"You mean you don't know?"

"I'm sorry. Am I supposed to?" it asked.

"Well, it seems that everything else has been arranged. I just figured ..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind. Take it all the way to the top, I suppose ... er ... elevator."

"Very good, sir. By the way, many executives call me 'riser.' Do you want the exterior to be transparent or opaque?"

"I think I would like transparent, riser."

"As you wish, sir. I believe this is your first time in the beanstalk."

"That's correct, riser."

"May you have a pleasant and profitable visit. The car will accelerate slowly at first, and then with increasing speed. Please have a seat." One immediately formed out of the fluid material of the elevator wall. Justin got in and was not surprised to find that the seat fit him perfectly. "If you have any discomfort," said riser, "please let us know. You have exclusive use of the elevator. How quickly do you wish to arrive at your destination?"

"What's the fastest I can get there?"

"Without detailed access to your medical records, and only going by what information is available to me via surface observation, I would say two minutes and fifty-eight seconds. The record time is two minutes and six seconds."

"That would be uncomfortable, and I don't think I'd enjoy the trip as much. How about we shoot for ten?"

"An excellent choice, sir." As the elevator began to rise, the walls began to disappear. Before he knew it, Justin was heading up into the sky-open air all around him. Only the cooling breeze of his initial entrance into the lift remained as a psychological anchor to the fact that he wasn't flying outside of the translucent shell. But he was hardly breathing as he saw the city below him in all its terrible majesty. Decimated three-hundred-story structures stretched from Brooklyn to the Jersey shore and beyond. There were large swaths of land empty but for a predominance of huge sunken holes where the nanites had bored and destroyed every last molecule of the behemoths' foundations-including all those inside. In other places half-eaten structures were defiantly jutting out from the war-torn landscape as if from an old abandoned graveyard. New York City, once a living, breathing organism of over seventy-five million human beings, was now a humbled, decrepit, and bleeding wreck of less than thirty million. As the lift rose higher and the wounded city faded from view, Justin couldn't help but think of Hemingway's famous quote: "In modern war you'll die like a dog for no good reason." He remained solemn. Had they all died for no good reason? Had they all died for no good reason?

The rich cerulean sky finally succumbed to the one color that encompassed all. Justin, via the beanstalk, had entered the deep black vastness of space.

What made the trip even more peculiar was the soft glimmer that the beanstalk gave off. He'd been so transfixed by the surreal glow that he'd hardly noticed the deceleration. But the car must have slowed considerably, as it was now hardly moving. All at once the rust-colored walls appeared.

"I hope you had a pleasant ride, sir," said riser.

Justin got up from the seat. "Thank you, riser. I did." He left as the door slid open, and once more began to follow the red line. He stopped to survey the scene. He'd entered a corridor that curved away to both his left and his right. The floor was lushly carpeted, and the walls made of fine desert bone marble. The color scheme wasn't to Justin's taste, but then again, it didn't have to be. The outer wall was clear, giving any observer the perspective of being on a richly appointed wraparound balcony.

"The Chairman's suite," said sebastian. "It contains three levels. The bottom level is devoted to business affairs and the top two are presumed to be living quarters."

"Presumed?"

"No confirmed interior shots have ever been taken, and The Chairman has never given interviews from there. It is assumed that the entire two floors are fluid, but no one knows for sure."

"Fluid rooms are expensive and difficult to maintain, sebastian. Couldn't someone simply check maintenance records or fluid-room technicians' comings and goings?"

"Indeed one could, Justin, and many have tried, but The Chairman values his privacy and took the precaution of having lots of orders and supplies available. It is difficult to determine what he needs and what is merely 'cover.' For instance, it is a matter of public record that his quarters ordered twelve reproduction tiki bars. Is that something The Chairman is likely to use?"

Justin remembered a couple of wild parties he'd attended when younger with a tiki theme. "No, sebastian. One, maybe, but I doubt he'd need twelve. OK," he said, looking in the direction of the red line, "let's get this over with."

From where he'd been standing it was only a short walk to two large double doors. They looked to be made out of oak, and were ornately carved with all manner of horticulture. They opened as he entered. The room appeared to be a large reception area surrounded by art. It was at least thirty by thirty square feet, with another set of imposing double doors opposite the ones Justin had only recently entered. To the side of the double doors was an assistant with a stack of papers, data crystals, and a large array of holodisplays. The young man, who seemed to have enough work to keep him busy for days, looked up briefly and indicated that Justin should take a seat. Justin noticed that the assistant was not particularly tall, and a bit out of place behind a monstrous desk, appropriate for his stature but awkward for his age.

As soon as Justin sat down, the double doors to the right of the secretary burst open and a group of executives emerged. From the looks on their faces it seemed pretty clear that The Chairman had just torn the lot of them a new one. Their clothing, appearance, and manner suggested that these were men and women who'd climbed high up the corporate ladder; however, the manner in which the last one out quietly closed the door behind him told Justin they hadn't reached the top rung yet. Half the group tossed their data pads onto the secretary's desk without bothering to look at him. Justin detected a small sigh emanating from the young man at what must have been the doubling of his workload, but, thought Justin, the kid did well not to let his unhappiness show in any obvious way.

Though the group had been whispering among themselves as they left the inner sanctum, they shut up quickly the second they saw Justin in the chair. It was obvious that they knew who he was, but Justin thought he detected surprise-until, as a person, they all adopted poker faces.

They didn't know I was going to be here. Interesting, thought Justin. So he likes playing games So he likes playing games.

They studied the famous guest openly for a moment but made no attempt to go up and talk with him. In fact, they all filed past, ignoring him outright. The set of double doors from which Justin had entered now opened and then moments later closed, sweeping into the hall the last of them.

An eager to please and painfully young voice finally spoke up. "The Chairman will be a few moments, Mr. Cord. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, a drink, reefer, stims?"

"Coffee would be fine, Mr. ..."

"Oh, everyone up here calls me Marcus. Let me see if I remember. Your preferred coffee is Jamaican Blue Mountain-Earth, not orbital grown. Not too strong, but nice and hot."

"That's very good, Marcus," answered Justin. "GCI must keep very good records on me."

Marcus laughed. "Oh, I'm sure they do, Mr. Cord, not that I'd I'd ever get to see them. I know your taste in coffee from watching ever get to see them. I know your taste in coffee from watching Celebrity Lifestyles Celebrity Lifestyles." The boy's face reddened a bit. "It's one of my favorite shows."

"Mine, too," Justin said, stretching the truth a little to make the young man feel more comfortable. Justin did know about the show, but more so because Neela had loved it. The thought of her now pained him. He shifted his eyes to the art on the wall, hoping it would distract him. Besides, he had nothing to do now but wait. The man with the real power was gently reminding him of that fact.

Justin noticed a statue. It had a bronze quality, yet the surface seemed somehow alive. It may have been the subject matter itself. On first glance it seemed to be in the form of a man trying to walk. But the longer Justin looked the more he realized it was a man trying to walk ... off his pedestal. Maybe even, thought Justin, escape it. He looked at the head of the figure. Though somewhat abstract, there was a pained and sorrowful expression emanating from every contour of its face. Justin knew that the statue knew statue knew it would never escape. it would never escape.

He got up out of his chair and began to walk around the figure. The ability to take mere objects and form them in such a way as to elicit a real and complex emotional response was, to Justin, the essence of art. He differentiated that from the utter garbage that used to hang on the walls of most of the modern art museums of his time. Anyone could throw crap-sometimes literally-onto a canvas and put it in a museum. They'd even elicit a response, but not one worthy of the patron or the artist.

Justin felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see the erstwhile assistant, cup and saucer in hand.

"Your coffee, Mr. Cord."

"Thank you, Marcus."

Justin took a sip. Definitely not synthetic Definitely not synthetic. "Tell me, Marcus. Is this the original or a cast?"

"A little bit of both, Mr. Cord. It was made from a picture of the original statue. It's a fine reproduction, but nowhere near as fine, I'm told, as what the original looked like ... which, I'm afraid, was destroyed in the Tokyo Earthquake of 2107. Legend has it that the artist mixed his own blood into the bronzilite, but who can really know?"

"Even the copy," stated Justin, "is magnificent. Does the artist have any more works extant?"

"Yes," answered Marcus, "I have a list of all the works as well as their locations. I will see to it that your avatar is informed."

"I'd very much appreciate that, Marcus."

Justin continued his perusal.

"I see that The Chairman has one of my old pieces. And," he said, admiring the work, "he appears to have done a masterful job of restoring it."

"Ahh, yes, you're of course referring to the Gustav Caillebotte. With innovative approaches to nanite restoration, we can be 99.7 percent certain that this is how the painting looked on the day it was originally completed."

Justin nodded, grunting his appreciation.

"Tell me, if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Cord," asked Marcus. "What made you choose to purchase this painting ... originally, that is?"

Justin didn't take his eyes off the work. "Like the sculpture here, Caillebotte's work is multidimensional."

"Really? How so?" asked Marcus, staring at the painting anew.

"Well," answered Justin, "on one hand you've got this large-scale canvas covered in stark colors and strong brushstrokes-the work of a master craftsman. On the other you have a very powerful piece of protest art meant to underscore the insidious crawl of the industrial revolution. An interesting choice for your boss."

Marcus remained silent.

Justin looked at the other paintings. One, he saw was a Daumier, an artist he knew to be deeply interested in people, especially the lower classes. The next was a work by Shitao, the renowned monk artist whose paintings were famous for sharing their creator's self-conscious projection of spiritual liberation.

And finally there was the still life. It was drab and gray and somewhat representational of a vase of flowers. It was, Justin decided, ghastly, and he had absolutely no idea why it had been chosen to be a part of such an esteemed collection.

"Marcus, forgive me if I speak from ignorance, but why is this piece here? Does it represent a school or style I don't have the experience to understand?"

"In a way, Mr. Cord ... watch it closely ... very very closely." closely."

Justin moved up closer to the painting and stared hard at the whole of it. After a time he realized that, in fact, it was slowly and subtly changing color and tone.

"That's kind of interesting. Why's it doing that?"

"Haven't you heard of M'Art, Mr. Cord?"

"Yes, yes I have," he answered. "That's art that's linked to the various markets."

"M'Art works will actually change color and tone based on how the markets they're tied to are doing."

Justin nodded. "So this is M'Art. A little stiff, if you ask me."

"Oh, Mr. Cord. It's actually a very exciting field. There are so many ways a M'artist can approach the subject. For example, what colors represent what markets? Do tones matter? What objects are given to which colors? Once all those factors have been decided, you have not only a very complex painting, but one that will truly change every day, and in wholly unpredictable ways. It's not a static image; it's a painting that truly reflects the world it's a part of."

Justin put his hand to his chin and stared hard at the seemingly inconsequential piece. "But what makes this one so special? Special enough, that is, to warrant your boss's wall space?"

Marcus, Justin saw, smiled knowledgeably.

"Although it's a relatively simple still life, this painting is considered by many experts to be the first true piece of M'Art ever created. On top of that, this M'Artwork is not tied to one specific market, but rather to the entire system exchange."

"In a painting so small?" asked Justin.

"Yes," Marcus said proudly, almost as if he'd owned it himself, "in a painting so small. Part of its genius."

"It must be priceless," said Justin, squinting his eyes ever so slightly, wondering if perhaps that, too, would reveal a different experience.

"It's insured at over three hundred and fifty million credits," answered Marcus matter-of-factly.

Justin guffawed. "No shit," he said, while watching the colors change from inches away. "Better not sneeze, then."

Marcus smiled.

"Is it just me or does it look a little washed out to you?"

"If the markets don't improve," answered Marcus, "it'll probably go negative. Never done that before."

Justin finally backed up so he could study the collection again from a distance, with a more discerning eye.

"Tell me, Marcus, which one's your favorite?"

"Oh, the sculpture," the secretary answered, without missing a beat.

"Really. Why is that?"

"Look at it long enough and you realize it's not really a sculpture."

Justin turned his head slightly to see Marcus transfixed on the statue-lost.

"What then?"

"A mirror, Mr. Cord."

Justin's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Pretty deep answer for a kid."

Marcus's bright-eyed look came on-as if a switch had been flicked. "I'm twenty-three, Mr. Cord."

"Bullshit, Marcus. If you're twenty-three then I'm ..."

Justin stopped talking and stared blankly at the boy.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, mouth forming into a knowing grin. He now studied Marcus in much the same way he'd only moments before studied the paintings. The hair was a different shade and was straight, not wavy. The nose was smaller and slightly misshapen, and the eyes were a different color. There were enough differences that you had to look for it, but it was him, alright.

Justin extended his hand. "It's good to finally meet you, Mr. Chairman."

The Chairman laughed heartily, and took Justin's hand firmly into his.

"Damn, Mr. Cord. I was hoping for at least an hour."

Justin felt the man's firm grasp and met it with his own.

"Sorry," said Justin, "but no twenty-three-year-old I know-in any century-would look at a sculpture and see a mirror."

"Oh, really, Mr. Cord. And what do you suppose he would see?"

"The world would be his oyster. Everything in his mind would be shaped by the prism of advancement."

The Chairman shook his head in agreement. "You're an old man, sir. An old man like me."

Justin continued to maintain a friendly posture but never failed to realize who he was dealing with. "Not quite as old as you, sir, but let's just say I've aged a bit since reawakening."