"You coming on strong."

The addict nodded and gave a shrug, watching the man drop the tube-knife into his coat pocket, heard it clunk against the pipette.

"Okay," the man said, unfastening the toggle catches down the front of his coat, "take look." He pulled the two flaps open.

"Take good look."

Somewhere behind him in the night, the addict heard air horns- They sounded like he imagined humpbacked whales might sound, or dolphins, swimming lazily beneath a dark sky, not fully knowing where they were going or even where they had been .. .

only that they were.

It was a sound of exhilaration and of simply being.

But it was also something else. It was a fanfare for the contents of the man's coast, each item held into place against the lining by carefully sewn straps and inlaid pockets. It was true, the addict thought, his eyes jumping from one attachment to the next. You really could get anything here, here in this shadowed entrance to a seedy residential block, with the rain falling in a thin spray. He allowed his eyes to wander, drinking in the sights inside the man's coat in the pa.s.sing overhead glare of a limo cab There were gaudily-colored packets, shining phials and glow-in-the-dark tubes, and alongside them, against the man's right armpit--the smell!--were electrical bolt-leads with cushioned clamps; and long, winding pipettes and smoking bulbs; long-nosed syringes and dum-dum needle-heads; speed-dipped nipple pins testosterone pustules, and a whole array of penile and l.a.b.i.a adornments and s.e.x embellishments.

Against the other armpit were sublimated chest pads toe-capsules for a guaranteed slow climb, and heavy-duty army surplus amphetamine suppositories for the instant peak.

Down around the man's upper thighs an array of bottles hung suspended from his plastic coveralls by the slimmest of threads, their contents like the sweets of old, varying colors and shapes and sizes .. .

sunshine yellows, one label proclaimed; meadow greens boasted another; blue downs said a third, all in the same shaky writing.

Some were cylindrical capsules, mostly for a.n.a.l or v.a.g.i.n.al insertion, and of the oral varieties some were flat and circular while others were square or cuboid to delay movement into the stomach.

A sewer-cover rattled over to the right of them and steam bellowed from the depths beneath. At the same time, a distant siren wailed and someone howled to the night, the aggression of the single drawn-out cry quickly dissipating into a deep-throated sob of anguish.

The cry was abruptly cut off.

"You see something?" the man asked.

The addict turned back from looking along the deserted walkway and shook his head.

"Just a little jumpy," he said.

The man shook his head in exasperation.

"No, I mean you see something?" He let go of one side of his opened coat and pointed to the rows of bottles and packets and artificial stimulants.

"You see something here!"

"No," the addict said sadly.

"You have nothing I need."

The man grunted and fastened his coat.

"What you need, then? I get it for you. What you need?"

The addict stared at the shadowed outline of the man's head, wondering if it were safe to tell him. He looked back along the walkway, saw a news broadcast and share information feeding its was silently around one of the Residential Blocks, and breathed in deeply.

Looking back, he said, "Pages."

The man took a step back against the doorway.

"You said," the addict reminded the man.

"You said you could get me what I needed. Well, I need pages."

The man moved quickly out of the doorway and stood in front of the addict on the walkway, his face now exposed to the dim light, his eyes wide open.

"You mad," the man said.

"No pages." He waved his hands to underline the statement.

"No pages," he said again, to underline the underline.

"You said." The addict reached into his back pocket with one hand and pulled out a thick wad of credit notes. With the other, he reached down between his legs, flipped open the Velcro prosthetic flap on his left upper thigh and produced an old Prowler gun, its greased-up snub-nose coated in talc.u.m powder.

The man raised his hands.

"Prowler!" he whispered.

"No, I'm not a Prowler," the addict said.

The man pointed.

"Prowler gun."

"Yes, it is a Prowler gun, but I'm not a Prowler."^ He waved the credits, wafting them in front of the man's face.

"I will pay you," he said, spreading the words out so that the man would be able to understand.

"Pages bad."

"Yes, pages are dangerous," the addict agreed.

"If you get caught. We will not get caught." He pushed the wad of notes back into his coat pocket and pulled out three forties. He reached out and stuffed these inside the lapel of the man's coat. Then he slipped the gun into his other pocket, raised both hands to show that they were completely empty.

"I pay you well."

The man was clearly considering his chances .. .

wondering whether to break for it, to run a zigzag path along the walkway, risking being shot in the back for--how much? he pulled the notes from his lapel and looked .. . 120 credits--when maybe he could get more. Maybe much more.

"You come," he said at last, pocketing the credits as he turned and started to walk.

The addict followed.

In all his days and nights of wandering the City, the addict had never been this way. It was as though the way was a special secret way, one which could only be traversed at a certain time on a certain day.

There was a strange sentience to the darkened walkways, and the pair moved carefully and slowly, feeling the dank silent doorways and the hooded windows sightlessly following their pa.s.sage. The addict listened for signs of movement amidst the shadows but heard only the sound of his feet and those of his guide, occasionally echoing on girders, and occasionally thudding on stone nagging or rotting boardwalks.

The man led the addict into parts of Downtown that he had not realized existed, and it was not until they had been walking for several minutes that the addict noticed that the sounds of the city had disappeared.

He halted for a moment, and the man in front stopped also, turning to look at him through the gloom.

"Okay?" he whispered.

"Listen," said the addict.

The man c.o.c.ked his head to one side and then to the other.

"Don't hear nothing." he said.

"That's right," said the addict.

"No sounds."