A chuckle. "Man, you are are lost! But all you have to do is get back on the way and -- " lost! But all you have to do is get back on the way and -- "

"Say, that's a nifty diagnostic station you've got there," I interrupt, trying to stay casual. "Mind if I use it on myself for a sec?"

The tech's puzzlement turns wary. "It's for company business."

"Come on. It won't cost anything but electricity."

His imitation brows purse. "I need it whenever the system detects a flawed blank."

"Which happens how often?" Waving off a persistent gnat, I notice that the orange guy isn't afflicted by the buzzing things.

"Maybe once an hour, but -- "

"This'll take a minute. Come on. I'll put in a good word for you upstairs."

Implication? That I'm a VIP visitor. Show me courtesy and I'll add points to his file. Shame on me for fibbing.

"Well ... " he decided. "Ever used a type-eight Xaminator? I better work the controls. Stand over there. What're we lookin' for?"

Stepping up to a fluorescent screen, I lift my tunic showing the big scar. He stares.

"Well, look at that." Turning curious, the tech starts readying a scan. Only now I'm distracted by two of the cursed gnat things.

What the h.e.l.l are they, and why are they picking on me?

With uncanny coordination, they dive at the same instant, one for each eye. My right hand snags one, but the other feints, swerves, then streaks for my ear!

d.a.m.n, it hurts hurts, burrowing inside!

"Give me a few secs," the orange guy says, fiddling controls. "I'm used to inspecting raw blanks. Got to cancel interference from your imprinted soul-field."

Slapping the side of my head ... I stop when a voice abruptly explodes from within, booming like a wakened G.o.d.

"Hi, Albert. Calm down. It's me. Pal."

"P-Pal?"

Stunned, I lower my hand. Can the bug hear me when I speak aloud? "But what -- "

"You're in big trouble, dittolad. But I've got your location. I'm heading there now, with one of your greens. We'll get you out of this mess."

"What mess?" I demand. "Do you know what's going on?"

"I'll explain shortly. Just don't do anything!"

The tech glances up from his station.

"Did you say something? We're almost ready here."

"I'm just getting a diagnostic scan," I tell the bug in my ear. "Right here by one of the a.s.sembly -- "

"Don't do that!" Pal's voice bellows. Pal's voice bellows. "Whatever you're carrying may be primed to go off when you pa.s.s a security scanner." "Whatever you're carrying may be primed to go off when you pa.s.s a security scanner."

"But I already pa.s.sed through one, at the main entrance -- "

"Then a second second scan may be the activation signal." scan may be the activation signal."

Abruptly, it makes sense. If Gineen and Irene planted something deadly in me, they'd maximize damage by delaying ignition, either with a timer or by setting it to go off when I pa.s.s a second scan, somewhere deep inside ... say upon entering the research wing, which I almost did just minutes ago.

"Stop!" I cry -- as the technician pulls a switch.

... things ... happening very fast ...

... apply surge energy ... shift subjective time ... trade lifespan for rapid thoughts.

Darting aside to escape the beam, I can already tell it's too late. The scan-tingle hits me. The bulge in my side reacts. I brace for an explosion.

"Say, you're right!" the technician says. "There is is something inside, but -- where are you going?" something inside, but -- where are you going?"

Running now. A blur of surge action.

It's not a simple bomb, or I'd be a billion flaming pieces now. But something's something's churning within me and I don't like it a bit. churning within me and I don't like it a bit.

Pal's bug writhes in my ear.

"Head for the loading dock!" it shouts. it shouts. "We'll meet you there." "We'll meet you there."

Ahead, beyond giant machines ship-wrapping ditto blanks in airgel coc.o.o.ns, I glimpse truck headlights moving through the lowering night. Picturing the anthill mound of UK HQ, I dare hope -- If I can just get outside, will that foil the maestra's plan? Outdoor explosions do less harm.

But it's not a bomb. I sense fizzing heat. The scan set off complex chemical reactions. Programmed synthesis, perhaps manufacturing a tailored nanoparasite or destroyer prion. Running outside might spare UK only to put the city in peril!

Pal shouts in my ear to turn left. So I do.

I can feel the wall cameras, their pa.s.sive eyes recording. No time to stop and shout my innocence -- I didn't know! I didn't know! Only actions can speak for Albert Morris now. To keep Only actions can speak for Albert Morris now. To keep him him out of jail, out of jail, I I kick in my reserves. kick in my reserves.

Ahead, the loading docks. Gel-wrapped ditto blanks slide into pneumatic tubes, departing for distant customers with a sucking whoosh whoosh. Giant forklifts -- huffing and puffing -- haul larger models onto trucks.

"Over here!"

The yell echoes, both in my ear and across the loading bay. I spy a version of myself, dyed UK Orange, bearing a weasel-like creature on his shoulder. Both dittos bear wounds, still smoking from recent combat.

"Are we glad to see you!" shouts the four-legged mini-Pal. "We had to fight our way inside this place, past some nasty -- Hey!"

No time to stop and compare notes. Running by, I share a split-second glance with my other self and recognize this morning's greenie. Looks like I found something more interesting to do today than clean toilets. Good for you, Green.

The churning in my gut is nearing some climax, feeding my crude golem-organs to a chemical frenzy. Some h.e.l.l is about to burst. I need something ma.s.sive to contain it.

Shall I dive into the packaging machine? No. Airgel won't do.

So I choose a nearby forklift instead, grunting and farting as it burns extra fuel loading big crates onto a truck. Its diplodocus-head turns, resembling the human who imprinted it.

"What can I do for you?" the low voice rumbles, till I dash under its legs. the low voice rumbles, till I dash under its legs. "Hey, buddy, what're you -- " "Hey, buddy, what're you -- "

Below the tail, a repellent exhaust spills high-octane fumes, a quivering moist enzyme flatulence from the hardworking clay body. Ignoring all instinct, I plunge both arms between pseudoflesh lips, forcing the waste-sphincter apart in order to ...

... in order to climb within.

The forklift bellows. I sympathize but hold on as he jumps and swerves, trying to shake me out of the worst place I've ever been.

To the best of my knowledge, that is. Some of my other dits may have seen worse. The ones who never made it home ... though somehow I doubt it.

Worming my way deeper, I hope my built-in recorder survives. Maybe this final act of sacrifice will free Albert from blame. It's a good thing he won't inload any of this. I'd be traumatized for good. It's a good thing he won't inload any of this. I'd be traumatized for good.

The poor forklift writhes. Pulses of foul gas try to blow me out. But I hold on, punching and grabbing fierce handholds. One big contortion culminates in lancing agony as my right foot comes off! Bitten by the frantic golem.

I can't blame him, but it only drives me deeper, holding my breath against the stench, using a final burst of emergency elan elan to climb the sickening cloaca, trying for its heavy center. to climb the sickening cloaca, trying for its heavy center.

Meanwhile, I'm I'm being consumed from within. Used as feedstock for some awful reaction as the fulminating contents of my midriff prepare to erupt. being consumed from within. Used as feedstock for some awful reaction as the fulminating contents of my midriff prepare to erupt.

Am I deep enough? Will the huge clay body contain whatever-it-is?

Man, what a day I've --

20.

Too Much Reality ... as realAlbert learns you can't go home again ...

Suburbia.

Man, what a wasteland.

Half an hour from Ritu Maharal's place, taking the east ribbonway out of town, we got snagged by a guide beam that took over the Volvo, slaving its engine, rolling us along at a "maxyficient" crawl through a zone of high-density traffic. Cyclists sped past us for much of the way, given priority by computers that prudishly favor real human muscle power over mere dittos in a car.

Beyond and below the ribbonway, a series of 'burbs flowed by, each one garish in its own colorful architectural vogue -- from gingerbread castles to Twentieth-Century Kitsch. Village rivalry helps distract people from two generations of high unemployment, so locals and their dittos toil like maniacs to create lavish showpieces, often focusing on an ethnic theme -- the hometown pride of some immigrant community that long ago dropped in to join a cultural bouillabaisse.

Some liken Skyroad Ten's elevated carbonite ribbon to some exponentiated version of It's a Small World, It's a Small World, stretching for more than a hundred kilometers. Globalization never ended human cultural diversity, but it did transform ethnicity into another hobby. Another way for people to find value in themselves, when only the genuinely talented can get authentic jobs. Hey, everyone knows it's phony, like the purple wage. But it beats the alternatives -- like boredom, poverty, and realwar. stretching for more than a hundred kilometers. Globalization never ended human cultural diversity, but it did transform ethnicity into another hobby. Another way for people to find value in themselves, when only the genuinely talented can get authentic jobs. Hey, everyone knows it's phony, like the purple wage. But it beats the alternatives -- like boredom, poverty, and realwar.

I felt relieved when we finally made it past the final city greenbelt, plunging into the natural, bone-dry air of actual countryside. Ritu's gray didn't talk much. She must have been in a mood when she imprinted. Hardly surprising, with her father's corpse not even cool yet. Anyway, this trip hadn't been her idea.

To make conversation, I asked her about Vic Aeneas Kaolin.

Ritu had known the tyc.o.o.n ever since her father joined Universal Kilns, twenty-six years ago. As a girl she used to see the mogul often, until he went hermit, one of the first aristos to stop meeting people in the flesh. Even close friends hadn't seen the man in person for a decade. Nor did most people care. Why should it matter? The Vic still kept appointments, attended parties, even played golf. And those platinum dittos of his were so good they might as well be real.

Ritu, too, must use her UK connections to get high-quality blanks. Even in the dim light, I could tell her gray was supple, realistic, and well textured. Well, after all, I had asked her to send a first-rate copy to help in my investigation.

"I'm not sure which pictures you're talking about," she answered, when I enquired about the missing photos in her father's house -- the ones that Kaolin's ditto stole from the wall. Ritu shrugged. "You know how it is. Familiar things become part of the background."

"Still, I appreciate your effort to recall."

She closed her eyelids, covering the uniform blue of her golem-orbs. "I think ... there may have been a picture of Aeneas and his family, when he was young. Another showed him and my father standing before their first non-humanoid model ... one of those long-arm fruitpickers, if I recall right." Ritu shook her head. "Sorry. My original may be more help. You can have your rig ask her."

"Maybe." I nodded. No need to let on that the Albert Morris original was was sitting right next to her. "Can you tell me how Kaolin and your father were getting along recently? Especially just before Yosil disappeared." sitting right next to her. "Can you tell me how Kaolin and your father were getting along recently? Especially just before Yosil disappeared."

"Getting along? They were always great friends and collaborators. Aeneas gave Dad plenty of leeway for his idiosyncratic behavior and long disappearances, and a permanent waiver from the lie-detector sessions the rest of us take, twice a year."

"Twice a year? That must be unpleasant."

Ritu shrugged. "Part of the New Fealty System. Usually they just ask, 'Are you keeping some big secret that might harm the company?' Basic security, without getting nosy, and the screenings apply equally to all levels in the company."

"To all all levels?" levels?"

"Well," Ritu's graydit acquiesced, "I can't recall anyone insisting that Aeneas himself come take a scan in person."

"Out of fear?"

"Courtesy! He's a good employer. If Aeneas doesn't want to meet other people in the flesh, why should anybody in the UK family choose to question his reasons?"

Why indeed? I pondered. I pondered. No reason ... except old-fashioned flaming curiosity! Clearly, it's another case of personality matching your career path. Folks like me just aren't cut out for this new world of fealty oaths and big industrial "families." No reason ... except old-fashioned flaming curiosity! Clearly, it's another case of personality matching your career path. Folks like me just aren't cut out for this new world of fealty oaths and big industrial "families."

We lapsed into silence after that and I didn't mind. In fact, I needed an excuse to shut down ... that is, pretend to go into dormant mode. The car would drive itself toward the distant mesa where her father's cabin lay. During those hours, I ought to get some good old organic sleep.

Fortunately, Ritu herself supplied a justification. "I gave this ditto some net research to do during the drive. Would you mind if I proceed now?"

On her lap lay a chador portable workstation, doubtless very sophisticated, with an opaque hood that could be tossed over the head, shoulders, and arms.

"Fine," I said.

"Do you want a privacy screen, in addition to the chador?"

She nodded, repaying me with the same appealing smile that I saw when we first met. "I hope you don't mind."

Some people think courtesy is wasted on dittos, but I never understood their reasoning. I sure appreciate it when I'm clay, or when I'm pretending to be. Anyway, her needs coincided with my own.

"Sure. I'll set the screen for six hours. We should be getting close to the cabin about then, with dawn coming up."

"Thank you ... Albert." Her smile took on higher wattage, making me flush. I didn't want it to show, so with no more ceremony than a friendly nod, I touched the PS b.u.t.ton between our seats, releasing a sheet of nanothreads from overhead, creating a black curtain that quickly solidified into a palpable barrier, separating the car's occupants. I stared at it for a minute, briefly forgetting the real reason why I had impulsively decided to take this trip in person. Then I remembered.

Clara. Oh yeah.

I pulled a sleeping cap out of my valise, laying it over my temples. With its help, a few hours should do just fine.

Ideally, ditRitu would never know.