All at once, I realize it's the rowdy who blocked my way last night, on Odeon Square! Only that had been his archie back when I was green, trying desperately to escape Beta's yellowdits.

"River?" Let's play innocent. "What makes you think I went swimming? Or that I'd remember you?"

His fighter-ditto isn't made for subtle expressions. The face goes rigid as he realizes what he just gave away. Then he shrugs, deciding not to care what his words reveal.

"You remember me, all right," he growls. "I saw you jump in. And I know know you made it back home to dump." you made it back home to dump."

Know? How could he know? Never mind. Modern wisdom says never to be surprised if hidden knowledge leaks. Over the long term, no secret endures.

Let's see if he appreciates sarcasm.

"A golem walking the length of a river! Well, goodness. Anyone who accomplished something like that should be the talk of the town! Maybe you should try jumping in yourself sometime."

The suggestion doesn't sit well.

"I kept your d.a.m.n arm. Baked it hard. Want it back?"

I can't help smiling as I recall his stunned expression when I left him standing in the plaza gripping my severed wrist. A rare happy memory from a lousy ditto-day.

"Keep it. Make a nice urn."

He scowls. "Stand up."

Instead, I yawn and stretch, both posturing and buying time. Courage is conditional. If this body of mine were made for partying, I just might try to slab and spin this guy, for the h.e.l.l of it. realAlbert, with plenty to live for, would flee such a mad fool without shame. My My options are murkier. I'm gray and an orphan, with no chance of continuity but some puzzles I'd like to solve in my remaining hours. All told, I'd rather management came to shoo him off. Alas, not a single red Irene is in sight. options are murkier. I'm gray and an orphan, with no chance of continuity but some puzzles I'd like to solve in my remaining hours. All told, I'd rather management came to shoo him off. Alas, not a single red Irene is in sight.

"I said, get up!" Bully-boy growls, preparing to strike.

"Do I get choice of weapons?" I ask abruptly.

Hesitation. He can't just cut me to bits when I've made it a matter of honor. Duels have rules, y'know. And people are watching.

"Sure. After you." He gestures toward the Grudge Pit, insisting that I lead the way.

I need an out before we get there. There are a few tools in my pocket -- a small cutter and a cyberscope -- but he won't make the same mistake as last night, letting me strike up close, by surprise.

Where the h.e.l.l are my hosts? If I had any idea they were so lax, I'd have made that break earlier! Hit the street. Maybe head for Pal's. Advise Albert to avoid the maestra in future, like a plague.

We weave past tables, most of them aglow with shimmering bolos, lighting garish faces. No one looks familiar in the young crowd. Anyway, this character is probably part of the in-group. Flexing my knees a bit lower with each step, I think-prep an enzyme rush while slowing the pace, as if suddenly reluctant.

As I hoped, my nemesis plants a beefy hand in my back. Gives a push.

"Go on! The armory's just ahea -- "

I won't chance it against his hyped-up reflexes. Instead of whirling at him from a fake stumble, I leap sideways and up, up, landing on a nearby table, kicking aside gla.s.ses to slip between the projected holos of two female dancers, rubbing their hips in erotic rhythm. landing on a nearby table, kicking aside gla.s.ses to slip between the projected holos of two female dancers, rubbing their hips in erotic rhythm.

I think he yells, but there's so much noise from upset clients -- they reach for me, so I jump again!

Like a pip, shot from between the gyrating dancers, I fly from that table to another, landing this time amid a swirling maelstrom of jagged virtual scythes, spinning round and round like Death's personal tornado. It's so realistic that I cringe, half expecting to be pureed. But my body pa.s.ses through the illusion, even as more customers scream outrage and gla.s.s crunches underfoot. Hands grab an ankle, so I spin-kick, knocking them off.

Of course the light storm blinds me, too. I can barely glimpse my next target, a table where a gently spinning Earthglobe beckons. I flex -- -- but a sudden force knocks the rickety platform, spoiling my launch. I strike the next table edge-on, rolling in pain amid chairs, kicking feet and broken bottles.

Blows buffet my left side, driving a groan. My tormentor, or an irritated customer? Rather than look, I scuttle like a crab while groping in a pants pocket for my cutter -- too short-range to serve as much of a weapon.

Uh-oh. Boots ahead. Many. He's called friends. They're bending and peering under tables. In moments -- My hand falls on the base of this table, held to the floor by three heavy bolts.

Cut them? Why not? Here goes -- The table wobbles ... tips ...

Grab it. Now surge upward upward!

They jump back in alarm. It's not much of a weapon, but with the holo still shining I appear to be brandishing more than a bitty c.o.c.ktail table! Writhing images extend another two meters, like shining snakes. A flail made of burning light.

Just light, yet they cringe. Imprinted with barely altered caveman souls, they can't help seeing a flaming torch. Soon I'm circled by a zone of respect, empty out to the holo's reach. And now, some spectator voices cheer for me. me.

I spot the punk, with pals, all wearing studded black as if they invented the look. Pathetic.

They clench and snarl. In bare moments, rational evaluation will win out, overcoming cave reflexes. They'll charge through the cool light. But hemmed by onlookers, what can I ...

All at once the tenor of sound shifts. The thundering dance music vanishes. Angry shouts are damped. Past the sucking whistle of my hyper-breathing, an amplified voice penetrates.

"ditMorris, if you please ... "

Swerving again, I feint at the bravos. They retreat, perhaps for the last time as their eyes narrow angrily.

Then, abruptly, they give way -- pushed aside by a band of newcomers, small but forceful, using sound-wands to clear a path. Red females, restoring order to their club.

It's about time.

Backing toward the Grudge Pit, the chief punk gives me a final look, surprisingly pa.s.sionless, even amused or gratified. The pounding "music" returns. Soon, the Rainbow is back to normal.

One of the Irenes, unapologetic, shakes her ruddy finger.

"ditMorris, kindly put that table down!"

It's hard to comply for a moment. Instinct, you know.

"Please, no more distractions. You're expected. The hive awaits."

The holo display sputters out and I drop my makeshift weapon. That's it? No apology for leaving me at the mercy of idiots?

Oh, stifle the complaint, Albert. It's not like your life was in danger, or anything important.

Jerking her crimson head, my guide beckons me to follow her toward the back of the club, then through a plush curtain. Blessed silence reigns suddenly, as the heavy drape falls behind us. Silence so welcome that I sway. It takes several beats before I can think. Then -- Wait ... I've seen this room before.

During the meeting at Studio Neo, one red-clay Irene had been jacked into a screen showing throngs of umber duplicates, fussing around a single pale figure, supine on a fancy life-maintenance couch. Now, up close, I see the real woman lying amid the bustle, staring blankly while tended by one-third scale duplicates. Fluid drips into her mouth. Mechanical arms ma.s.sage her limbs. The face, though flaccid and distant, is clearly the template for every red I've seen running about this place. Her shaved head bears a medusa of writhing cables, leading to industrial strength freezers and kilns.

A fresh-baked copy emerges, still glowing from the oven. It stretches for a languorous moment before accepting paper overalls, then stepping away, targeted to do some ch.o.r.e without direction or instruction. Meanwhile, another reenters from the outside world, clearly tottering on depleted cells. Without ceremony, two sisters neatly sever the day-old head, dropping it into a memory transfer coil.

The archie's pale face winces for an instant during inload. The discarded body rolls off for recycling.

Some foresee this as our future, I muse. I muse. When you can spin off countless copies to perform any task, your durable organic body will serve one function, as a place to deposit memories and pa.s.s them on, a sacred prisoner like the ant queen, while bustling workers carry out life's real activity and savor. When you can spin off countless copies to perform any task, your durable organic body will serve one function, as a place to deposit memories and pa.s.s them on, a sacred prisoner like the ant queen, while bustling workers carry out life's real activity and savor.

I find the prospect repulsive. But my grandparents thought the same of basic imprinting. The words "golem" and "ditto" were epithets, till we got used to them. Who am I to judge what future generations will think normal?

"ditMorris, welcome."

I turn. The Irene facing me has the skin texture of a high-quality gray, tinted with her trademark umber glaze. Standing near is the other rox I met at Studio Neo, "Vic" Manuel Collins, with the eye-hurting plaid dye job.

"You call this this welcome? I'd like to know why you left me out there, to be -- " welcome? I'd like to know why you left me out there, to be -- "

Collins lifts a hand. "Questions later. First, let us see to your repairs."

Repairs?

Looking down, I see bad news. Deep gashes in my left side! One leg cut more than halfway through along its length and oozing badly. Hopped-up on action enzymes, I felt little.

Ack, I'm ruined.

"You can repair this this?" My chief emotion is numb curiosity.

"Come along," says the nearest Irene. "We'll fix you up in no time."

No time? I ponder in a daze, following. To a ditto, "no time" is a very demanding phrase. I ponder in a daze, following. To a ditto, "no time" is a very demanding phrase.

11.

Ghosts in the Wind ... as realAlbert does some modern footwork ...

There didn't seem to be much I could do about my missing duplicates. Gray number two was on autonomous mode; he couldn't legally contact me, and the maestra might prevent it even if he wanted to. The greenie had sent a weird declaration of independence, before going off on his own. And there was no sign at all of gray number one, who vanished at Kaolin Manor along with a ghost of Yosil Maharal. The Universal Kilns security staff had taken charge of that mystery, sifting the estate for any sign of both missing dittos. So far to no avail.

I didn't expect them to achieve much. It's easy to smuggle a rox in a box. Millions, cushioned mummylike in CeramWrap, get shunted all over the city each day by truck, courier, or pneumatic tube. And it's even easier getting rid of a dead one -- just flush the remains into a recycler. Without a pellet, one batch of golem slurry is no different than any other.

Anyway, I had investigations to take care of, including one for a client who was willing to pay top rates. Ritu Maharal wanted me to look into the mysterious death of her father. As legal heir, she could now access his records, from credit purchases to calls from his wrist phone. Maharal's movements during time spent working for UK were another matter. But when Ritu asked Vic Aeneas Kaolin for those chronicles, the tyc.o.o.n a.s.sented, grudgingly, to keep her from going public with "wild stories" about her father being murdered.

The permissions came through soon after I finished making an ebony specialist, tuned for total focus on professional skill. That duplicate went right to work, waving its arms and chattering rapidly under the m.u.f.fled folds of a virtual reality chador, immersed in a world of rapidfire data-globes and zooming images. All logic and focus, the ebony could handle the rest of my caseload for the time being, letting me concentrate on one task -- discovering where Yosil Maharal spent the last few weeks.

Never mind what cyber marketeers say about their fancy autonomous search programs. Data-sifting is an art. We may live in a "transparent" society, but the window gla.s.s is frosted and foggy in countless places. Peering through those patches can take skill.

I started by setting up a digital avatar -- a simple software representation of myself -- and launching it through the publicam network. Though less intelligent or flexible than a creature with a Standing Wave, it carried some of my expertise combined with a relentless drive to hunt down any images that Yosil may have left while traveling on city streets. Ritu gave me about sixty solid sightings to start with -- places he was confirmed to have been at exact times. The avatar zoomed in on those s.p.a.ce-and-time coordinates, then tried to follow the scientist as he moved from one recorded scene to the next. Gradually, a map began to fill in, detailing his movements during the months before he died.

Often, that kind of search is enough, all by itself. Few people have a knack for evading the publicam mesh.

Alas, Maharal must have been one of them. Indeed, he proved wily at escaping from view, almost at will. My avatar's search left a chart with many gaping holes, some lasting a week or more!

Ritu's pockets were deep and she wanted answers fast. So I put out bids for sightings by privately privately owned lenses, which are far more numerous than public cameras. Restaurant security scanners, window-ledge lurkers, newsbugs, amateur sociologists, even nature lovers and urban sporting clubs -- anyone whose sensors might have spotted Yosil when he was out of publicam range. Since Ritu owned her father's copyright now, there wasn't even a voyeur tax. Low bids poured in. I let the avatar haggle and choose enough pix to fill in Yosil's trail. owned lenses, which are far more numerous than public cameras. Restaurant security scanners, window-ledge lurkers, newsbugs, amateur sociologists, even nature lovers and urban sporting clubs -- anyone whose sensors might have spotted Yosil when he was out of publicam range. Since Ritu owned her father's copyright now, there wasn't even a voyeur tax. Low bids poured in. I let the avatar haggle and choose enough pix to fill in Yosil's trail.

Meanwhile, I I focused on the scene of his death. focused on the scene of his death.

Outside the city, it's like another world. A primitive realm of immense areas where vision is blurry, even nonexistent ... unless you happen to be there in person, using your own eyes.

Adult: If a tree falls in the forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?

A modern child: It depends. Let me check if any of the local cams had sonic or vibrational pickups.

Cute. But in fact, most places on Earth still aren't covered by any close-in cams at all! It's a lot easier to disappear in the countryside, beyond any sign of habitation.

Unfortunately, that's where Maharal spent his last hours, and possibly days.

I started with police images of the crash site, offering stunning holographic detail out to a diameter of two hundred meters surrounding Maharal's wrecked vehicle -- a big Chevford Huntsman with an extravagant methane engine. It lay crumpled and half-burned at the bottom of a ravine. The river was dry this time of year, but giant granite boulders testified to the smoothing effects of a torrent that scoured the streambed during some winters.

The desert, I thought, glumly. I thought, glumly. Why did it have to be the d.a.m.n desert? Why did it have to be the d.a.m.n desert?

Overhead, spanning the gully, stood the highway viaduct where Maharal's vehicle began its fatal plummet, the guardrail a twisted snake of shredded metal. I spent some time nosing around the scene, shifting and interpolating from one hovering copcam to the next. While emergency vehicles came and went, muscular dittos heaved at the wreck -- sometimes with fancy tools, but then dropping them to use raw strength -- striving to free the dead scientist's corpse.

The road made a sharp turn just before reaching this lonely site. Skid marks intersected the maimed guardrail ... as if the driver had realized his peril suddenly, though too late. This, combined with results from Maharal's autopsy, convinced authorities that he must have simply dozed off at the wheel.

The tragedy never would have happened if he used the car's auto-navigation system. Why would someone drive at night, in an unlit desert, with all safety features cut out?

Well, I answered my own question, I answered my own question, robot-piloting leaves a trace. You robot-piloting leaves a trace. You don't use autonav when you're worried about being followed. don't use autonav when you're worried about being followed. Maharal's gray ditto had admitted that the good doctor spent his last days oscillating in and out of paranoia. This supported the story. Maharal's gray ditto had admitted that the good doctor spent his last days oscillating in and out of paranoia. This supported the story.

Reversing the flow of time, I watched emergency vehicles converge backward and then disperse again, one by one, till just a solitary camview was available ... a speckly image from the first sheriff's cruiser to arrive on the scene. When I tried ratcheting still earlier, the fatal patch of desert not only went dark, it vanished from memory, like a blind spot you couldn't even look at. It appeared only on maps. An abstraction. For all anyone knew for sure, it did not even exist during the time in question.

Farm country would've been better. Agriculturalists use a lot of cameras to monitor crops. Anything irregular, like a stranger, might show up. But the hectare in question featured just a simple EPA toxicity detector, vigilant against illegal dumping. The nearest real lens was more than five klicks away -- a habitat scanner programmed to count migrating desert tortoises and such.

Still, I didn't give up. There are ten thousand commercial and private spy-sats...o...b..ting this planet, and even more robot aircraft cruising the high stratosphere, serving as phone relays and newscams. One of them might might have been focused on this obscure place when the accident happened, recording a handy image of Maharal's headlights, swerving and then spinning as the car plunged to its doom. have been focused on this obscure place when the accident happened, recording a handy image of Maharal's headlights, swerving and then spinning as the car plunged to its doom.

I checked ... and there was no such luck. All the high-resolution lenses were busy elsewhere that night, zooming onto busier sites. Tech-pundits keep promising we'll have WorldOmniscient viewing in a few years, with close-ups of the whole Earth available to everyone, all the time. But right now, that's just sci-fi stuff.

My best bet was to try a little trick of my own, using the coa.r.s.e data from a micro-climate orbiter. Not a true camera, the weathersat is a.s.signed to track wind gusts across the southwest, using Doppler radar.

Traffic stirs the air, especially in open countryside. Long ago I figured out that you can trace the pa.s.sage of a single vehicle, if conditions are right. And if you're lucky.

Using special processing software, I ma.s.saged the weathersat's recorded scan of the area near the viaduct, moments before the crash. Looking for very small patterns, I prodded and palped the Doppler elements till they were grainy, fluctuating at the edge of chaos.

At first, it looked like nothing more than a storm of multicolored noise. Then I began picking out patterns.

There!

It looked like a trail of mini-cyclones, spinning along both sides of the desert road -- a ghostly wake, barely perceptible against a background of noise-washed pixels. Pushing the clock slowly backward from the time of the crash, I followed that spectral trace as it writhed southward along the road, vanishing and then reappearing like a phantom snake, moving at the pace of a speeding car.

This might work, I thought, I thought, so long as Maharal didn't pa.s.s any other traffic ... and a.s.suming the air stayed quiet all that lonely night. so long as Maharal didn't pa.s.s any other traffic ... and a.s.suming the air stayed quiet all that lonely night.

Almost any outside disturbance could erase the wraithlike spoor.