Part 2 (1/2)

For more than a century there had been a back-and-forth dialogue between the particle physicists and the cosmologists. The cosmologists would scribble their equations, trying to figure out which particles were flitting around at what time in the universe's development, and their results would suggest an experiment. So the physicists would fire up their accelerators and either verify the cosmologists' equations or send them back to the blackboard.

The reverse process also happens. One thing most of us agree on is that the universe exists (people who deny that usually follow some trade other than science), so if some theoretical particle interaction would lead ultimately to the nonexistence of the universe, then you can save a lot of electricity by not trying to demonstrate it.

Thus it went, back and forth, up to the time of the Jupiter Project. The Johnson Ring had been able to take us back to conditions that were obtained when the universe was one tenth of a second old. By that time, it was about four times the size the Earth is now, having expanded from a dimensionless point at a great rate of speed.

The Jupiter Project, if it worked, would take us back to a time when the universe was smaller than a pea, and filled with exotic particles that no longer exist. But it would be the biggest machine ever built, by several orders of magnitude, and it was being built by automatic robots with no direct supervision. When the Jupiter group sent an order out to Io, it would get there fifteen to twenty-four minutes later, and of course the response would be delayed by an equal length of time. A lot can happen in forty-eight minutes; twice, the Project had to be halted and reprogrammed-but you couldn't really halt it, not all at once, because the submachines that were making the parts that would go into orbit just kept on going for forty-eight minutes plus however long it took to figure out how to reprogram them.

Over the Jupiter Program director's desk, there was a picture from a movie over a century old: Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer's Apprentice, staring dumbfounded at the endless line of brainless brooms marching through the door.

I SLEPT A COUPLE of hours and woke up suddenly, in a panic sweat. I couldn't remember what I'd been dreaming about, but it left me with a fading sense of vertigo, falling. It had happened a few times before, the first day or two off duty.

Some people wound up never getting any deep sleep unless they were jacked. Sleeping that way gave you total blackness, total lack of sensation or thought. Practicing up for death. But relaxing.

I lay there staring into the watery light for another half hour and decided to stop trying. Went into the kitchen and buzzed up some coffee. Really ought to work, but I wouldn't have any papers until Tuesday, and Research could wait until tomorrow morning's meeting.

Catch up on the world. I'd resolutely stayed away from it in Cambridge. I turned on Amelia's desk and decrypted a thread to my news module.

It humors me and puts the light stuff first. I read through twenty pages of comics and the three columns I knew to be safely immune from politics. One of them did a broad satire about Central America anyhow.

Central and South America took up most of the world news section, unsurprisingly. The African front was quiet, still stunned a year after our nuking of Mandelaville. Perhaps regrouping and calculating which of our cities would be next.

Our little sortie wasn't even mentioned. Two platoons of soldierboys took the towns of Piedra Sola and Igatimi, in Uruguay and Paraguay; supposedly rebel strongholds. We did it with their governments' foreknowledge and permission, of course-and there were no civilian casualties, equally of course. Once they're dead they're rebels. La muerte es el gran convertidor, they say- Death is the great converter. That must be literally true as well as a sarcasm about our body counts. We've killed a quarter-million in the Americas and G.o.d knows how many in Africa. If I lived in either place I'd be a rebel.

There was a business-as-usual running report about the Geneva talks. The enemy is so fragmented they will never come together on terms, and I'm sure at least some of the rebel leaders are plants, puppets ordered to keep the thing good and confused.

They did actually come to agreement over nuclear weapons: neither side would use them except in retaliation, starting now, though Ngumi still won't take responsibility for Atlanta. What we really need is an agreement on agreements: If we promise something, we won't break the promise for at least thirty days. Neither side would agree to that.

I turned off the machine and checked Amelia's refrigerator. No beer. Well, that was my responsibility. Some fresh air wouldn't hurt, anyhow, so I locked up and pedaled toward the campus gate.

The shoe sergeant in charge of security looked at my ID and made me wait while he phoned for verification. The two privates with him leaned on their weapons and smirked. Some shoes have a thing about mechanics, since we don't actually fight. Forget that we have to stay in longer and have a higher death rate. Forget that we keep them from having to do the really dangerous jobs.

Of course, that's exactly it for some of them: we also stand in the way of their being heroes. ”It takes all kinds of people to make a world, my mother always says. Fewer kinds to make an army.

He finally admitted I was who I was. You carrying? he asked as he filled out the pa.s.s.

No, I said. Not in the daytime.

Your funeral. He folded the pa.s.s precisely in two and handed it over. Actually, I was armed, with a putty knife and a little Beretta belt-buckle laser. It might be his own funeral someday, if he couldn't tell whether or not a man was armed. I saluted the privates with one erect finger between the eyes, traditional draftee greeting, and went out into the zoo.

There were about a dozen wh.o.r.es lounging around the gate, one of them a jill, her head shaved. She was old enough to be an ex-mechanic. You always wondered.

Of course, she noticed me. Hey, Jack! She stepped onto the path and I stopped the bike. I got something you can ride.

Maybe later, I said. You're lookin' good. Actually, she wasn't. Her face and posture showed a lot of stress; the telltale pink in her eyes tagged her as a cherrybomb user.

Half price for you, honey. I shook my head. She grabbed on to my handlebars. Quarter price. Been so long since I done it jacked.

I couldn't do it jacked. Something made me honest, or partly so. Not with a stranger.

So how long would I be a stranger? She couldn't hide the note of pleading.

Sorry. I pushed off onto the gra.s.s. If I didn't get away fast, she'd be offering to pay me.

The other hookers had watched the exchange with various att.i.tudes: curiosity, pity, contempt. As if they weren't all addicts of one kind or another, themselves. n.o.body had to f.u.c.k for a living in the Universal Welfare State. n.o.body had to do anything but stay out of trouble. It works so well.

They had legalized prost.i.tution in Florida for a few years, when I was growing up. But it went the way of the big casinos before I was old enough to be interested.

Hooking's a crime in Texas, but I think you have to be a real nuisance before they lock you up. The two cops who watched the jill proposition me didn't put the cuffs on her. Maybe later, if they had the money.

Jills usually get plenty of work. They know what it feels like to be male.

I pedaled past the college-town stores, with their academic prices, into town. South Houston was not exactly savory, but I was armed. Besides, I figured that bad guys kept late hours, and would still be in bed. One wasn't.

I leaned the bike up against the rack outside of the liquor store and was fiddling with the cranky lock, which was supposed to take my card.

Hey boy, a deep ba.s.s voice said behind me. You got ten dollars for me? Maybe twenny?

I turned around slowly. He was a head taller than me, maybe forty, lean, muscle suit. s.h.i.+ny boots up to his knees and the tightly braided ponytail of an Ender: G.o.d would use that to haul him up to heaven. Soon, he hoped.

I thought you guys didn't need money.

I need some. I need it now.

So what's your habit? I put my right hand on my hip. Not natural or comfortable, but close to the putty-knife. Maybe I got some.

You don't got what I need. Got to buy what I need. He drew a long knife with a slender wavy blade from his boot.

Put it away. I got ten. The silly dagger was no match for a puttyknife, but I didn't want to perform a dissection out here on the sidewalk.

Oh, you got ten. Maybe you got fifty. He took a step toward me.

I pulled out the puttyknife and turned it on. It hummed and glowed. You just lost ten. How much more you want to lose?

He stared at the vibrating blade. The s.h.i.+mmering mist on the top third was as hot as the surface of the sun. You in the army. You a mechanic.

I'm either a mechanic or I killed one and took his knife. Either way, you want to f.u.c.k with me?

Mechanics ain't so tough. I was in the army.

You know all about it, then. He took a half-step to the right, I think a feint. I didn't move. You don't want to wait for your Rapture? You want to die right now?

He looked at me for a long second. There was nothing in his eyes. Oh, f.u.c.k you anyhow. He put the knife back in his boot, turned, and walked away without looking back.

I turned off the puttyknife and blew on it When it was cool enough, I put it back and went into the liquor store.

The clerk had a chrome Remington airspray. f.u.c.kin' Endie. I would've got him.

Thanks, I said. He would've gotten me too, with an airspray. You got six Dixies?

Sure. He opened the case behind him. Ration card?