Authors: William Shatner
Giford said, “Attend to business, my lad.”
Ignoring him, the plump young man said to Anzelmo, “Thank you so very much.”
Mrs. Dooley said, “We've also been wondering how many other people there might be who know about what's afoot.”
“With the exception of Mrs. Bernardino,” Anzelmo told her, “we've tracked down and silenced them all.”
“That's what you assured us last week and yetâ”
“What we have to talk about now,” Anzelmo cut in, “is our upcoming meeting with Marriner.”
Pettifaux asked, “Has a date been set?”
Anzelmo nodded. “If you can quit butting in with half-assed questions for a while, I'll explain things. That is, you know, the purpose of this damned get-together.”
“I just love the way you paint sheep,” said Macri, chuckling.
17
Gomez, clutching a large bouquet of imitation yellow roses, came strolling back to where Jake was waiting for him in a shadowy grove of simulated oak trees. It was an hour or so away from dawn and the sky still held considerable darkness. “All taken care of,
amigo
,” he announced. “In case we need the cover.”
Nodding, Jake started downhill along the snaking path leading through the field of grass to a small illuminated chapel. “Only going to be good for about ten minutes,” he said to his partner.
After sniffing at the big bunch of roses, Gomez said, “Nobody's going to notice that the secsystem is out for this section of the NecroPlex for at least fifteen. Trust me, there was an expert craftsman on the job.”
“Make that five minutes,” said Jake, grinning.
Above the shingled little chapel, in litetube letters just under two feet high, floated the words
Wee Kirk
#17â
Another Convenient Entrance to the NecroPlex®
.
In the anteroom of the chapel, side by side beneath a high, narrow stained-plastiglass window, stood a pair of twins. One was human and the other an android simulacrum. They were short, stout and bright blond.
“Good morning, gentlemen, I'm Mr. Collins,” said the one whose name tag identified him as
Mr. Collins: I (Humanoid)
. “Allow us to offer our sympathies to you in your time of obvious bereavement.”
“Yeah, that goes for me too,” said Mr. Collins: II (Android). “It's really tough tiddy when somebody you know croaks.”
“Please.” Collins: I nudged Collins: II. “I'm really afraid my colleague and sometime stand-in here at Wee Kirk number seventeen is overdue for a visit to our NecroPlex repair shop.”
“Too busy for that, chum,” said Mr. Collins: II.
Jake produced a plasticard and handed it over to the human member of the duo. “We're here to put these flowers at the burial site of my late uncle,” he explained. “This is my Mourner Permit.”
The android Mr. Collins reached over to grab the card before his associate got hold of it. “I check all this kind of stuff.”
“Poor old Uncle Ethan.” Gomez eased closer to the twins.
“Those are,” commented the human Collins, “lovely fake roses.”
“Well, his uncle was a dear friend of mine andâ”
“Hold it, folks. Something's not quite kosher here.” The android Collins had placed the permit card against his forehead and that, apparently, was causing his left eye to blink and send out a bright crimson glare.
“What's the trouble?” Mr. Collins: I began, unobtrusively, to slide his hand into his jacket.
“We didn't have time to get a really state-of-the-art fake permit,” explained Jake. “But we were hoping this one would pass muster.”
“
Lo siento
,” apologized Gomez as he plucked his stungun from out of his bouquet and fired at the human Collins.
Mr. Collins: I caught the beam in his midsection, made a brief gulping noise, sat down on the plaztile floor.
“The security cams are drinking all this in, jerks,” the android Collins pointed out.
“Not for about another ten minutes,
perrillo
.” Gomez used the stungun again.
Mr. Collins: II made much more noise than his twin falling over and hitting the floor.
The Reverend Pearly Owlen was waiting for them around the next bend in the underground passway. The android stood motionless in an alcove, tall, pink-cheeked, clad in a yellow suit.
When Gomez and Jake came within range, something inside the andy produced a faint click. “Good morning to you, brothers,” he said, coming alive and smiling. “I'm the Reverend Pearly Owlen, founder and chief preacher of the Nondenominational Church of the Nonspecific Entity.”
“Pleased to meet you again,” said Gomez, not slowing.
“If you'd drop a little something in the cup, which is electrified and robber-proof, it will do a world of good for ⦔
The partners hurried on.
“That's the fourth Reverend Pearly Owlen we've encountered thus far,” mentioned Jake.
“Supposedly he has forty-seven sims of himself down here.”
“Here's the cross tunnel we want coming up.”
A litetube sign on the wall announced:
Rustic Cemetery #17. This way
â.
At the end of the next tunnel lay what appeared to be a small old-fashioned country burying ground. It covered a wide rolling hillside that climbed up to a woodland area. It was simulated midday in #17. Birds were warbling in the treetops and flocks of yellow butterflies were flickering amidst the weathered tombstones.
When Gomez stepped, inadvertently, on a grave, harp music started coming out of its headstone.
“Welcome to the grave site of the late Fredric Dillford,” said a voxbox. “In just four and a half minutes we'll show you the highlights of Fred's exemplary life.”
A panel on the face of the stone slid open to reveal a small vidscreen.
“Born in Bristol, Rhode Island, in 2065, he ⦔
“Top of the hill,” said Jake, starting to climb. “That's where the hidden entry's supposed to be.”
“Pity we don't have the time to find out more about Fred.”
Beneath a holo oak tree was a tombstone that had the name Eldon Barkerage printed on it in gloletters.
Kneeling on one knee, Jake touched a key on the panel at the stone's top.
“Welcome, wayfarers, to the grave site of Eldon Barkerage, rest his soul,” droned a voxbox. “Press one for a stirring and heartwarming docudrama detailing Eldon's early life in Alaska. Press two to see him at his office in the ElectroTrivia Corporation's Rio headquarters from 2113 to 2117.”
Jake touched 5, 3, 5 and 6.
The gravestone started to slide back and gradually an opening in the hillside appeared.
“Down this ramp to the old warehouse,” said Jake.
“Climbing into a grave,” complained Gomez, “is not the jolliest way to commence a journey.”
18
She sat up, shivering, rubbing at her left arm.
They'd used an injection gun on her, several times since she'd been brought here, and there were several sore red splotches on her skin.
Although Jill Bernardino was aware that they'd used some sort of truth drug on her, she had no recollection of what questions she'd been asked or the answers she was compelled to give. The questions, as well as the brainscan they'd done, all had to do with what she'd found out from Ernie Shiboo.
She hadn't been too very smart, she realized, to investigate the tip the Japanese had passed along. Not especially bright to get Jeff Monkwood involved either. Still, he'd done some digging on his own and for reasons that had nothing much to do with her.
These people had probably caught up with Jeff by now. Had him stashed someplace and were questioning him about what he knew.
Thinking about the professor, Jill became aware that she wasn't feeling much concern over him. Well, that was to be expected. They'd been lovers for several months and she was never able to stay interested in anyone much beyond that. Already Jeff didn't mean a hell of a lot to her.
“Awake already, are you?” A husky young man was standing near her cot, looking down on her with concern. “Was I making too much noise?”
Jill told her guard, “No, Buzz. I simply woke up. Nothing to do with you.” She rubbed at her arm again.
He pointed. “Arm bothering you, huh, Jill?”
“A little, yes.” She swung her feet over and sat on the edge of the cot. She was still wearing the clothes she'd had on when they ran her to ground.
“There won't be any more shots.”
“Oh?”
“Mind if I sit here and we talk for a while?”
“No, go ahead.”
“Okay, I'll fetch my chair.” Buzz went walking back across the vast dim-lit room to the open doorway. Just outside it was the slingchair he occupied during his all-night guard shift. He picked up the chair, carrying it back to her cotside.
“What did you mean about no more injections?” she asked the young man as he settled into the chair.
This room was part of the old warehouse system. There were still twenty or so big neowood crates stacked over in one shadowy corner.
Buzz glanced around, taking in the whole room and the open doorway. Hunching his broad shoulders, he said, “Since we've become friends, Jill, I guess it's okay to tell you. They're finished questioning you.”
“Am I going to be moved out of here?”
“Nope, not until after ⦔ He stopped talking, looked away again.
“After what, Buzz?”
“There's a ⦠Well, an event is coming up and you're going to be kept here until after it's over.”
“And then?”
“Oh, they're going to let you go,” he assured her. “That was part of the original deal, see.”
“What deal is this, Buzz?”
“I can't tell you much more,” he said, glancing once more toward the doorway. “But I think somebody was promised that you weren't going to get hurt or anything.”
She touched her fingertips to one of the red blotches on her arm. “Who would that somebody be?”
Shaking his head, Buzz asked her, “Can we talk about my problems now? The way we usually do.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Jill said. “More troubles with Rhonda?”
“The way you say her nameâI get the idea you think it's a pretty stupid name.”
“No, Rhonda is fine as a name,” she said. “But from what you've been telling me about
your
Rhonda, I don't feel that she's the most warmhearted and thoughtful woman in Greater LA.”
Resting his hands on his knees, the husky young man leaned forward. “She was different last nightâdidn't razz me, you know, didn't tell me I was a lunk,” he confided. “We went to that new underwater casino off shore in the Venice Sector. She almost treated me decently, Jill.”
“She's been sweet to you before,” she reminded him. “Usually when she wanted something.”
“You don't think that she's really changing, feeling sorry about the way sheâ” Buzz jumped to his feet and yanked his lazgun out of his shoulder holster. “What the hell do you want, buddy?”
Gomez, bouquet in hand, had appeared in the lighted doorway. He was swaying slightly from side to side. “Trying to find the final wrestling place,” he called out loudly in a slurred voice. “No, make that trying to find the final
resting
place of ⦔ His voice trailed off and he took a few staggering steps into the warehouse. “What the dickens is his name? Oh, yeah, Earl S. Grosse, my best friend andâ”
“Jerk, this isn't part of the NecroPlex setup,” Buzz told him, starting to walk toward Gomez. “Get your ass elsewhere, quick.”
Jill left the cot, ran, caught him by his gun arm. “Take it easy, relax,” she advised. “He's just a harmless mourner who's had a bit too much to drink.”
With a fiery roar the silvery shuttlecraft rose up into the grey NorCal dawn, accelerating away from Marriner Mansion #5.
In his private cabin Marriner was saying, “I'm still waiting for those figures, Miles.”
The chair next to his was occupied by a highly polished chrome robot. “Coming in now, boss,” replied Miles/26 as he tapped at the small computer screen built into the left side of his chest.
“These are the real numbers?” inquired the media tycoon. “Nobody's cooked them?”
“Absolutely accurate.”
“Thirteen percent fewer people are using the Marriner electronic home therapy service than are using the Reisberson Group's shitty service.”
“Appears to be so, boss.”
“Get me Wenzell.”
“Wenzell's dead.”
“Since when?”
“Day before yesterday.” On the vidscreen built into the right side of the robot's chest appeared footage of a plump woman scattering ashes over the Pacific from the cabin of a low-flying black skycar.
“What'd he die from?”
“Stress-induced suicide.”
“Wenzell had a chickenshit streak,” said Marriner as his private shuttle climbed higher. “That should've been spotted early on. Who ran the last Suitability Scan on the bastard?”
A triop photo of a leathery little man replaced the last rites of Wenzell. “This gonzoâDr. Watterman.”
“Unload him.”
“You got it.”
“And dump everybody in his department,” added Marriner. “Overhaul the screening process we use. Have that asshole in Zurich revise our Suitability procedures.”
“Which asshole, boss? Dr. Helfant or Professor Gunderson?”
“The one with the mole right here.”
“Oh, that's Dr. Spruill, Ph.D.”
“He's the one I want to work on the job,” said Marriner. “Set up an interview for twenty-five minutes from now.”
“Right you are.”
“Where are those damned attendance figures for our Movie Palace satellite?”
“On the screen.”
“Shit, what the hell is wrong? We're still eleven point two percent behind our chief rival, that lousy New Hollywood satellite.”