classic Paris sidewalk cafe. Nice, but don't try to sit on one of the chairs.

"We've got to talk, urch. You're not telling me everything you should be tellng me."

"S'n'true, san — " he began, then stopped himself. "That not true."

Caught and held his eyes with my own.

"Why were you so sure of drugs? Truth now, or I walk."

He looked away and took a deep breath. He spoke carefully.

"Beggee kids be snatched."

"Snatched?" It was the first I'd heard of it. "By who?"

"D'know."

"How many?"

"Lots."

"Why?"

"D'know."

Was almost glad he didn't know. Wasn't sure I wanted the details on why someone was kidnapping little urchin beggars. Was sure it wasn't for ransom. But now I knew why there had been six urchin guards for that little blonde beggargirl down by the Battery yesterday.

"Were the two dead ones snatched?"

He nodded.

"Have any others been found dead besides the ones at Beodekker North?"

He shook his head. "Jus' th'two. Get others back."

"You mean they're snatched and then returned to you?"

"Drop off where snatchee."

This was making less and less sense.

"Unhurt?"

B.B. shook his head vehemently. "No! N'same. Eve af back, still gone. Dull, dumb, stupee, bent."

Now I understood. Whoever was snatching the little urches was returning damaged goods. That was why B.B. had been so sure we'd find drugs in the post-mortem report.

"So you think they're being dosed up and — what?"

He shrugged. "D'know. Can't tell. N'good sure."

"No signs of…abuse?"

Thought of my own daughter. For perhaps the first time since Maggs had spirited her away, I was glad Lynnie was out among the Outworlds.

"Nup," he said, shaking his head. "Checked by Wendy. Sh'say bods okay, b'heads f'blungit."

"Who 'round Sol is this Wendy? She a doctor or something?"

B.B. was suddenly flustered. "Sh'Mom. D'worry. Sh'know. An'way, kids get better, b'ver' slow. Weeks."

They're returned slow and stupid but get better with time. Sure sounded like a drug to me. This was getting stranger and stranger. Little urches snatched and returned, physically okay, but dosed up on something. To what end? Maybe just dosed up and posed? Or maybe overdosed on purpose so they couldn't talk afterwards? But why bother with such elaborate precautions? Urchins had no legal existence. They couldn't bring charges or testify against anyone. So why coagulate their minds before returning them?

Why return them at all?

"How many days were the two dead kids missing?"

He thought a moment, then said, "Oldee three, youngee four."

Missing three to four days — were they so gelled on something that they walked right off the outer walkway? No, wait: No trace of foreign chemicals or toxins in their systems.

My own mind was beginning to feel a bit gelled.

"Post-mort said they were clean."

He looked at me as if I were stupid. "Druggee-druggee!"

Maybe he was right. Suddenly had an idea.

"Come on," I said, pulling him toward the chute up to the tube level. "We're heading uptown."

— 8-

Boedekker North was the biggest thing in the Danbury borough — too big for a holographic dress-up. It towered above everything around it like a giant stack of rice cakes on an empty table. We tubed into the midsection and hunted up a directory.

"Lookee, san?" When I glared at him, he sighed and said, "What we looking for?"

"A pharmaceutical company."

"Farmers — ?"

"No. Pharmaceutical. As in 'pharmacy.' They make drugs. You know — medicines?" He gave me a puzzled look. "Wait," I told him. "You'll see."

Had a brainstorm. Suppose somebody was using the kids as lab specimens to give some new drug a clinical trial? Something so new and unique that the coroner's analyzers wouldn't spot it? Suppose this new drug backfired? And suppose the testers weren't prepared to house the damaged kids? What would they do with them?

Send them back where they came from, of course. That would take the kids off their hands and allow the researcher to observe the longterm effects of their botched trial.

Urchins as human lab rats. What a wonderful world.

There were a few bugs in my scenario but it fit most of the facts. A little more information and I was sure I could fill in the empty spaces.

"Sh'tell more," B.B. said as we sorted through the midlevel directory's stores and services.

Gave him a sidelong look. "What else you been holding out on me?"

"N'hold, san — " He stopped and cleared his throat. "Not hold out. Jus' membered. Saw comet side of flit snatchee lil Jo."

"Why didn't you tell me this before!" It would have made things so much easier!

He shrugged. "Din think — "

"Never mind. What color was it? Red, yellow?"

"Pointy silvee star w'long silvee tail."

"Any words?"

He shrugged again.

Right. Remembered he couldn't read. No matter. Starting to get real excited about this case. A stylized comet in silver. Obviously a company logo. Now we were getting somewhere.

Or so I thought.

Boedekker North housed thousands of lessees. We sorted through the entire midsection directory and looked up every single firm or store that might conceivably have anything at all to do with drugs, medicine, research, doctors, even kids. Then we ran a match search to see if any of these had a silver comet in their logo.

No match.

Another run looking for the word "star" or "comet" or "meteor" or any celestial body associated with their company name.

No match.

So we searched for any company name that contained any reference to outer space. Even checked out names related to speed. We found quite a few, but none of them had a silver comet for a logo.

We came up equally empty on the top-section and under-section directories.

The hours had slipped by. It was dark out. We found a roving soyvlaki cart and I treated B.B. to a couple. He wolfed them down as we sat and watched a lot of the workers head home for the night.

"Howc y'don work l'them?"

"You mean a steady day job?"

He nodded.

Thought about that. Maggs had asked me the same question maybe a million times during our marriage. Couldn't come up with a new answer on the spot so I gave him the stock reply: "Too much like being a robot."

He gave me a strange look so I explained.

"You know — everything on a schedule. Be here now, get there then, do this before lunch, do that before you go home. A regimented existence. Not for me. Like to make my own hours, be my own boss, go where I want, when I want. Work for myself, not some big corporation. Be a corportion of one."

He gave me a halfhearted nod, like he wasn't really convinced. Couldn't believe it. An urch who'd lived by his wits all his life — how could he have the slightest doubt?

"Don't tell me you'd want to be like them!"

He watched the scurrying workers with big round wistful eyes. His mouth was pulled down at the corners and I could barely hear his voice:

"Love it."

Couldn't fathom that at all. Struck me speechless for a moment. Then I understood.

Here I was talking about bucking the system to a kid who'd have to spend his entire life scratching out an existence in the shadow economy, who would never get a hand on the bottom rung of the system's ladder no matter how hard he wished, hoped, or tried. From where he was, that bottom rung looked like heaven.

Somebody should have come by then and daubed my face white, painted my nose red, and turned on a calliope. What a clown, I was. An idiot clown.

Suddenly my appetite was gone. Offered the kid my second soyvlaki. He took it but ate it slowly.

When he was finished he said, "Where fr'mere?"

Wasn't sure. Tired. Knew we weren't finished here at Boedekker North, but didn't want to go back to Brooklyn tonight and have to tube up here again in the morning. Wanted to milk this trip.

"Back to the directories," I told him. "We're going to go through the midsection firm by firm and look at every logo of every lessee in Boedekker North until we find something that looks like a comet."

"Cou b'wrong," he said.

"About the comet? Don't think that hasn't occurred to me. That's why you aren't going home till I do."

We seated ourselves at the directory console, queued up the ads of each lessee in alpabetical order, and let them run in the holochamber. Started getting bleary along about "J" and was nodding around "M". Suddenly B.B. was yanking on my sleeve.

"It, san!" He was bouncing in his seat and pointing at the chamber. "It! It!"

Opened my eyes and stared at the holo. Felt my blood run cold at sight of the name:

NeuroNex.

But the logo was all wrong.

"That's no comet!"

The kid's finger was wiggling in the chamber, intersecting with the NeuroNex logo. His voice had risen to just shy of a screech. "It, san! It!"

And then I saw what he meant. Underlining the NeuroNex name was a stylized neuron trailing a long axon — all silvery gray in color. It did look like a comet.

Found it!

Noticed the kid looking at me with something like adoration in his eyes.

"You plenty smartee, Dreyer-san."

"If I were really smart," I said, trying to hide my dismay as I stared at the NeuroNex logo, "I wouldn't be involved in this at all."

"Where place?"

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "Place is closed now anyway. Be open tomorrow. I'll come back then."

"We — "

"No! I. Me. Alone. You can't get into a NeuroNex shop — no minors allowed — and you might give it away if you did." Stood up. "Come on. Time to get back to the island."

He was pouting as I guided him to the tube platform. The pod came and I spent most of the trip home staring through the wall at the progession of lighted stops and semidark in-betweens, thinking of NeuroNex.

NeuroNex. I hadn't included it in the sort, probably because I hadn't wanted to see that name.

Of all the places that could have been involved, why did it have to be NeuroNex?

Something bumped my arm. Looked around and saw that the urch had fallen asleep and was leaning against me. The other people on the tube probably thought he was my kid. He shivered in his sleep. Put my arm over his shoulder. Just to keep up appearances.

— 9-

"My stop's next," I said, jostling him awake. Got to my feet as he yawned and stretched.

"Tired," he said. "Sleep y'place, san?"

Shook my head. "No chance."

He looked surprised. "Please? Tired. Nev spen night in real compartment."

"Haven't missed much. Once you're asleep it's all the same. Besides, I've got work to do. Can't have an urch hanging around."

"I can help," he said in his best Realpeople talk.

Could see he was getting too attached, imprinted on me like some baby duck. Had to introduce a little distance here.

"No, you can't. Check with my office in a couple of days. May have something for you then."

The tube stopped and I got out. Walking away, I felt his hurt gaze on my back like a weight until the tube shot him further downtown. Could have used some company but I had to be alone tonight. No witnesses.

Learning that the "comet" we had been seeking was part of the NeuroNex logo was pushing me toward a decision. A big one. One I wasn't sure I was ready for yet.

Years ago, NeuroNex had wired me for my button. Now NeuroNex — or at least this particular branch office — was linked to the snatches and deaths of a couple of urchins. And I'd managed to get myself tractored into finding out the who, the why, and the wherefore.

Which meant I had to find a way of presenting myself to NeuroNex and asking lots of questions without raising too much suspicion. There was a foolproof way of for me to do that: Get myself unbuttoned.

Not a pretty prospect. Been preparing myself to have it done, been planning to have it done…someday. But not so soon. Next year maybe. Next quarter maybe. Sure as hell not tomorrow.

Not tomorrow!

But what better way to get next to NeuroNex? Tried desperately to think of one and came up blank.

Dropped into my new formchair — just like Elmero's — and buttoned it to adjust to my posture. Sat there looking down the hall through my door. Watched for a while but nothing was moving out there so I rode the chair over to the button drawer and opened it. Sat staring at those little gold disks. A lot of money invested in those things over the years. Some where played out but I kept them anyway. Nostalgia, maybe. The Good Old Days — when a good simple single-input orgasm was quite enough for a long while. But then I graduated to doubles, then triples. My latest was a five-couple orgy multi-channeled into a slow build that crescendoed through a series of minor eruptions into a major simultaneous explosion.

Picked it out of the pile and backed the chair into the middle of the compartment, turning so my back was to Lynnie's holo. As the chair reclined supineward, I hesitated.

Shouldn't do this, I told myself. You've been weaning yourself down all year now. Three weeks now without buttoning up once. A record. As good as clean. Why set yourself back now? The day after tomorrow will be a lot easier if you put that damn thing back in the drawer right now and go to sleep.

Good arguments. Made a lot of sense. But they couldn't overcome one little slice of reality: After I was unbuttoned tomorrow, there'd be no choice for me unless I decided to get rewired, and that wouldn't be possible for at least half a year. Tonight was it. After this, I'd be like the rest of the walkarounds except there'd be a part of me so callused by years of buttoning that no one in the real world could get through to it. An importent part of me would be permanently — or almost permanently — numb. Needed one last jolt, one last hit, for old times' sake. Auld Lang Syne. No rational arguments were going to keep me from buttoning up one last time.

Was just fitting the button into the dimple in my scalp when I noticed movement through the door. Held off and watched the urchin steal down the hall toward my compartment. Felt my jaw muscles tighten. If that little bastard thought he was going to barge in here and whimper and whine his way into spending the night, he had another think coming. Needed my privacy, needed to be by myself for a — He didn't knock or push the buzzer. Just stood there looking at the door for a moment, then slipped to the floor and curled up with his back to me.

The little glitch was going to spend the night camped outside my door and he wasn't even going to tell me!

Watched the slow rise and fall of his skinny little back as he dropped off to sleep. Fingered the button in my hand. Could still button up just like I'd planned The door was soundproof and he'd never know what I was doing.

But I'd know he was there.

Stared at him. He looked so frail lying there, scootching around to get comfortable. Thought of him staying there on the hard floor all night in the cold white light while I slept calm and soft in my dark compartment.

So what? It was his choice, wasn't it? He could have been back with his gang now, sleeping with them. Safe. Secure. Underground. In the old subway tunnels.

Sighed and floated the chair over to the drawer, dropped the button back in, then returned to the door. Maybe it was for the best, I told myself. Make it easier in the morning…and all the empty nights thereafter.

Opaqued the door — saw no use in letting him in on that little secret — and slid it open. Nudged him with my foot.

"Get in here!" I said in an angry hiss. "What'll the neighbors say if they see you out here?"

He gave me a shy smile as he stumbled to his feet. Growling, I pointed him toward the couch and turned out the lights.

— 10-

B.B. had the big thrill of waking up in a real compartment and eating a compartment breakfast. Even let him take my allotted shower for the day — a super-filamentous thrill. After he was finished and dressed, I sent him on his way happy, clean, and smiling, telling him I'd meet him at the office later.

When I was sure he was gone, I emptied my button drawer into the pocket of my jumper and headed for the tubes. Tried to keep my mind blank as I headed for Boedekker North. Didn't want to think about what I was going to have done to myself this morning.

The word castration drifted through my mind.

Not that I was much use to the female of the species now, but without the wire I wouldn't even be useful to myself. They say that after you got unbuttoned, you can relearn to be with a woman again. It was never as good as a button, but you could relearn.

Wasn't sure I'd even want to try.

Wandered around Boedekker North for a while, killing time. Finally decided that I'd put it off long enough. Wasn't going to accomplish anything by delaying any longer. Strolled onto the premises of the NeuroNex franchise and…

…got in line.

Hadn't expected this. A real strange sight. The other customers were in holosuits — saw two Joey Joses, an Alana Alvarez, a Pepito Ito, and others — all waiting for the human tech. She took each into the back office; a few minutes later they were out again and on their way. It looked like they were making purchases, but that didn't make sense. Simple purchases of mones or buttons could be made more quickly — and with greater confidentiality — via the slot consoles along the wall. Needed a human myself. After all, I was here for a procedure.

"You alone here?" I called over the heads of the others.

"Until the sales girl comes in, I am." She smiled. "We let her sleep late one morning a week."

"I was here before you," said a thin, worn out looking guy two seats away. No holosuit on him.

"Nobody said you weren't."

"Just remember that," he said sullenly.

Finally the holosuits were gone. Only me and my polite fellow dallier — the one ahead of me — remained. He shuffled up to the counter.

"I wanna donate a few nanos."

The tech gave him the up-and-down. She was red-haired, round-bodied and round-faced, with ruddy cheeks. A plump little angel, except that she was scowling.

"Weren't you hear last week, Stosh?"

"Yeah, but — "

"No 'buts'. Two weeks between donations, not a tenth less. You know that. See you in a week."

He stalked out, averting his eyes as he passed me.

"What can NeuroNex do for you?" she said to me.

"A procedure."

Her interest level rose visibly. "Oh? Which one?

Looked around to make sure the office area was empty. This wasn't something I wanted to advertise.

"Want to get dewired."

Her eyes widened, revealing more blue. "Really?"

"Something wrong?"

"No. Of course not. It's just that you don't look like our typical…" Her voice trailed off.

"Buttonhead?"

"Not a nice term. We prefer 'direct limbic neurostimulator.'"

"And you think I should probably look like the guy you just chased off, right?"

"We try to discourage that stereotype. By the way, you'll have to sign a release."

"I know."

Expected that. The NeuroNex people had installed the wire a year or so after Maggs had run off. Had to sign a release then saying that I'd read and understood all the listed potential physical and psychosocial side effects of becoming a buttonhead and absolved NeuroNex of any liability connected with same. Now they'd want me to absolve them of any and all liability associated with not being a buttonhead.

Sure. Why not?

We got down to business. The releases were signed, then we discussed price. That was not negotiable, I knew — the fee was set at NeuroNex's central office — but I haggled anyway. Got nowhere, as expected, but did manage to get a trade-in allowance on the unused plays left in my buttons.

After the sales girl arrived, the tech led me back to the sterile room and laid me down. Watched the monitor as she prepped the top of my scalp. Had an odd, disembodied sensation as I looked down at the back of my own head in the holo chamber. She depilated the area around the dimple, disinfected it, then readied her scalpel.

"No blade?" I said.

She was seated at the top of my head as I reclined on the table. Couldn't see her face, only her hands in the monitor, but her voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

"It's there. You just can't see it. It's a loop of Gussman molly wire. See?" She passed the visible part of the instrument within a couple of centimeters of my scalp and the flesh parted magically. "Beautiful stuff — a single strand of Gussman alloy molecules strung end to end, submicroscopic but still 100-kilo test. Wonderful to work with."

Her unbridled enthusiasm did not keep my stomach from lurching as I saw my own blood start to well in the lengthening incision.

"Could you turn off the monitor, please?"

"Sure."

A hand disappeared from the field and then the holochamber went blank. Couldn't understand why some people like to watch. Looking at the blank ceiling now, I heard my voice yammering on. Usually I let other people talk, but I was nervous, shaking inside, feeling cold and sick, and it seemed to help to talk.

"You do this often?"

"No. Hardly at all. I used to put in a lot of wires when I was back on the island. We refer all our button jobs there. You really need a team of two to do an implant right. These little branch offices don't have the volume to warrant two techs."

"Didn't look that way this morning."

"Those were special orders." I heard her shift position. "Okay. We're ready to dewire. Last chance: You sure you want to go through with this?"

"Absolutely…I think. But what if I feel I'm starting to go crazy after the wire is gone?"

There was a pause. "I think we can help you."

"Yeah? How?"

"You've heard of NDT, right?"

"Of course."

Had forgotten what the letters stood for but knew it was a neurohormone — NeuroNex marketed their own brand under the name that had become generic for the stuff: BrainBoost.

"Right. Well, new research indicates that NDT might prove to be of some benefit in the button withdrawal stage."

That was good news. Anything to ease the withdrawal would be a blessing. Tried some NDT in my younger days to help me pass the investigator's exam and hadn't been too impressed. NDT was the last thing I would have expected to help.

"Isn't that for memory and the like?"

"Right," she said. "There's some perceptual enhancement, but basically it's a cognitive booster. Better recall, heightened deductive and analytical capabilities."

"That's what I thought." Students used a lot of it, so did business people for meetings and negotiations, and so on. "So how's it going to help me?"

"It appears to concentrate attention on the congnitive functions and distract it from the vegetative-reproductive areas. In other words, you're still withdrawing but you don't notice it as much."

Just then a disturbing thought struck me.

"By the way, what did that guy just ahead of me want to 'donate'?"

"NDT."

"Afraid you'd say that. Not exactly anxious to have any of him floating around in my brain."

She laughed, a deep chuckle. "Don't worry! By the time we finish concentrating and distilling our NDT, it is pure. Not a trace of contaminant."

"Sounds like it's worth a try."

"Oh, it's definitely worth a try. In fact…" She hesitated here and I wished I could have seen her face. "There's a special high-potency NDT that would be perfect for you It's a new synthetic."

"Thought the synthetics weren't worth the trouble."

"They weren't. But this is something completely new. Unfortunately, it's not officially on the market yet."

"Too bad."

"I could get you some, but I can't sell it to you through the usual channels, if you get my meaning."

Got her meaning, all right: a barter deal.

Very interesting. NDT was growing in my mind as a two-edged sword: It could get me over the hump of withdrawing from the buttons, and it would give me an excuse to keep coming back here until I found a connection between NeuroNex and the snatched urchins. If indeed there was a connection.

"What's so special about this synthetic?"

"Super high potency."

"Why not just take more of the regular NDT?"

"Because there are only so many receptor sites in the brain available to regular NDT. Once they're all engaged, that's it — you've got your maximum effect no matter how much you pour in. The super NDT has quadruple the bioactivity of regular."

She did a little more fiddling around on my head, then said, "That does it. The wire's out. Now…I can either close you up tight or implant a membrane patch so you can put NDT to use on a regular basis."

"How about a free sample of the super stuff? If it helps, I'll come back for the membrane and you'll have yourself a regular customer."

Didn't want to trade one dependency for another, but if NDT would help me over the rough spots, I couldn't pass it up.

There was a pause, then, "Sounds fair. I'll get some."

She left me alone. If not for my open scalp, it would have been a perfect opportunity for some quick snooping. Stayed on the table and waited.

"I'm going to add a ten-nanogram dose of NDT suspension directly into your CSF and then — "

"CSF?"

"Cerebrospinal fluid. The juice your brain floats in, so to speak. Then I'm going to close you up. You'll get a short, quick, intense reaction to the NDT. It lasts much longer through a membrane patch."

"This is the super stuff you're giving me? On the house, right?"

"On the house."

It didn't hit me until I was off the table and thumbing my bill in the outer office. Suddenly noticed that colors seemed brighter, clearer, objects more sharp-edged. Was aware of all my nerve-endings, could feel the scanner read the processor in my thumb and deduct the unbuttoning fee. Felt the blood racing through my capillaries, felt the slow coiling peristalsis of my intestines, the microturbulence of the air currents in my lungs, the electric currents arcing along the walls of my heart. If this was the effect of super NDT, I could see how it would make it easier to forget how lost and alone you felt without your button collection.

The NDT I'd had in the past had never been like this. Super NDT…nordopatriptyline…everything I'd ever learned, ever read, ever heard about it came back to me and swirled with my latent thoughts and questions about the snatched urchins, living and otherwise. And suddenly it was all clear. All the pieces fell together into a seamless could-be that needed only a few more facts to make it a must-be.

"Of course!" I heard my own voice mutter as I withdrew my thumb from the payment slot. "That's why you snatch the urchins!"

"What did you say?" the tech asked with suddenly narrowed eyes.

"Nothing." Loose-lipped idiot!

"No, you said something about urchins." Her smile had shrunken to a tight thin line, her cherubic face had settled into a petrous mask.

I didn't hesitate a microsecond. "'Luncheon.' I said, 'I still have time to make a luncheon.'"

"Oh," she said and nodded, but I knew she didn't believe me. Got out as fast as I could and headed for Elmero's, hoping Doc was there.

— 11-

"Seems kind of a waste to me," Doc said, his black face gleaming in the bright lights of Elmero's office. "I mean, we've already been into Central Data once and found nothing useful in the p-m report. Why go back?"

"Because I don't think we asked the right questions."

While I argued with Doc, Elmero was already at his console, working his jacking procedure. The super NDT was still buzzing through me. My thoughts were flying.

Doc shrugged. "Well, it's your money."

"Right. So tell me: Is a cerebrospinal fluid analysis done on a routine post-mortem?"

"Of course. Protein, glucose, chlorides, bacteria, viruses, toxins, and other sundry things."

"Neurohormones?"

"Hell, no!"

"Why not?"

"Be like checking for subcutaneous fat on your ass: Everbody's got it to varying degrees. Why should they check for neurohormones? Everybody's got those. Besides, those assays are expensive. You'd have to expect a problem along those lines before trying to justify that kind of expenditure. Certainly wouldn't do it on a John or a Jane Doe that's undoubtedly an urchin."

That was what I had figured.

"How long do they keep tissue samples in the coroner's dept?"

"Depends. On a Doe case, probably a month, tops."

"We're in," Elmeror announced from the console.

"Can you requisition a test on one of the dead kids' CSF?"

Elmero gave a me a look that eloquently mixed disgust with annoyance.

"Sorry," I said. "Don't know what came over me. Get a nordopatriptyline level."

He told the coroner's computer to run the test, then leaned back in his chair and glided it back to the desk. Doc went out to the barroom for a fresh whiff, saying this would take awhile. His timing was perfect: The result of the NDT assay popped into view just as he returned. He stepped over and looked at it.

"Damn me!" he said.

I joined him and scanned the result: "NDT level in subject CSF = 2.7 ng./dl. Normal level in age group = 12.5 — 28 ng./dl."

"Figured that," I said.

Doc gave me a sour look. "And just how did you 'figure' that someone had sucked off this kid's NDT?"

Told them how B.B.'s "comet" had led us to NeuroNex, what the tech had said about the super synthetic NDT, about my earlier guess that NeuroNex might be testing a new substance on the urchins.

"But if that's the case, the kid's brain should have been loaded with NDT!" Doc said.

"Not if the assay doesn't pick up the synthetic," Elmero said.

Doc scowled. "Then why the depressed levels?"

Waited a few beats, then said, "Because everything the tech told me about the new synthetic super NDT was true, except the part about it being synthetic."

They stared at me uncomprehendingly. Nice to be the smart guy, the guy with all the answers for once. Allowed them to stew for awhile. Finally:

"Think about it. NDT is a normal component of the CSF. It's necessary for normal cognitive functions, and in increased concentrations it can enhance those functions. Now…at what time in your development is the brain most actively sorting, analyzing, filing, matching, compounding, linking, correlating, and so on?"

"Childhood," Doc said.

"Right! The whole world is new. The mind is relentlessly bombarded with a seemingly endless flow of new data."

Doc bit his lower lip. "I don't like where this is heading."

Elmero said nothing. He just sat there and absorbed it all.

"Bet there's an obscure piece of research somewhere that recounts the remarkable enhancing power of toddler NDT on adult cognition. Quadruple bioactivity."

Doc whiffed and exhaled slowly. "NeuroNex is a reputable company. I can't believe it would get involved — "

"It's not," Elmero said. "If this was being done on a corporate level, I'd have heard about it."

Nodded in agreement. A big operation would cause supply problems, creating a black market in toddler NDT, and there wasn't a black market in Sol System that Elmero didn't know about.

"Right. This is strictly small time. The tech and the local franchise owner are probably working it on their own, snatching the kids, siphoning off their NDT, and bartering it away as an 'unapproved synthetic' at a very stiff price per nanogram."

That explained the holosuited customers this morning — they wanted to remain anonymous.

"There's people who want it that bad?" Doc said.

"Definitely."

The effect of my test dose was fading a little now and I could see why you'd want some more. Especially if you were a businessman or analyst. Never thought so clearly, never saw so many relationships and correlations between seemingly unrelated facts in all my life. Like being terribly nearsighted since birth and then having your focal length corrected — a whole new world is suddenly available to you. Probably never feel this way again. Would miss it.

"And then they kill the kids?" Doc said. His face was drawn and tight. Real anger there.

"No. Those two were accidents. My theory is that adults can donate a unit of NDT without much after-effect, but kids really notice the difference. They're dull, dim-witted, mentally sluggish after their NDT's been siphoned off. At least that's the way B.B. described the kids that were snatched, then returned to the gang. I think the two dead kids were going to be returned like the others but got loose. They were dopey and disoriented and I think they just fell by accident."

"Sounds to me," Elmero said, "that killing them would be safest. No trace."

"There's no trace anyway," I told him. "An urch has no legal status, and besides, these kids don't remember anything about the weeks preceding and following the time they're robbed of their NDT."

Elmero was insistent. "Still safer dead."

"But don't you see, Elm? They're the Golden Geese. Put them back with their urchingang and they'll gradually replenish their super toddler NDT over a period of months, and then they'll be ripe for milking again, like a herd of cows."

This, unfortunately, elicited a smile from Elmero. "Good plan!"

"It's a monstrous plan!" Doc said, the dark skin of his face getting darker. "It's got to be exposed! They're doing untold damage to those kids! NDT deprivation at their age, even for limited spans, has to curtail their intellectual development, may even retard it permanently. And an urch needs every bit of brain he can muster to make it in this world. No, this can't go on. I've got to bring it to the attention of the medical authorities." His head snapped up, as if startled by a thought. "Why, they may even reinstate my license for this!"

"Got to invoke privilege on this, Doc," I said.

He looked crestfallen. "Really? Why?"

"Client's wishes."

In a way, that was a lie. Mr. Khambot didn't know a thing about this super NDT angle, but I was sure he wouldn't want it spread around. Publicity would only encourage open season on little urchins by NDT vultures. Had to figure out a way to settle this quietly, on my own.

Settled up with Elmero and Doc, then headed home.

That was when the molly wire beheaded me.

— 12-

Had to hand it to Doc — he didn't waste any time getting to my place. My head was still on my shoulders and my fingers were still clasped around my lower neck, although I'd lost all feeling in my hands when he arrived, black bag in hand. My chin and the front of my jump were soaked with saliva. Wanted so bad to swallow something.

"Siggy, Siggy," he said in an awed whisper as he inspected me. "Who'd do this to you?"

Resisted the temptation to shake my head as I whispered, "Not sure. NeuroNex a good bet."

He nodded. "Maybe."

"Why'm I still alive?"

"I don't know," he said. His hands were trembling as he dipped into his black bag. "I've heard about cases like this, read about them, but never believed I'd ever see one. I think you're alive due to a mixture of fantastic luck and good balance, combined with more fantastic luck and surface tension."

"Surface — ?"

"Makes wet things tend to stick together. There's a natural cohesiveness between cells. I'll venture to say that your would-be assassin used pristine new molly wire. That was luck on your part. The older stuff picks up molecules of garbage on its surface that makes it relatively dull. Still sharper than anything else in Occupied Space, but nothing like the fresh stuff. Your cut is so fine and clean that all your blood vessels and neurons and other tissues have stayed in physiological alignment. The chair, the gentle pressure from your hands, the fact that you haven't turned your head or done much swallowing and, of course, surface tension, have kept things lined up where they belong."

"Can talk."

"The wire passd below your vocal cords."

"Still don't see how — "

"Look: Molly wire's only one molecule thick. Mammalian cells can pass particles much much larger right through their cell walls. It's called pinocytosis. A lot of your cell walls are probably healed up already. Why — why I'll bet most of those cells don't even know their membranes have been ruptured!"

He was babbling. "Doc — "

"Do you realize that your neurons are still sending impulses from the brain to your arms. Oh, this is amazing, simply amazing! There's a little hematoma by the right jugular, but in general this is — "

Wanted to kick him but didn't have the strength. "Doc. Help. Please."

"I am helping."

He pulled out some gauzy stuff and started wrapping it around my throat, working it under my fingers and finally pushing them out of the way. Reluctant as hell to take my hands away, but it was an immense relief to finally let them drop to my sides.

Doc continued to babble as he worked.

"Amazing! Just amazing. I've got to hand it to you, Siggy. You showed real presence of mind. I mean, to know what had happened to you and assess the situation and do just what you had to do to keep your head on straight. Took real guts and a computer mind. Never knew you had it in you. I'm proud of you."

Thought about that and realized it must have been the residual effects of the super NDT that helped me zero in on what had happened and what to do about it so quickly. Doubt very much I could have done it purely on my own. Kind of liked the irony in that.

Doc looped the gauze under my arms and over the top of my head, then sprayed the whole mess with a pungent liquid. It hardened.

"What — ?"

"It's a cast of sorts for your neck. It'll hold everything in place until I can get you to a hospital."

"No hospital."

"No choice, my friend."

"They think I'm dead."

Wanted to keep it that way until I was fully recovered.

"They'll think right if I don't get you to a facility where somebody can staple that split vertebra together, reanastomose your major blood vessels and nerve trunks, and repair the damaged musculature. Even if you live, your spinal cord could start demyelinating and leave you a paraplegic, or a best a paraparetic."

"They'll come to finish me."

"I know a small private hospital where we can hide you away indefinitely. They'll — "

There was a thump on the door. I glanced over — with eyes only — and saw B.B. the urch slumped against my door, halfheartedly pounding on it. He was sobbing.

"Open it," I told Doc.

The door slid open and dropped one surprised urchin into my compartment. He looked at me and his reddened eyes fairly bulged out of his tearstreaked face.

"Dreyer-san! You…you're…"

"Alive?" I said.

"B'see'm spray, see'm smilee — "

"You were out there?" And then I remembered the blur I'd seen behind the guy who mollied me. Must have been B.B.

"Foll you fr'Elmero's, see'm spray, den foll'm all way back."

Wanted to cheer. "Back where?"

"Boed North. NeuroNex."

All right. That clinched it. My slip about urchins in front of the tech had put me on a hit list. Would have to risk Doc's private hospital. And when well enough — if I ever got well enough — I'd have a score to settle.

B.B. came over and gabbed my hand. Could barely feel it. There were fresh tears in his eyes.

"S'glad y'live, Dreyer-san."

"Mister Dreyer, urch."

— 13-

A week later I was home. They hadn't wanted to let me go but I didn't care. Enough was enough. Would've had me living there for months if I'd allowed it but was more than ready after a week. They'd put everything back together the first day, then started electrostim treatments to make the bones and nerves heal faster. Felt like a lab rat after a while. They all wanted to talk to me, examine me. Sickening.

Made them send me home, but they insisted on rigging this steel frame around my neck. It was screwed into my collar bones, the back of my neck, and my skull. Couldn't rotate my neck at all — had to turn my whole upper body to look left or right. Felt like a cyborg.

All the medics wanted to write about me, but Doc had first call on that. Said it would help him get his license back. How could I refuse after the way he'd shown up when I needed him? Put two restrictions on him, though: He couldn't use my name, and he had to wait til I'd settled the score with the NeuroNex people.

Doc brought me home. The urch opened my compartment door before we reached it. Iggy was sitting on his shoulder.

"Mr. Dreyer, Mr. Dreyer! You're back home!" He was fairly trembling with excitement. "So glad, so glad!"

"What're you doing here?"

"Living. Keeping clean. Feeding doggie." He stroked Iggy's flank.

"That's not a dog, that's a lizard."

Doc said, "B.B.'s going to help take care of you, Sig."

The urch tried to take my hand and lead me over to my chair. Shook him off.

"Don't need help." Eased myself into the chair and let it form around my back. It accomodated the brace easily.

"You most certainly do," Doc said. "I'm going to teach B.B. here how to apply the neurostimulators to your neck to keep the healing process going at its accelerated rate."

Glanced around my compartment. It was clean — much cleaner than the autoservice ever left it.

"How'd you get in here?" I said. The door was keyed to my palm. There was a key I could give to someone else if I chose, but I hadn't given it to anyone.

"Never left."

"You mean to tell me you've spent a whole week here without leaving even once?"

He smiled at me. "Sure. Got food, got bed, got shower, got vid. Lots of vid. Watch all day and night." He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle. "Filamentous heaven."

Looking at his scrubbed, happy face I could see that he really believed he had found heaven. Maybe he had. He must have been living around the vid set, and must have been practicing his Realpeople talk because he was much better, much smoother. And his body looked a little plumper. He was still a stick drawing, but with heavier lines.

"Leave me any food?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Think you can fix us some lunch?"

"Lunch? Oh, yes! Most certainly yes!" He said as he scurried over to the kitchen console.

He had definitely been watching a lot of vid.

Doc winked at me. "He's going to work out just fine!"

Said nothing as I watched that skinny little monkey dart around my compartment like it was his own. Didn't like the idea of living with someone but could see I was going to have to get used to it, at least for the time being.

— 14-

Had to admit it: The urch came in handy. He learned to handle the bone and neurostimulators in nothing flat and was religious about the treatment schedule. He massaged my slowly strengthening limbs, maintained the compartment, and ran errands.

He also kept up a constant flow of chatter. Mostly questions. The kid was an information sponge, a black hole for knowledge. He knew next to nothing about the world and anything I could tell him was a major new discovery. B.B. looked on me as a font of learning. Thought I was the greatest guy walking this earth. Didn't know anyone else who saw me that way. Kind of nice. Made me want to live up to his expectations.

He also kept me distracted enough with the treatments and his incessant talk that I didn't miss the buttons too much. Not yet, at least. Wasn't sure how I'd have made it through those first few days without him.

"Never did tell me how you knew somebody'd used molly wire on me," I said on my third day home as he ran the bone stimulator against my neck. The hum traveled up the back of my head and buzzed in my ears.

"We use alla time un'ground."

"So you told me, but you didn't tell me what for."

"Rats."

"Explain."

"We tie across runs and over hidey-holes, sort like…" His voice trailed off.

Sort of like what happened to me.

Could tell he was embarrassed, so I let him off the hook: "Guess that keeps them away from your food stores."

"Uh. Rats are food un'ground."

My stomach did a little flipflop.

"I see." Decided this was a good time to change the subject. "By the way, what does 'B.B.' stand for, anyway?"

"Baby Boy."

"Oh."

My throat was suddenly tight and achy.

Just then we had a visit from officialdom: Complex Security came calling. Recognized the uniform and the droopy-lidded face that went with it. Had seen him around the complex over the years.

"You Sigmundo Dreyer?" he asked from the threshhold after the door had been cued open. He was staring at my neck brace.

"Who wants to know?"

"We had a complaint about a foul odor coming from this end of the corridor."

"Really? What kind of odor?"

"Said it smelled like something dead."

A chill raced through my bloodstream. "Well, sniff for yourself. You smell anything?"

He shook his head. "Not a thing."

"Who made the complaint?"

Already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it confirmed.

"Anonymous."

Thought so.

"Consider the source," I said.

He smiled, gave me a little salute, and left.

"We got trouble."

"S'wrong?" B.B. said.

I'd been talking to myself — sometimes I think better out loud. Decided to bounce my thoughts off the urch.

"That wasn't a crank complaint, or a mistake. That was somebody checking up to see why I haven't been reported dead."

"How they know you not?" His face screwed up in concentration. "And how they find out where you live so they can wire door?"

Held up my right thumb. "The cashless society. You'll never have the problem, but every time a Realperson uses his credit, he leaves all sorts of vital statistics behind — name, address, credit record. They've doubtlessly been checking with Central Data to see official confirmation of my death. Naturally, it hasn't appeared. They figure my body's rotting in here so they try to get the complex's security force to do their checking for them. When my name fails to be listed as deceased tomorrow, they'll come by to finish the job."

Didn't know what to do. Still too weak to take the battle to them, but didn't want to go back to the hospital.

B.B. was suddenly very agitated.

"You think they c'mere? Really try again?"

"That's what I'd do. But don't worry," I said with a confidence I didn't feel. "We'll just keep the door sealed tight and wait till I'm fully healed up."

"W'if they blow door?"

Hadn't thought of that.

"That would make a little too much noise, I'd think."

Tried to sound confident, but if they wanted me bad enough, it was an option: Show up dressed in a holosuit, blow the door, strafe the room with blaster fire, and take off.

"N'good, san," B.B. said, up and pacing about. His speech was deteriorating by the minute. "N'good, n'good." He turned and darted for the door.

"Hey! Where're you going?"

"Y'stay, san. I go. Gots go now."

And he was gone.

Thought he'd be back soon but dark came and still no sign of him. Missed two treatments for the first time since coming home from the hospital. Finally it got late and I got sleepy and so I turned in.

Had trouble sleeping. Not much. Just a little. Kept thinking how I'd been smart all along to be alone. Have somebody around all the time and before you know it, you're depending on them. And then what? The first sign of trouble, they run out on you. Should have known better. The whole thing made me mad. Wasn't hurt. Just damn mad.

Thought I heard someone at my door during the night. Worked my way to the transparency control, hoping to see B.B. there but found the corridor empty. Probably my imagination. Besides, B.B. had the key I'd given him. He didn't need to fiddle with the door.

This whole situation was getting me spooked. Decided to sleep in the chair for the rest of the night. Left the door transparent. Usually the light from the corridor bothered me when I was trying to sleep, but tonight it was comforting.

Awoke later to the sound of the door sliding open. The pale-faced, fat-nosed fellow who had mollied my neck was standing in the hall behind the redheaded tech. His eyes were wide as he looked me up and down.

"You're really alive! It's dregging impossible!"

Felt like a half-crushed roach pinned in a flashlight beam. But all I could see was the little stub of plastic in the redhead's hand. My mouth was dry as I spoke.

"My key…?"

He smiled. "Your little friend sold it to us for a meal credit."

My fear was suddenly washed away in a gush of abysmal sadness. B.B. had sold me out for another soysteak dinner. As the pale-faced guy nudged the redhead into the room, I found I didn't really care all that much about dying. Too tired, too weak, too many troubles, too much disappointment. Sick of everything. Almost welcomed her.

As she moved toward me, her eyes suddenly bulged in alarm. She started to turn around, and as she did I saw fine crimson lines appear across her throat, across the white of the uniform overlying her breasts, abdomen, and legs. She began to fall, and as she went down she came apart like an overbalanced stack of boxes. The crimson lines quickly bloomed to blotches which became geysers and torrents of red as her head toppled to the left, her lower arms dropped straight down, and the other pieces tumbled to the right. In a matter of seconds the ceiling, the walls, the pale faced guy, and I were all dripping warm red sticky fluid. But most of the red was pooled around the still twitching horror just inside the doorway.

Wiped my eyes and looked up. Saw the guy staring dully at his former associate. Swallowed back my stomach contents and tried to think of a way out of this. An idea of what had happened here was forming in my brain and suddenly I was very anxious to stay alive.

Figuring it was now or never, I started my chair toward the drawer where I kept a small popper. The movement must have shaken Paleface out of his shocked stupor. Suddenly he was reaching into his jump and pulling out a mean-looking blaster. As he raised it, I heard a shrill cry from down the hall. He turned, I looked.

B.B. was in full charge toward Paleface. The kid caught him off balance half way through his turn. He fell backward, his arms whirling like flywheels. Did him no good. He stumbled through the wired doorway and went to pieces. More pumping, twitching sections of body bounced and rolled along my compartment floor.

Looked away in time to see B.B. skid to a halt at the threshhold, then to my horror, saw him slip on a splatter of blood and lose his balance. One hand grabbed onto the jamb while the other flailed — and crossed the plane of the door.

Saw his hand fly off, saw him drop to his knees and stare stupidly at the geysering stump of his wrist.

Without even thinking I had the chair in motion toward the door but it caught up on the bloody meat all over my floor.

"Grab it!" I shouted. "Squeeze it off!" But he didn't seem to hear.

Stumbled out of the chair and up onto my feet. My legs gave out after two steps so I crawled on hands and knees through the gore, praying that my brace would hold my head on and that I'd healed up enough inside so that nothing would slip around. Shouted encouragement all the while, but he just sat there and stared at the stump.

Reached the threshhold and stretched my arm through, holding my breath and hoping I was between the wires. When none of my fingers fell off, I grabbed his forearm just above the amputation site and squeezed, working my fingers and thumb into the scant flesh, trying different spots until the blood stopped pumping out, then held onto that spot with every ounce of strength.

He looked at me and blinked. His face was death white and his eyes seemed to have retreated into his skull. "Got'm, yeh. Won't hurt y'no mo, san."

Then he slumped to the floor in a heap.

Held onto his wrist and started shouting at the top of my lungs. When doors started opening down the hall, I turned back to the kid and said,

"You die on me you little bastard and so help me I'll wring your skinny little neck!"

Thought he was dead or in a terminal coma at best but swore his lips curled into a tiny smile. -15-

Had a lot of explaining to do. Two neatly sliced up bodies on the floor of one's compartment tends to raise questions among officialdom. Leaving out all mention of the super NDT, told them that I'd learned about the pair's urchin-snatching activities — said I had no idea why they did it — and that they'd tried to kill me with molly wire.

Because I had an investigator's licence and had the wound to prove prior assault, and because Redhead and Paleface still had blasters clutched in the hands at the ends of their severed arms, I managed to stay out of confinement. But the incident was still under investigation while the bodies were being pieced together and posted, and I was not to leave the Megalops until all questions were answered.

Didn't matter to me. Wasn't going anywhere for some time anyway.

My arms and legs were stronger now and I could walk around and take care of myself. Even worked the window garden a little. Doc still wasn't allowing me out of the brace, though.

B.B. had come through fine — I'd guaranteed his medical expenses to make sure of that. His right hand was grafting on nicely but it was still in an immobilizing brace. He had full use of his left hand, though. Together we made one marginally competent person.

"Fine pair we are," I said as we watched the vid.

B.B. popped a cheesoid into his mouth and tossed another to Iggy.

"Lazy."

"Yeah. Lazy. Got to get back to work someday."

Work. Reminded me of my only client — Mr. Earl Khambot.

A number of local urchingangs had checked all of their females in the age range of the Khambot girl and had found no one with footprints that even came close to the infant prints the father had given me. Didn't know if I could trust their comparison skills, but had no alternative. A retinal check would have been better but that was impossible.

Time to call my client and tell him I was still looking but had come up with zero. Strange…it had been weeks and he hadn't called once to check up on my progress. Doubly strange after his generous downpayment in gold.

Called his number but the man who answered was not my client and he'd never heard of Earl Khambot. Spent the rest of the day calling every Earl Khambot in the Megalops. There weren't too many, and none of them was my client.

"What's going on?" I said as the holochamber faded after the last call.

"S'wrong?" B.B. said.

"Hired by a paying customer who doesn't exist to find a child who can't be found. That make sense to you?"

"Maybe no child."

"Maybe right."

"S'mystery, san."

" 'Mister Dreyer.' And yeah, it's that all right."

"S'okay. Got friend for life, right?" he said, pointing to himself and tossing me a cheesoid.

Laughed and winged it back at him. Maybe that was enough. For now.