I tried combinations of twists, pulls, and shoves, and began making some progress with the cap, confirming my guess. Gradually it worked outward along a complicated, grooved sleeve. A physical storage device, then, like the piezomechanical recorders that Albert always installed in his grays. More secure than anything electronic. Irene clearly grasped that the world of digital data is far too flighty to entrust with any real secrets. Safety-through-encryption is a bad joke. If you must keep something away from prying eyes, put it in hardwriting. Then hide the only copy in a box.

I hope this thing doesn't require any sort of ID check, or involvedisarming a self-destruct. When Irene told me about this cache with her final words, I a.s.sumed it was an act of deathbed contrition -- or perhaps a little karmic insurance. But another explanation was possible. A trap. A petty act of vengeance for interfering with her last red ditto. When Irene told me about this cache with her final words, I a.s.sumed it was an act of deathbed contrition -- or perhaps a little karmic insurance. But another explanation was possible. A trap. A petty act of vengeance for interfering with her last red ditto.

If I could sweat, I would have started right about then.

"Better step back, Pal," I urged.

"Already done it, chum," I heard him call from beyond the farthest end of the bar, over a dozen meters removed. "Other than that, I'm with you all the way."

His wry expression of support almost made me chuckle. Almost.

I didn't breathe through the last several twists and turns, operating on storage cells until ...

... the bra.s.s cylinder came off at last, revealing a hollow interior with something crammed inside. Exhaling with relief, I tapped it on the bar.

A slim tube of plastic rolled out. Beta Beta, said a paper tag, attached to the film with a clip.

"Cool!" Palloid yelped, leaping onto the bar again, using agile paw-hands to pry at other decorative caps. "I bet she had all kinds of stuff hidden away. Maybe Irene had a sideline, blackmailing politicians! She was in the business of catering to perversions and there's still lots of depravities that can cost you votes, if people find out about 'em!"

"Right. Dream on." As if Pallie cared about politics. "Just be careful," I urged. It was my turn to retreat cautiously while he fiddled with one poison dispenser after another. Further warnings would be futile, so I left him there, happily risking his brief existence on a whim.

"I'll be in Irene's office," I said.

We had pa.s.sed it along the way, a sophisticated-looking data center offering surveillance views into every corner of the establishment. (I chuckled when I saw Palloid barely dodge a spray of some fuming liquid as he kept poking around, looking for more secret hiding places.) There were also some of those hookups the luckless grayAlbert mentioned in his recital-diary -- plug-in units designed to let a ditto link directly (well, sort of) to computers. From everything I've read, the advantages are dubious. I'd much rather wear a chador.

Luckily, the office held some regular net-access consoles, too. Irene had left several turned on, indicating rushed departure. I might not have to mess with pa.s.swords and such. Hacking is such a retro and tedious ch.o.r.e.

Anyway, my first stop was a simple a.n.a.log strip reader. The film tube fit perfectly. Are there any clues here to explain why someone arranged Are there any clues here to explain why someone arranged for that vicious attack against Universal Kilns? Or the much worse felony of real-killing Albert Morris? for that vicious attack against Universal Kilns? Or the much worse felony of real-killing Albert Morris?

As soon as I activated the strip reader, the first holofoto spilled into midair before me. So that's what "Vic Collins" looked like. Tuesday's hapless gray was right about this character. Plaid clothes over plaid skin ... ouch! So that's what "Vic Collins" looked like. Tuesday's hapless gray was right about this character. Plaid clothes over plaid skin ... ouch!

Yet it made devilish sense. Some people hide their appearance by looking nondescript. Forgettable. But you can accomplish much the same thing by making it too painful and disgusting to look at you. Still, it was hard to see how this portrait could help answer any of the big questions.

Was Irene right about Vic Collins being a front persona of Beta, the notorious ditnapper?

I recalled that last encounter with one of Beta's rapidly dissolving yellows, stuck in a disposal tube next to the Teller Building, s...o...b..ring cryptic remarks about betrayal and somebody called "Emmett." Albert was already tired and distracted by then. And wary toward yet another of Beta's notorious head games.

Sitting in Irene's office, I saw little similarity between that yellowdit and the holo visage in front of me, a squarish face, rather snide, and cross-hatched with a blinding array of intersecting stripes. There were several dozen pictures in Irene's secret archive, date-stamped, every time the conspirators rendezvoused in back of a limousine at some remote location -- occasionally with a third party who looked like a cheap ivory of Gineen Wammaker. According to a notation, Collins used a static-disruptor to block sophisticated photo-optical recording devices. These snapshots on old-fashioned chemical emulsion were the best Irene could do as she kept a wary eye on her allies.

Not wary enough, though. Did Irene ever try tracking Collins through the publicam network? I wondered. The first step -- following his trail back to the limo rental agency -- seemed obvious. I wondered. The first step -- following his trail back to the limo rental agency -- seemed obvious.

Oh, Albert would have loved the challenge! Starting with these time-and-place fixes, he'd concentrate with all the intensity of a Vingean focus trance, backtracing the plaid Collins-dittos, eager to see what tricks they used to cover their trail, pouncing on any slipup.

I suppose I could have tried to do that, sitting there in Irene's deserted office. But did I want want to? Just because I inherit Albert's memories, and some skills, that doesn't mean I'm him! Anyway, that missile wrecked more than Al's house. Nell contained all those specialized programs to help Morris follow people and dittos across the vast cityscape. to? Just because I inherit Albert's memories, and some skills, that doesn't mean I'm him! Anyway, that missile wrecked more than Al's house. Nell contained all those specialized programs to help Morris follow people and dittos across the vast cityscape.

There are times I wish the citizens of PEZ were less laid back and freedom-loving. Elsewhere, folks put up with higher levels of regulation and supervision. Every golem made in Europe carries a real real transponder, not a pathetic little pellet tag. Factory-registered to its owner, trackable by satellite from activation to dissolution. There are still ways to cheat, but a detective knows where to start. transponder, not a pathetic little pellet tag. Factory-registered to its owner, trackable by satellite from activation to dissolution. There are still ways to cheat, but a detective knows where to start.

On the other hand, I live here for a reason. Tyranny may have only taken a holiday. It could return, first in one corner of the world, then another. And democracy is no absolute guarantee. But in PEZ, the word "authority" has always been so suspect. They'd have to kill everybody first, then start over from scratch.

Turning the film cylinder, I flipped from one holo to the next as Irene and her collaborators met to discuss a stratagem for quasi-legal industrial espionage, or so she thought. But her allies had other plans -- manipulating Irene for her resources and Albert Morris for his skills. And the fanatics, Gadarene and Lum, setting them up to take initial blame.

Having met those two, I knew that any first-rate investigator would soon grow suspicious. They just weren't competent enough to sabotage Universal Kilns. And though Gadarene might have a motive to destroy UK, Lum wanted to "liberate slaves," not destroy them. A smart cop would see them as patsies, framed to take the fault. Beta set up Irene to take the heat when that first level failed.

She realized all this when the news broke last night. A knock on the door could come within hours. Oh, she could have stayed and helped investigators peel away more layers. But Beta knew her too well. Revenge wouldn't matter, only arranging with Final Options for a last stab at "immortality."

So, I'm the one left to clean up after her ... and after Albert, for that matter. And ...

It seems I'm spending all my lifespan scrubbing toilets after all.

Actually, Irene did a good job getting close-ups of Beta with her little microcam -- if it really was him. Perhaps my frankie brain viewed things differently, but I was more interested in examining the face than trying to track it from one publicam to another.

All right, I thought. Question number one: was "Vic Collins" really Beta, the infamous ditnapper and copyright thief? The red Irene ditto seemed sure. Maybe they had a long and profitable business relationship. And I could easily picture the pragmatic Gineen Wammaker deciding to stop fighting Beta, joining forces with him instead. Weren't they all in approximately the same trade? Catering to perverse cravings? I thought. Question number one: was "Vic Collins" really Beta, the infamous ditnapper and copyright thief? The red Irene ditto seemed sure. Maybe they had a long and profitable business relationship. And I could easily picture the pragmatic Gineen Wammaker deciding to stop fighting Beta, joining forces with him instead. Weren't they all in approximately the same trade? Catering to perverse cravings?

I snap-enabled a link from the strip reader to Irene's computer, getting quick response when I asked for some standard image-enhancement programs, then used them to zoom on Collins's features. "Now ain't that interesting," I murmured.

Apparently, Collins used a completely different pattern of plaid design, each of the first five times he sent dits to meet Irene. But on the final three occasions, his skin motif remained the same. Which element is meaningful? Which element is meaningful? I wondered. I wondered. The earlier variation? Or the fact that he later stopped bothering to change patterns? The earlier variation? Or the fact that he later stopped bothering to change patterns?

I didn't have resources to do a mathematical-configuration a.n.a.lysis of the interlocking stripes -- determining if some code lay embedded in the complex patterns. It would be just like Beta to wear cryptic clues on his very skin, daring foes to decipher them. Vic Kaolin did did have the resources for such a.n.a.lysis, and I was supposedly working for him at the moment. I could have this evidence forwarded to the mogul in seconds, at a spoken command. have the resources for such a.n.a.lysis, and I was supposedly working for him at the moment. I could have this evidence forwarded to the mogul in seconds, at a spoken command.

"Zoom in," I said instead, letting the focus of my gaze control where -- the plaid skin on the left cheek of the most recent image of "Vic Collins."

I missed Nell. And especially all the wonderful automated tools she kept in her icy core, ready at Albert's disposal. But with some cheap subst.i.tutes, fetched via the Internet, I got a pretty good close-up appraisal of the clay surface, which turned out to be finely molded, with supple, kiln-cured texture. Very high quality. Beta could afford fine bodies.

h.e.l.l, I knew that. This wasn't significant or new. So? I'm not Albert Morris. What makes me think I can play private eye? So? I'm not Albert Morris. What makes me think I can play private eye?

Before giving up, I decided to point the same tools at earlier images Irene took when Collins first started meeting her in back of limousines. Was it a hunch?

I stared, blinked, and stammered, "What the -- ?"

The texture was entirely different! Coa.r.s.er. And this time it featured a myriad tiny protrusions, like gooseb.u.mps, row after row, at least a thousand per linear centimeter. Pixel emitters, Pixel emitters, I realized. Like they weave into smart fabrics that change colors on command. Only these lay flush in normal-looking gray pseudoskin. The plaid pattern was created by these elements; some turned dark, others pale, combining to form an illusion of intersecting stripes. I realized. Like they weave into smart fabrics that change colors on command. Only these lay flush in normal-looking gray pseudoskin. The plaid pattern was created by these elements; some turned dark, others pale, combining to form an illusion of intersecting stripes.

So. Even if I used old publicam records to follow Collins back intime, say to the limo rental agency, I'd lose him anyway. There'd come some point, a bit earlier, when he'd vanish in a crowd at some carefully scouted blind spot. Tracing farther back, I'd never see a plaid person arrive because he shifted coloration instantly! I bet Collins even had inflatable prosthetics under the skin, to alter his facial contours just as quickly. No need for the quick-change dyes, putty, and cosmetics Albert used.

Oh, old Albert had been proud of his own ability to weave in and out of sight, wiping his trail clean. But Collins -- or Beta -- had him beat by a mile! It was enough to make me laugh or cry for poor Al, who used to fancy himself as Sherlock to Beta's Moriarty. He was never in the same league.

All very impressive. But why did Beta stop stop using his quick-change trick, switching to dittos that were more luxurious but less sneaky? And why did he decide to hire an Albert Morris gray to do the old dodge-and-weave during the attack on UK, instead of handling it himself? using his quick-change trick, switching to dittos that were more luxurious but less sneaky? And why did he decide to hire an Albert Morris gray to do the old dodge-and-weave during the attack on UK, instead of handling it himself? I checked all the images again. The last three pictures of Collins were different, all right. You could even see it in his facial expression -- a smirk that first seemed natural struck me as feigned in the later images. I checked all the images again. The last three pictures of Collins were different, all right. You could even see it in his facial expression -- a smirk that first seemed natural struck me as feigned in the later images.

If only the meetings were held here, at the Rainbow! Irene could have made full holo radar scans, recorded voice patterns, word rhythms, hand mannerisms ... all the little habits that a man takes along when he copies himself into clay dolls. Cues nearly as individualized as the Standing Wave itself. Did Irene or Wammaker notice any difference? Were they clueless that something had changed?

That yellow who was melting in the recycling tube, next to the Teller Building ... didn't he claim that some kind of disaster had befallen Beta, even before Blane and I raided the place?

I glanced at a monitor showing the main floor of the Rainbow Lounge. Pal's mini-golem was making a party of it, singing along with a raucous tune that played on the dance floor sound system while he kept poking into every conceivable niche and hiding place, adding to a collection of metal parts torn from various portions of the bar. Only a few small streams of noxious fluid appeared to be leaking onto the floor, so far. But at this rate he might demolish the whole place before his internal clock ran out.

The little mock ferret tapped another decorative cylinder on the bar, peering through it while crooning along to a catchy anthem that had been revered by nihilists long before any of us were born. Rocking back on his haunches, he bayed skyward -- "Life is a lemon and I want my money back!"

Hey, I can relate. In fact, I've felt that way for well over twenty-four hours. But even if I could could somehow get a refund on this so-called life, whose account would I send it to? somehow get a refund on this so-called life, whose account would I send it to?

Toggling a switch on the desk, I called down to the lounge. "Pal! You doing okay down there?"

The driving beat automatically faded as he swiveled around, grinning. "Just great, Gumby, old chum! I found some more secret stashes." He held up a holopix tube like the one I had found. "My hunch was right! Irene had nailed herself a couple of local council officials to blackmail."

"Anything juicy?"

"Naw. Local interest, mostly. I keep hoping for something on the President, or maybe the Protector in Chief. But all I found in the last one are pictures of kids. kids. Family snaps, not kinkyp.o.r.n." Palloid shrugged. "What about you? Anything useful?" Family snaps, not kinkyp.o.r.n." Palloid shrugged. "What about you? Anything useful?"

Useful? I was about to answer no when another of those odd hunches tweaked an off-resonance in my mutated Standing Wave. I signaled Irene's computer with some rapid eye-wink commands, calling up two images of Collins-Beta -- one early and the other late -- flicking back and forth between them. "I'm not sure, but I think ... " I was about to answer no when another of those odd hunches tweaked an off-resonance in my mutated Standing Wave. I signaled Irene's computer with some rapid eye-wink commands, calling up two images of Collins-Beta -- one early and the other late -- flicking back and forth between them. "I'm not sure, but I think ... "

The image on the left showed Beta the chameleon, his gray golemskin studded with a myriad tiny pixel emitters tuned to combine into one of those eye-hurting plaid motifs, but capable of changing instantaneously to some wildly different pattern. The other face, on the right, looked similar at superficial scale. But zooming in close, you could see the tartan pattern was simply painted painted atop normal gray ... atop normal gray ...

Wait a minute, I thought, noticing some abrasion marks on the most recent Collins golem, near its left cheek. Nothing unusual there. Clay scratches easily and cannot repair itself. You sometimes end a day pitted and cratered, like some moon. But these tiny sc.r.a.pes I thought, noticing some abrasion marks on the most recent Collins golem, near its left cheek. Nothing unusual there. Clay scratches easily and cannot repair itself. You sometimes end a day pitted and cratered, like some moon. But these tiny sc.r.a.pes glittered. glittered. Closer magnification revealed bits of gray surface coating, curling away from a different hue beneath, still metallic-looking, but shinier. Not quite silvery. More of an expensive-looking matte finish, like white gold. Closer magnification revealed bits of gray surface coating, curling away from a different hue beneath, still metallic-looking, but shinier. Not quite silvery. More of an expensive-looking matte finish, like white gold.

Or else, maybe, platinum.

"Yeah?" Palloid shouted up at me. "What is it you think?"

I didn't want to say more. Who knew what kind of listening devices Vic Aeneas Kaolin planted in me, when he kindly renewed my lease on pseudolife? Heck, I still lacked any clear picture of his underlying motive for sending me out "to find the truth."

Choosing words carefully, I said, "Maybe it's time you and I got out of here, Pal."

"Yeah? And head where?"

I thought about that. We needed a special kind of help. The kind I never knew existed till yesterday, when I was just a few hours old.

30.

Apeing Essence ... realAlbert gets sympathy from a simian simulacrum ...

Fortunately, there was a lot of traffic coming and going to the battle range, everything from big supply carryalls and triple-decker tour buses to jitneys and sportcycles. Air travel's tightly restricted though, and the site is far enough from the city that sending a ditto all this way makes little sense. It would only have short time to loiter around before having to head back again.

True aficionados -- and news reporters -- are better off coming in person, which explains the row of fancy realfolk hotels, amus.e.m.e.nt centers, and casinos near the main gate, with their high observation towers gazing at the battleground proper. At night, musicians play impromptu arrangements to accompany the flash and bang effects rising over the escarpment.

Like I said, it's a pretty typical military base. Bring the family!

We hitched a ride the final few klicks, flagging down a ramshackle mobile home with twelve wheels and a wheezing catalysis engine that reeked of illegal petrol conversion. The driver, a big fellow, dark brown with greasy locks, welcomed us aboard with a grunt.

"I'm not going all the way to the hotels," he said. "I'll be turnin' offroad to the Candidates Camp."

"We're aimed there as well, sir," I explained with a shallow bow, since he was real while I was pretending not to be. The driver eyed us up and down.

"You don't have the look of soldier-aspirants. What kind of model are you, strategists? strategists?"

I nodded and the big fellow guffawed. "Some would-be generals, wandering around lost in the desert!" His deriding tone wasn't unfriendly, though.

I now faced yet another problem. As soon as I stepped inside the big van, a small light started flashing in my left eye. For the first time in almost two days, my implant was picking up a useful carrier wave and asking permission to respond. Three tooth clicks and I could be investigating what happened to my burned-out home and why amateur criminalists linked me to a sabotage attempt at Universal Kilns. Above all, in just moments I could be talking to Clara!

But that little flash also signaled a poison. While pa.s.sive, my implant wouldn't give away my position. But the moment it latched in, others would know I still lived ... and where to find me.

Ritu and I settled into a back seat while the driver chattered about the war, which had gone through several stunning reverses, a memorable match drawing attention from all over the globe. Soon he pulled off the main highway and down a rutted track leading toward the chaotic encampment I spied earlier.

The Candidates Camp is exactly what you'd expect in an age when war is sport and countless people dream of some way to stand out from the crowd. Amid plumes of trampled dust, you quickly sniff the acrid wafting odors of simmering clay emitted by scores of souped-up portakilns, fussed over by aficionados who bray proudly about their special modifications. Crowds gather each time one opens, to stare and criticize as a new monster steps forth, zingularly equipped in ways that could get you arrested or fined in the city. Gargoyles, ogres, and leviathans ... spiked, fanged, or clawed ... feral-eyed or dripping caustic poisons from their jaws ... yet propelled by the ego and soul-stuff of some nerdy hobbyist, woman-born, preening and posing in the background, hoping to be "discovered" by the professionals, just beyond the fence -- perhaps even winning a coveted place of glory on the honorable plains of battle.

Our driver grew more talkative as he maneuvered into a parking s.p.a.ce at one end of the encampment. "I wasn't gonna come out this time, especially after PEZ got off to such a bad start on Monday. Sure looked as if it was gonna be over quick. Good-bye icebergs and h.e.l.lo again water rationing! In fact, I gotta hand it to the Indonesians for coming up with those sneaky little minidit a.s.sa.s.sin-golems. They sure played havoc with our first-wave troops. But then came our counterattack on Moesta Heights! Did you ever see anything like it?"

"Wow," I said ambiguously, eager only to get out as soon as he shut down the hissing engine.

"Yah, wow. Anyway, I suddenly realized -- I got a perfect battle-mod to counter to those Indie minis! So I figured, come out and give a demo. With any luck, I'll be in the arena soon, making a deal with the Dodecahedron by nightfall!"

"Well, we sure do wish you luck," I mumbled while jiggling the doork.n.o.b.

He looked disappointed by my lack of interest. "I had a hunch you two were scouts for the army, but I was wrong about that, wasn't I?"

"Scouts?" Ritu asked, clearly puzzled. "Why would the army have scouts outside outside the battle range?" the battle range?"

"Go on, get outta here," the driver said, yanking a lever and releasing the door, spilling us into the hot afternoon.

"Thanks for the ride." I jumped to ground and quickly headed south, past a cl.u.s.ter of Winnebagos where families gathered together under a striped canopy, chewing barbecued snacks next to a big holo screen showing recent combat updates. If I were a true fan, I'd stop to check the score and see what odds the touts offered. But I only really care about war during the finals, whenever Clara qualifies.

I think she likes that about me.

On one side stood house trailers fronted with fold-down booths selling everything from hand-woven lumnia lumnia rugs and wondrous cleaning formulas to aromatic funnel cakes. Beyond the usual Elvis Shrine, cl.u.s.ters of monster truck aficionados sweated under their beloved vehicles, preparing for a rally at a nearby offroad course. There were the usual types of real-life weirdos -- clippies and stickies and nudies and people walking about shrouded in opaque anonymity chadors -- but all of this was secondary. Fringe stuff to the real purpose of this offbeat festival. rugs and wondrous cleaning formulas to aromatic funnel cakes. Beyond the usual Elvis Shrine, cl.u.s.ters of monster truck aficionados sweated under their beloved vehicles, preparing for a rally at a nearby offroad course. There were the usual types of real-life weirdos -- clippies and stickies and nudies and people walking about shrouded in opaque anonymity chadors -- but all of this was secondary. Fringe stuff to the real purpose of this offbeat festival.

I was looking for its core.

Ritu caught up and grabbed my arm, trying to match my rapid pace. "Scouts?" she asked a second time.

"Talent scouts, Miss Maharal. The reason for all of this." I encompa.s.sed the chaotic encampment with a sweep of one arm. "Wannabes and Trytobes converge here to show off their homemade battle-dits in a makeshift coliseum, hoping the pros will be watching. If army guys see anything they like, they may summon the designer inside the fence. Perhaps make a deal." scouts, Miss Maharal. The reason for all of this." I encompa.s.sed the chaotic encampment with a sweep of one arm. "Wannabes and Trytobes converge here to show off their homemade battle-dits in a makeshift coliseum, hoping the pros will be watching. If army guys see anything they like, they may summon the designer inside the fence. Perhaps make a deal."

"Huh. Does that happen often?"

"Officially, it never happens at all," I replied while turning and seeking my bearings. "Amateur ditviolence has been deemed an undesirable public vice, remember? It's sin-taxed and reproved, like drug addiction. Remember how they yammered against it in school?"

"That doesn't seem to be slowing it down any," she murmured.

"No s.h.i.t. It's a free country. People do what they want. Still, the military can't be seen officially encouraging the trend."

"But un unofficially?" One eyebrow arched.

We were pa.s.sing an arcade where carnies touted all sorts of amus.e.m.e.nt games and joyrides, most of them mechanical and retro, designed to give a safe but scary thrill to trueflesh. Next door, a long tent sheltered stalls for bio-aficionados to exhibit home-geniformed life forms -- the modern equivalent of prize bulls and pigs -- amid a clamor of grunts, cackles, and braying cries. Lots of color and atmosphere, all the way down to the homey stench.

"Unofficially?" I answered Ritu. "They watch, of course. Half the creativity in the world comes from bored amateurs, nowadays. Open source and fresh clay -- that's all folks need. The army'd be stupid to ignore it."

"I was wondering how you planned to get from here into the base proper," she gestured beyond the exhibits and shouting carnies and whirling fun rides to the killwire fence. "Now I get it. You're looking for one of those scouts!"