Part 3 (2/2)

I found Nguyen in his office. ”You're docking right in the middle of the feeding frenzy?”

”Indeed,” said Nguyen. ”Someone has to be the story-why not us? It was Wetherall's idea, actually. He asked that we stay here to divert attention. He wants to discourage fly-overs at the worksite or the piles. Wise, I think.”

”But I'm allergic to cameras,” I said. ”My tongue swells up and my IQ drops.” Nguyen didn't hear me. He peered intently down at the crowd that was gathering around his truck. I thought he might be taking a head count. ”You like this, don't you? The publicity?”

”Whether I like it or not is beside the point. It's part of the business. I'm an architect, Liz. Do you have any idea how many of us are left?”

I shook my head.

”Any computer can design a building these days. All I have to sell is style. If people don't know who I am, then how will they know that I have it? If you're not comfortable with reporters, let your avatar handle them. That's what Wetherall does. He's famous for his accessibility, which is nice trick considering he's a recluse.”

There were at least a hundred people beneath us now. Most were pointing cameras at the stairway that was extending toward the lifthouse from the rear of the truck.

”But if we're in the middle of everything, how is Wetherall going to get on board? They'll spot him in a minute.”

He glanced up at me, surprised, then nodded as if he had just discovered an interesting secret. ”But Wetherall isn't staying here, Liz. That was never the plan.” He showed me the sly O'Hara smile. ”Sorry to disappoint, but it's just the two of us.”

No sooner had he said this than his screen blinked: a call. I expected Wetherall, or a Wetherall avatar, but it was Murk Janglish.

”We need to discuss your contract, O'Hara,” began Janglish, without saying h.e.l.lo. ”You've lined out all the work-for-hire language. That won't do.”

”My name is Nguyen. Say Ngu-yen.”

”Say it? Why?

”You and Wetherall are like good-cop, bad-cop.” Nguyen smiled. ”He entices, and you come along afterwards to punish.”

Murk Janglish seemed taken aback. ”I'm sending you a clean copy,” he said. ”You need to sign it. No changes.”

”All right, Murk.” Nguyen's expression was saintly. ”But only if you deliver it in person.”

”Why the h.e.l.l would I do that?”

”Why the h.e.l.l would I do that, Nguyen,” said Nguyen O'Hara.

Janglish's screen went dark.

”I don't know whether to describe that as a bad personality or no personality,” I said.

”Oh, it's a personality,” said O'Hara.

The first thing I noticed as I came down the stairway was the big stink. The piles were two kilometers away and the air was dead calm and still there it was, like a bituminous skunk in the next door neighbor's yard. Unpleasant, but not yet painful.

I had put on a Laputa uniform so that I could pa.s.s as one of the staff. I'd told Nguyen that I wanted to stretch my legs and he had told me that I was free to go as I pleased. That wasn't true exactly. Once the reporters figured out who I was, I'd be trapped in the lifthouse, unless I was willing to give interviews. Which I was definitely not. I was going to let my avatar do all the talking, just as soon Wetherall delivered it.

I wandered through the colony, listening to the journalists grouse. They complained about the big stink, of course, and the heat and the boredom and the bad food and the power rationing. Fox had ordered another Solelectric array from Salt Lake City, but it wouldn't be operational until next Monday. Several locals from Wendover were trucking in fresh water, which they were happy to sell to the fourth estate at champagne prices.

I discovered one vehicle I knew all too well: Blaine Thorp's ”Dog Squad” car. I ducked behind an old school bus before anyone saw me and then sighted back on Laputa to get my bearings, so I could be sure never to come this way again. I wasn't interested in public debates with the lunatic.

It was about ten minutes later that I noticed the Billy Bar wrapper stuck to the flap of a trashcan. I lifted the lid; there were more inside. I knocked on doors nearby until a woman from Izvestia directed me to the Jolly Freeze van parked at the easternmost edge of the colony. The sides were dark; the pix of Judy Jolly Freeze sat in a chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes closed.

”Wetherall?” I walked around the van twice, hunting for some sign of life, then knocked at the rear door. ”Wetherall!”

”Liz?” Judy opened one eye. ”Ssss.h.!.+” She pointed. ”Over here.” I went around to the side of the van that faced the empty salt vastness.

At first I couldn't see Wetherall's avatar, because it was only half a meter tall and hiding behind Billy Bar's legs. ”I want to talk, Wetherall,” I said. ”I just saw Thorp's car. Let me in.”

”I'm not here,” said the avatar. ”And I can't talk right now.”

”But you are talking. Where are you?”

”Not far, a motel. I'll see you in a few days.” The avatar turned away from me and gestured at someone I couldn't see. ”No, no, not you. Her. I'll be there in a minute.”

”Wetherall, are you with someone?”

”It's just business. Stay right where you are.”

”What do you mean, stay where I am? Where would I go?”

”Very good, Cobble.” The avatar's voice was full of false camaraderie. ”You do that, all right? Good night now.” And then it faded. Where its image had cowered, there was only a smooth silver glow in the gathering darkness.

I told myself I didn't care who Wetherall slept with. I only felt sorry for her. So what if he had come back to save me at the Rain Forest? He'd called me Cobble, like I was some junior a.s.sistant n.o.body. I pounded the van with the side of my hand; I think I got Billy Bar right in his pudgy little chin.

”My friends call me Liz, a.s.shole.”

It was only on the way back to Laputa that it hit me: Why would the avatar have to be insulting, when it could spend as much time with me as necessary, while the real Wetherall was with his bimbo? Wasn't that the point of avatars?

Unless it had been the real Wetherall who answered my call. But that was even more inexplicable: why would he take my call if he were in a motel room with some other woman?

I was back in control by the time I got back to Laputa. I had to be if I intended to pa.s.s safely under the quizzical arch of Nguyen O'Hara's eyebrow. And I had decided not to harbor any ill feelings-or any feelings at all-toward Wetherall.

”I'm back, Nguyen.” I called, as I climbed the stairway to the living room.

”In here, Liz,” he replied from the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with his back to me. I couldn't see at first what he was doing, but I could smell it.

”What's going on?” I asked.

He had a half dozen saucers arranged in front of him. ”Ammonia-formula EasyWipe,” he said, pointing. ”Vicks Vaporub. Diced vitamins.” Two of the saucers contained a scatter of burned remains. ”Plastic and rubber,” he said and then indicated a ruined something that might once have been an orange or maybe an apple if it hadn't been covered with a greenish, tennis-ball fur. ”I retrieved this lovely from the bottom of the composter.” There was a odd slackness at the corners of his mouth, a brightness to his eyes.

”Nguyen, we've got more stink than we can handle already.”

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