Marshall nodded. He had already considered the point, at some length. "It's
our
responsibility, though, not Kadin's," he pointed out.
Jonders dropped his hands in exasperation. "We've created him to show human wisdom, if he's ever called upon to make judgments. You can hardly expect him to turn a blind eye now."
"True enough," Marshall said. He turned his hands out, palms up. It was an unwinnable argument on both sides, and they both knew it. "Fogelbee says that the architecture of the system may not—"
"I know what Fogelbee thinks," Jonders said angrily. "He's not exactly anxious to give her the benefit of the doubt, though, is he?" Jonders shut his mouth with an audible sigh. He was obviously trying to control his emotions. Marshall studied him sympathetically. There was little he could do to make Jonders feel better about the likely outcome. He could only hope that Jonders's emotional involvement would not turn into interference.
"I wanted to give you a chance for any last input into the decision," Marshall said finally. "The Oversight Committee is meeting tonight, in New Washington."
Jonders straightened a little, and composed himself, as though he had reached some personal decision. "Very well. I have one last bit of input."
Marshall waited.
"As matters stand now, I believe that Mozy-ship would cooperate with us, so long as she is treated as an equal. But if you try to destroy her—and fail—you may create a powerful enemy."
"Yes," Marshall said. "I know."
Jonders rose to leave. "Bill," Marshall said. He pressed his lower lip with his forefinger. "Use the time you have left well. For Mozelle's sake, if nothing else."
For a moment, Jonders stared at him at though he were frozen. Then he nodded, frowning, and turned and walked quickly out of the room.
Nagging sirens. Flashes of blue light dance in the kitchen window, growing louder and brighter, then passing. Hoshi dumps the dishes into the sonic and stares out—at the brick wall, and down into the dim alley between the apartment buildings.
Probably someone out there right now. In the alley, or on the street. Watching the building, watching the apartment; he wouldn't be surprised if, through some arcane instrumentation, they were staring right into his kitchen.
He ought to be grateful to be going home at all, they said. Well—he thinks he knows why they let him go rather than just throwing away the key. Even they couldn't lock a man away without a trial; and the last thing they'd want is publicity. God forbid the cops should get involved, he thinks; HQ might have to answer some questions themselves—like what are they doing, and why, and what's become of a woman named Mozy, who hasn't been seen around school lately.
Cops, of course, don't know beans and would never ask the right questions, not unless someone clues them in. And Hoshi, well, he's telling nobody nothing, not the cops, not that shrink he's supposed to see, nobody. Said enough already. What he ought to do is get out of here, away from the city and the confusion, go someplace where he can think.
He pulls a cola out of the chiller and snaps it open. Sips the sweet, sharp, bubbling liquid and leans back against the counter, not really directing his thoughts, but just letting them percolate through his mind like bubbles through the soft drink. The blocky shadows of the kitchen fixtures surround him like the protective shapes of a cave, a huddling place. Overhanging cupboards, ledges; boulderlike counters. He feels like a small animal, hiding in its lair.
Small animal
.
His hands clench, crushing the flimsy cola can, spraying dark liquid everywhere. Mozy's words rush back to him: "
Will you take care of Maggie and Mouse . . .?
"
"Damn," he whispers, scarcely conscious of the cola soaking his shirt. Mozy's gerbils.
It was practically her last request before going through with the scan. Would he take care of her gerbils. By now they've probably starved. How long can gerbils live without food? he wonders.
Mozy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean not to feed them. Oh, God . . . .
Throwing the crushed can into the sink, he strides into the shadows of the living room, seizes his coat, and hurries out into the night.
Seems quiet on the street, later than it really is. It would be smarter to wait until daytime, but he can't wait, he promised her—and what if the things are just holding on, at the edge of starvation?
He stands at the corner, waiting. Street's a converging pattern of oblong light and shadow, nothing much moving, just a car turning the corner further down. Where are they, then? Where's his company? No one moves in the empty, dark night.
Eventually, a bus swings ponderously around the corner, brakes whooshing. He climbs aboard, sticks his metrotab into the slot until it beeps, and makes his way to a seat as the bus rumbles ahead. Behind, a pair of headlights pulls out, following the bus. He faces forward again. Maybe that's them, he thinks; but what does it matter? He's doing nothing wrong; just going to help a friend.
Helping a friend. That's what got him into this in the first place. Friendly concern. Risking his position to help Mozy get . . . what it was she wanted. Things got out of control; he didn't know what it would do to her.
He only wanted to help. That was all.
Liar
.
No. Really.
You can lie to them, but you can't lie to yourself. You loved her, it was your own lust that drove you to do it
.
No! He jerks his head and stares out the window, the street lights passing like highway markers, the building like silent wooded hills. It isn't true, he thinks. It was never true. The pain is starting up again, in the righthand corner of his forehead. What will it be this time? The knife cutting from one temple, under the skull, to the other? A dull fire across the top of his head? Or the icepick stabbing straight behind the eyeball?
You wanted her. You would have done anything to get her.
No!
The pain shoots across his forehead.
It's true. It's your own will, and your own sin, yes
sin,
and if you don't redeem yourself of it, you will pay, and pay dearly. The pain is a warning, just a hint of what's to come.
He presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, and after a minute or so the pain eases. He grimly surveys the bus. There are only a few people aboard—a teenaged girl in jeans, a middle-aged woman gripping a plastic shopping bag, a drunk half asleep near the rear of the bus. All of them lost in their own worlds. Outside, light and dark pass by, the surroundings gradually changing from the dingy residential area of his neighborhood to a brighter business district. Closing his eyes, he rocks with the motion of the bus, calming himself. When he looks again, he sees the familiar corner of the Golden Chance Cafe, and rises to get off. He's a few blocks ahead of himself, though, and hangs silently onto the overhead railing, waiting for the right stop.
The doors clatter open, and he steps down and away, scarcely mindful of the bus growling on without him. He walks three and a half blocks, trying to find an apartment building he has only visited once before, in the daytime. The night landscape is different, another kind of country altogether, one of blurrier outlines, darker darks, more ghostly lights. The building emerges out of the shapes like a familiar statue seen in different light, and he enters the lobby and finds Mozy's barely legible name on the buzzer plate, recognizing her printing before the actual name. He stares at it for a moment—
Mozelle Moi
—his steadiness and determination shaken by the rush of memories brought into his head by that name.
He finds the elevator and goes up to the third floor. Wrong floor. Then the elevator's gone, and he hikes up one flight of stairs rather than wait for it to return. Mozy's floor looks so unfamiliar to him that he wants to leave before he gets caught in some awful Minotaur's maze. Instead, he walks slowly down the hall, feeling like a criminal. The greasy smell of cooking sausage assaults his nose from one wing, and there's the sound of shouting children behind a door as he counts the numbers looking for 432 or 482. He can't remember which is the correct number. There it is. 482. He recognizes the gouge in the plaster near Mozy's door.
Her door surrenders to the key, and then he's inside, shutting it behind him, groping for the light switch. Nothing but flat wall and molding. All darkness and shadowy shapes in the room. If he squints like
that
and strains his eyes, he gets more amplification, especially in the infrared, and he can just about find his way across toward the ghostly form of a desk. He stumbles on the end leg of the couch, but reaches the table in front of him and finds the lamp. Then the switch.
The light glares in his eyes, and he turns away, blinking. Couch, desk, table. Room seems more cramped than he remembers it. Window at one end, kitchen at the other. Mozy, he thinks. Mozy, you should be here. Why are you hiding in that hospital, not listening, not talking?
He turns again, too quickly, and for an instant is overcome by a rush of dizziness, then tears. Jabs at his eyes with his knuckles, cursing, and tries to blink the tears out of his eyes so he can see again. Headache is returning, it's intense, a taphammer landing front dead center, and for a second he can't see straight, and then suddenly he's gasping, getting his breath back, trying to ignore it. He can live with it until he's through with his business.
The gerbils. Cage is on the table, right here in front of you. What did you think that smell was?
The gerbils are dead. Collapsed across one another in a pitiful little heap. Maggie and Mouse, both dead.
You bastard—you've killed them. Innocent creatures, and you've let them starve
.
Tears stream down his cheeks. He didn't do it intentionally; he only got home yesterday, they were grilling him, there was nothing he could do. Blinking, he looks into the cage again. The least he can do is get them out of there and bury them, give them some dignity. His hand trembling, he fumbles at the cage latch, and finally gets it open.
One of the gerbils lifts its head and peers groggily at him. The thing's fur is all matted and it smells, but it's definitely weaving its head at him, blinking. "Maggie?" he croaks. "Mouse?" He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and reaches in and touches the animal on the nose. It sniffs weakly at his finger. "You wonderful little bastard," he whispers.
He checks the food and water dispensers; both are empty. He yanks the water bottle loose from its clip, hurries into the kitchen, and carefully fills it. By the time he gets back, the gerbil has staggered to the open cage door. He stoppers the bottle and refastens it to the cage, and then, reaching back in, picks up the gerbil and sets it down near the water spout.
The gerbil takes a step toward the spout, sniffs at the bead of water, and starts drinking. Hoshi watches in satisfaction and reaches through the bars to tickle it with his finger. One alive is better than none. But the other he'll have to get out of there. He's going to have to touch it, a dead thing. His hand trembles.
He can't do it.
For Mozy? Not even for Mozy? You were supposed to feed them, and one of them's dead now and the other's barely alive; can't you do this much for her, and bury her poor dead gerbil? Use your head.
He goes into the kitchen and switches on the light. The glare hits his eyes with shocking brightness. Counter and cupboards and stove shimmer before him like fire elementals, and he reels, vision suddenly going black. Struggling to stay upright, he covers his eyes with his hands, praying that it will stop. He starts to slide down the wall, his nostrils suddenly filled with a sickly odor, a smell of rotting vegetation. He pushes himself back upright, fighting for control. Work, muscles, he prays—hold the body steady.
As suddenly as it came, the smell is gone. Vision is returning, at first just a fuzzy grey field; then as he blinks, the stove hardens into focus. He looks around, frightened but relieved. Light and shadow are clear once more: the cupboards over the sink, bathroom door to the left. This is the worst attack ever.
God, what's happening, has my punishment started already?
You're losing grip. Remember what you're here for.
He grabs a handful of paper towels and hurries back to the living room. He bends over and squints into the cage, trying to see which gerbil to grab—only now
both
gerbils are near the water, or is he losing his mind, his eyes going for good? He presses his thumbs into the center of his forehead right over his eyebrows. He looks again.
The two animals are sucking greedily at the water; they were both just sleeping or passed out. They're tougher than he imagined. The second gerbil looks even rattier than the first, but who cares, it's alive, it's breathing.
"You beautiful little bastards," he whispers. He blinks again, rubs away a tear. Mozy, do you forgive me? Now can you forgive me?
* * *
The phone screen is full of snow, or maybe it's just his eyes. But it looks like it's working—so why doesn't she answer?
Maybe he got it mixed up. Maybe this is the wrong person altogether. No, he's sure her name was Mardi. Mozy talked about her enough, he ought to be able to remember the name. Besides, why else would it be on Mozy's quickdial list?
If she answers, what is he going to say?
The screen flickers, and a face appears. "Mozy?" says an anxious voice, the voice of someone looking at him now in bewilderment. "Who are you?" she says.
He gnaws his lower lip, tongue-tied.
"Who are you? Is this a joke? Why are you calling from Mozy's number?"
"Is—is your name Mardi?" he stammers.
She eyes him suspiciously. "Yes."
"I'm a friend of Mozy's. I'm—my name's Hoshi."
Mardi's mouth opens. "I've heard of you. You work with Mozy, right?"
"I—yes—well, we did," Hoshi says, struggling, really trying hard to get it right. "What I mean is—"
"Is Mozy there? Did she ask you to call me?"
"She didn't ask, exactly. No, she's not here." Hoshi bites his lip. Careful, now. "There's been—there's been a sort of accident. Out at work, I mean."