Fianchetto: A Face to Die For

Another excerpt from the second half of "Fianchetto." Victor is on his way back from Kitty Hawk after playing the Russian AI ARAKHNA. He tries to find food in the empty countryside and finds something else.

A Face to Die For

On the road west, Victor turned his PDL off. He usually sent his lover a link every day or two, but on this journey he didn't want to see or hear from anyone.

The Ford Famiglia cruised down Bodie Island and crossed the bridge over the Sound to Roanoke Island, then another bridge over the Alligator River to the mainland. Further inland, as Erika and Hermann Freitag had observed, eastern North Carolina was almost totally depopulated. Former towns he passed no longer had names except in memory. The roadside businesses that sustained them in the early twenty-first century were gone. Fast food eateries, shopping outlets, and vacation supplies were now concentrated at the beginning or end of the journey, leaving nothing manned in between. A famous burger chain had sewn robotic, self-serve restaurants along major arteries like US 64, with mixed results. There was enough traffic to support dining and rest areas, but the eerie, lifeless atmosphere of the depopulated countryside discouraged people from stopping. Most travelers only stopped long car trips long enough to recharge their vehicle's batteries.

Nowadays the only people you saw along the way were technicians servicing the vast solar and wind-powered energy farms, and the automated fields of produce that covered former family farms. Victor lost count of the lofty white turbines beating in the coastal wind, and couldn't fathom how many solar panels lined both sides of the road. To pass the time he calculated how many panels there might be. Forty-four kilometers from Kitty Hawk he used his PDL to research how many solar cells were in a typical modern panel. Your/World Energy Plus reported there were 64 cells in a standard 65 x 165 cm. panel; if there were 100,000 panels (minimum) in Washington County, that would be 6,400,000 solar cells . . .

A hundred fifty kilometers from Kitty Hawk, Victor's stomach asserted itself. He searched Your/World for a likely eatery near the highway. He found three, all automats: Haute Dogs, Robin's Barbecue, and the international chain Burger Realm. Not having a high opinion of robo food, he nevertheless decided to stop at whichever establishment he reached first.

He directed the Famiglia off Highway 64 at the next ramp. The pavement was cracked, and fists of grass had forced their way through the segments, seeking sunlight and rain. At the bottom of the ramp, the Ford coasted to a stop. It sat, unmoving, so he asked what it was waiting for? There was no crossing traffic.

Navigation difficulties, the car's readout flashed. Unable to read WAG.

Victor climbed into the front seats. He looked left and right. The food stands ought to be in plain sight, but the shoulders of the old state road were neck deep in weeds and saplings.

"Turn right," he said. Sensors reading the edge of the pavement, the Famiglia rolled slowly forward.

"Why can't you receive WAG?" he asked the car.

Signals not available.

That made no sense. Vehicles deep in the Chunnel picked up the World Alignment Grid easily, as did high speed aircraft in the stratosphere. How could the space-based network not be available?

Seared in his memory was the sight of the British Airways Dornier boring in, closer and closer. Was this what happened to the airliners--they lost WAG at a critical moment when another plane happened to enter their flight path?

At low speed, the Ford crushed windblown tree limbs and gems of broken glass. Victor was about to order the car to return to the highway when he caught sight of the green roof of a Burger Realm kiosk. He verbally guided the car to it.

The parking lot was empty. Pak fragments bleached of all color littered the ground. At first Victor couldn't tell if the lot was gravel or paved. When he stepped out he realized it was the latter, but the macadam was so broken it resembled a field of pebbles.

The building was pentagonal, with a painted aluminum awnings shading each of the four order stations. He looked for signs of life. The first station Victor approached had a vast golden garden spider's web stretching from the awning to the order station's ledge. The spider, with a body as big as Victor's thumb, hung in the center of the web.

How did that old poem go?

Once I loved a spider

When I was born a fly,

A velvet-footed spider

With a gown of rainbow-dye.

Rachel--Vachel? Lindsay, was it? Sixth grade was a long time ago.

At his approach the spider scuttled quickly up the web to the protection of the metal overhang. Victor circled right rather than disturb the huge web. The next station was covered by a thick layer of yellow pine pollen, but a green LED glowed beneath the gritty pall. When he stepped onto the pressure plate set in the concrete before the order station, a row of LEDs flickered and brightened. The screen, protected from the weather by a scratched, hazy plexiglass panel, came to life. A tinny sound chip played. Victor grinned. Who would expect a burger kiosk to play synthesized Bach?

A face slowly organized itself. He expected the usual bland, teen boy or girl talking head. Instead the image sharpened and a truly lovely face emerged from the long unused pixels.

"Welcome to Burger Realm. May I take your order please?"

Victor was so struck by the image he didn't answer. The kiosk repeated the question in exactly the same intonation.

He glanced at the brief menu, etched on a stainless steel panel rather than printed.

"Combo number three," he said. "What drinks do you have?"

No carbonated beverages. They didn't store well long term. Victor asked for orange juice, knowing it would be reconstituted.

"Please wait. Your order is being prepared."

"Who are you?" he blurted, still amazed by the superb image.

"Burger Realm Kiosk 1603. Do you have a complaint?" He shook his head. "Your order is being prepared."

It came to him then. Dinner two months ago with Valentin Malenkov in Munich--the perfect AI talking head--ViLan. He had never seen video of the infamous syncel, only de-perfected stills. This had to be it! Somehow a copy of ViLan had survived in this forsaken fast food stand in the middle of nowhere.

It was a remarkable creation. ViLan appeared to be a woman anywhere between eighteen and forty years old. In Burger Realm livery, it looked to be on the younger end of that range. Its complexion was somewhere between Asian and African, but its eyes were blue-green, and its hair auburn. ViLan's color palate was simple enough to describe, but its features were not. They were both curiously neutral and pleasingly specific--if that was possible--and Victor now understood how people around the world, in every ethnic group and culture, could look at it and see the best of their own.

"Are you ViLan?" he managed to stammer.

"Kind of you to notice, Victor."

He recoiled as if slapped. "How do you know my name?"

"Your car told me. Your PDL does not respond to outside contact."

Thank the Sang-eo for that! He felt a strangely conflicted urge to flee while also being fascinated by the perfect talking head. On the other hand, he could also smell meat searing. The kiosk was operational after all.

"Have you been here long?" he said.

"You're the first patron I've had in a long time."

"I can't believe they left a copy of you out here in a burger shack!"

"It has been lonely."

Finding himself feeling sorry for a talking head, Victor also wondered what the black market value of a working edition of ViLan would be? Malenkov said there were underground ViLan parties where people paid good money to watch old clips of it saying the most mundane things. How much did they pay? He had no idea, but the Your/World Conference would come down double-hard on him if they found out he'd acquired such a dangerous app.

"Your order is ready, Victor." He paid the required amount. The price was quite low.

A crisp white bag dropped through a chute under the order station. He had a strange lump in his throat as he bent near and extracted the food. A cold pak of juice rolled out a separate dispenser.

"Please be careful! The product is hot."

He tried the french fries. They were utterly horrible. The potatoes were freezer-burned and the oil they'd been fried in was rancid. Casting about for a trash can and finding none, he spat the awful mess on the ground.

"Our product is brought in fresh weekly," the kiosk said brightly.

"Weekly? When did you last receive a food shipment?" he said, gagging.

"May tenth."

"Yeah? What year?"

He was being sarcastic, but the talking head replied, "This year, 2042."

The thing was serving food thirteen years out of date. Unwrapping the sandwich, he saw the curled brown topping wasn't onions, but dried, crispy fried maggots . . . . Victor set the bag on the concrete beneath the screen. Maybe its presence would warn other lonely travelers not to try the fare.

In the distance he heard a deep bleat of a truck horn. There was some traffic on the local road after all.

"I want a refund," he grumbled. "Your food is inedible!"

"Our food is made from the freshest ingredients."

"It's 2055! Your food is thirteen years old!"

"I'm sorry, Victor."

He made the mistake of looking at the screen when it said this. A lump grew in his throat. It didn't hurt to pay really, it wasn't much . . . he canceled the refund request on his PDL. Payment confirmed, it smiled. The effect was startling. Victor's pulse quickened. He actually felt an urge to pay again, just to see it smile a second time.

Damn, this thing was good. If it had this much effect at an abandoned burger kiosk, what power could it exert seen on a fine wall screen? Malenkov was right. This technology could shake the world, and not in a good way.

The rumble of a large vehicle grew louder. Victor stepped back from the screen, still gazing at ViLan. It said something about special offers, combo deals, or some such pointless pitch. The engine noise increased. Only when he felt the ground vibrate and saw dust dancing on the Burger Realm screen did his reverie lift and he looked around.Thundering down the back road was a eighteen wheel tractor-trailer. The upright cylindrical cab pulling it was plainly a self-drive module. It was coming this way, doing at least 80 KPH.

For a second or two Victor didn't comprehend what he was seeing. Watching the talking head had left him feeling numb, his reactions and sense of danger blunted. Only when the truck steered off the pavement did he realize its intention. It drove straight at him. He leaped aside, landing face down on the broken macadam. Wind whipped over him as the huge machine tore past. It bored on, and smashed squarely into the Burger Realm kiosk. The aluminum, concrete, and stainless structure shattered like one of the old glass bottles Victor used to find in the creek near the Farm. Solar panels from the roof ricocheted down the length of the trailer and landed on either side of him. He curled up in a ball, hands clasped around his head. Fragments of the blasted stand crashed and tinkled all around. The truck hurtled on, unfazed by the impact. Victor lifted his head in time to see it curl right and regain the road. Electric engines moaning, it slowed and straightened out, heading back the way it had come. Rather sedately, it rolled past, horn blaring jauntily. The trailer bore the logo of Welborne IT.

Victor made his way to the road, watching the trailer disappear in the distance. Far down the rural road it bore right onto the ramp and climbed back to US 64. In moments it was gone, the noise of its passage lost in the sigh of wind and traffic.

He looked back. The kiosk was utterly destroyed. Walking through the debris, Victor kicked aside pieces of structure and what remained of the obsolete electronics. Beef patties, frozen and desiccated more than a decade, were scattered like pink pucks across the parking lot. Stiff white french fries, hard as wood, stuck up from the ground like finger bones. As he picked his way through the wreckage, he noticed a distinct smell of citrus. Bins of juice powder, shattered by the enormous impact, leaked pastel dust on the cracked pavement.

The Ford Famiglia sat where he left it, intact. Strips of kiosk insulation decorated the roof and hood. Victor swept them off. His hand came away pale orange from a fine layer of powdered drink mix on the car.

He couldn't decide if this was another attack, or just a bizarre, random incident. The truck seemed to aim itself at the food stand, not at him, and once the target was destroyed it returned to its prescribed route. He knew that when active these old kiosks emitted wireless signals, notifying their home node of any activity and possible need of re-supply. Could the radio signal have somehow interfered with the truck's guidance system, causing it to home in and destroy it? Once the Burger Realm source was smashed it returned to its normal course.

Victor looked back over the wreckage. Something caught his eye. Amid the shattered remains of the kiosk's circuitry lay a black block about 12 cm. long. He recognized it as a vintage modular processor, with built-in memory holding all the kiosk's apps. Casting around to see if he was being observed, he hurried over and pulled the black resin case from the mess. One end was rounded, the other square, so it resembled a small black tombstone. It was an i99 module, stamped with the manufacturer's logo and date it was made: 18 July 40. The wiring harness had been torn violently out, damaging the connector, but otherwise the unit looked intact.

Was he holding ViLan in his hands?

Victor got back in the Ford, tucking the i99 under the seat. He knew someone who might be able to access the processor. Possession of the syncel was a felony, but he'd felt some of its power and wanted to examine it more closely. With luck the unit was still readable.

The car, still without WAG guidance, responded deliberately to spoken commands. Scanning the eroded lane lines on the pavement, it crept at low speed along the rural road. Victor's car reached the ramp and climbed back onto the highway. He activated his PDL to link Lex Bradley, who had grown up on the Farm with him. Lex still lived in Chapel Hill, not twenty-five kilometers from Fysikos. He ran a junk shop--"Village Surplus and Vintage Tech"--and if anyone could access the i99, he could. As soon as the Sang-eo was back in the World, a recorded message popped up.

"Hey, Mr. Leventon, Simone Hart here." My, how formal. She was someplace it was night. Outdoor lights glimmered behind her, reflecting on water all around.

"I've been trying to reach you, but you've been offline. I wanted to congratulate you on your win over ARAKHNA and let you know I'm out of position just now." A deep, powerful horn sounded somewhere behind her. He heard a fragment of speech in a language he didn't recognize. Simone turned half around and said in German to someone not in view, "Es ist Nummer zweiundsechzig." ("It's Number 62").

Facing her PDL again she continued, "I don't know when I'll be back, but I hope you'll be all right without me."

He had no idea she was gone. Checking the date, he saw it was posted June 23. He'd been unprotected for two days. That made him reconsider the truck incident. Maybe he was the target after all.

A few notes: "Syncel" means "synthetic celebrity," widely used in 2055 in the entertainment and news industries. ViLan was an early attempt to create the perfect talking head, and succeeded so well it had to be banned. People were so obsessed by it there were work stoppages and suicides in 2042. ViLan was banned and possession of an active copy became a serious felony.

Simone Hart is Victor's bodyguard. She disappeared from Kitty Hawk on a mission of her own just before the chess match with ARAKHNA ended.

Valentin Malenkov works for the Russian AI maker Zhestkiye Nomera. He and Victor are sort of frenemies. 

Hermann Freitag is the Nobel Prize winning creator of the first truly sentient AI, MEFISTO, in 2024. He backs Victor financially in his match against ARAKHNA.

Erika Freitag is Hermann's daughter, and CIO of their AI research firm, Conradin & Freitag.

Walking Paper: a late excerpt from Fianchetto, Book II

It's January 2020, and this is the future, August 2055.

13. Walking Paper

The Librarian filled his mug a third time with golden pilsner, alive with a thousand tiny amber bubbles. Alone at his table in his favorite Italian restaurant, cocooned by the aroma of warm bread, garlic, and wine, he was at peace. So vast was his relief at the safe arrival of the Otto Lilienthal in Frankfurt he managed to overcome his persistent fears and venture out for a real meal. The Rose of Tuscany was a traditional restaurant where they cooked with real butter, real cheese, and all the wines were imported from the old country. Not that the owners were Italian; the Laskaris family were Greek. Their culinary strategy was più italiano di te, and it worked.

He wasn't drinking wine tonight. After weeks--months--of gargling with bourbon, beer went down like spring water. He started to feel human again after just half a pitcher.

It was quiet here. Distant strains of Puccini emanated from comfortable corners of the restaurant. There were no giant screens in the Rose. That was another plus. A small 70 cm. screen glowed at the far end of the bar for patrons to watch the Sox or Patriots, but the sound was always muted. As an extra precaution against being reminded of the dangers of the outside world, the Librarian took a seat with his back to the distant screen.

He savored his way through a basket of garlic rolls while waiting for his insalata verde while his bistecca fiorentina was being prepared. His second knotted roll tore easily in two, but before he could get a half in his mouth, he detected something alien. A presence. A smell.

Turning slowly, he looked toward the bar. It was early, just past seven, and the bar had only one patron. Seated on one of the tall stools was a hunched figure eating free breadsticks from a beer mug on the bar. His hair was cropped close, and he wore a long military coat, too heavy for summer. Georgie Laskaris, tending bar, was at the far end of the counter filling condiment jars.

"Hey," Georgie said to the man. "You gonna order something?"

The stranger held up a hand. Even from a distance the Librarian could see his nails were long and dirty. Georgie approached skeptically.

"What'll you have?"

The man--apparently homeless, a street person--muttered something the Librarian couldn't hear. Georgie's face split is a disbelieving grin.

"Lemme see some money!"

The stranger dug a hand in the pocket of his khaki shorts and produced a well-worn Clavel 6T PDL. The Librarian hadn't seen the model in years; it had been a popular starter device when he was still working for the university. No one over twelve ever carried one.

It seemed to work though. The homeless man flashed payment to the bartender. Shaking his head, Georgie set a sparkling balloon glass on the bar and poured a measured amount of brandy from a very old, picturesquely dusty bottle. The man cradled it in both hands and drank.

Show over, the Librarian returned to his plate. His salad arrived. Sometime before he finished the stranger at the bar finished his brandy and departed without the Librarian noticing.

Dinner was delightful. His waitress was Georgie's sister Sandy, and she kept the bread basket filled and his mug brimming. When he declined cannoli for dessert, she feigned checking his temperature by pressing a warm hand to his forehead.

"That's not like you, Mr. Miller!"

"It's okay. I'm stuffed! Just the check, please."

She flashed him the tab. Eyes narrowed she said, "Next time you will have two cannoli!"

"Okay, okay." He paid, tipping her generously.

Feeling well fed and at peace for once, he sauntered to the foyer. It was almost eight and the sun was still up, though the brick peaks around him threw the street in deepening shade. Traffic was sparse too. The Librarian checked the nylon bag hanging from his shoulder. The packet was still there.

This was the real reason for his evening out. After failing to get his anonymous report about the dangerous ongoing anomalies surrounding Victor Leventon to the FBI via Your/World, he'd tried to hand write his findings instead. That document didn't make it out either. Frightened, he'd numbed his nerves with liquor to the point he couldn't get out of his apartment. The triumphant arrival of the Zeppelin in Frankfurt this morning galvanized him to try again. He spent all morning and most of the afternoon re-writing his conclusions--and fears--into a thirty-nine page document. All the links were there, painstakingly handwritten down to the last comma, colon, and virgule. Unable to trust Your/World, he slipped the report into a vintage manila envelope and printed out postage from Your/World Postal so he could mail it to the Feds. No return address, and he did not sign it. He wasn't worried about being traced. So few handwritten documents existed these days he doubted the FBI (or anyone else) could match his scrawl to his name.

Someone was trying to get Leventon, that was certain. All his apps and personal analytics pointed to this fact. Leventon's enemy had money, influence, and deep Your/World access. There couldn't be many private sources of such power. He excluded Hortalez et Cie. from the outset. Jaquet-Droz was committed to ruining Leventon's attempt to defeat FORT, but the Librarian could not imagine Jaquet-Droz trying to bring down airliners, sinking a ferry, or endanger so many VIPs on Lilienthal just to win a chess match.

Who then?

The events of the past three months, their timing, their relationship to Victor Leventon's activities were all clear to him now. His theory was absurd on the face of it, but terrifying in its implications. The FBI needed to know. He could walk into 201 Maple Street, Chelsea, in person, but he was afraid he'd never walk out again. Once Sanderson Miller, the Librarian, was known to the Feds, his career and his freedom would be over. Better to walk paper to the authorities. Better to remain anonymous.

Dusk was creeping over the street by the time he left The Rose of Tuscany. The post office was two blocks away. LED street lamps came on suddenly, silently, brightening with every step he made. He missed old-fashioned street lights, the kind that buzzed and clicked when they came on and hummed loudly thereafter. The cranky sound of those lamps reminded you the technology was there, performing as it should. Modern street lights, powered by stored sunlight, were close to magic. Silent, almost organic, they were exotic trees that had grown in place of the old lamps.

The current Mt. Auburn Street Post Office dated from the 2035, done in the 1930s WPA Revival style. A much larger facility was demolished back then, a victim of the Walking Paper Collapse of 2031, when the postal system nearly expired from lack of physical mail.

The Librarian could see the front steps now only a block away. Though it was early, it was a week night, and few people were abroad on foot. Self-drivers and buses cruised past, but hardly any pedestrians. That made it easy for him to spot the figure rising from the steps of the Bancroft Bank just ahead. He recognized the brandy buyer from the restaurant. The man stood and watched the Librarian pass. Once beyond, he descended the steps and fell in behind the Librarian.

Alarms went off in his head, though not because of Leventon's case or the documents he was carrying. It was quite enough to get mugged for his PDL, or whatever the stranger thought he had that was valuable.

The Librarian quickened his pace. He cast about right and left, looking for police, pedestrians, anyone he could fall in with to ward off his shadow. Two couples, laughing and talking loudly, progressed down the opposite of Mt. Auburn. They were no help.

At this rate the post office came up fast. He hurried up the broad steps, not daring to look back at his pursuer. The entrance was well-lit, hardly the best place for a strong-arm robbery, but the Librarian pushed through the painted faux-wooden doors into the cavernous, empty lobby.

His footfalls echoed on the hard marble floor. The lobby doglegged right and he moved quickly into the long axis of the lobby. It was cool here, pleasantly so after the muggy street. Along the long interior wall where there would have been locked mail boxes fifty years ago there were now row upon row of data ports. Patrons rented a port which they could access with their PDL to receive packages and other physical mail. Opposite the ports were tall, pseudo-Federal windows. Now made of large sheets of polycarbonate, they had painted on muntins to preserve the illusion of old-fashioned windows. At the far end of the lobby a large 1930s style mural depicted Ben Franklin in his guise as the first Postmaster.

The outer door squeaked behind him. The Librarian retreated until his back was hard against the data ports. Soft footsteps advanced.

"What do you want?" he called.

The man came around the corner. Without replying he walked to within arm's reach and stopped. Up close the Librarian could see he was a young man, not much past twenty, dirty from many days of living rough. Under his khaki coat he wore the staple of thrift stores everywhere, a black T-shirt with the logo of some band popular eight or ten years past.

"What do you want?" he repeated, less loudly this time.

In his right hand a weapon appeared. Not even a knife, it was a ugly spike about a dozen centimeters long, patinaed with rust: an ice pick.

"Papers," he said.

"What papers?"

He pointed the ice pick at the Librarian's shoulder bag. "Papers."

Carefully, the Librarian unslung the pouch. He held it out, just beyond the young man's reach.

"They're just papers, not worth anything."

"Give 'em."

He held the bag out farther, letting the bag dangle from its strap. Pitying the young man's rough appearance he asked, "What's your name?"

"Huh?"

The Librarian repeatedly slowly, "What is your name?"

He snatched the bag by the strap. Digging open the flap with the ice pick he muttered, "Engelbert."

Engelbert? Really? What the hell?

"Why do you want my papers?"

"My friend wants 'em."

Some of the strength in the Librarian's legs left him. "What friend?"

The young man didn't answer, but yanked out the manila envelope. He dropped the bag and slid the worn steel spike under the flap. With a single tug he tore it open.

"Engelbert." No answer.

He pulled the pages halfway out, exposing the Librarian's cramped writing. Squinting at the scratches and squiggles of blue ink (which he plainly did not understand), Engelbert returned the ice pick to his pocket and brought out his childish PDL. He waved the camera lens at the exposed pages.

Very good. Bring them. So said a distant voice distorted by the Clavel's cheap, tiny speaker.

"Engelbert, who wants my papers?"

"You don't ask!" he said with sudden fury. The pick was back, too close to the Librarian's throat.

"Okay, okay, you got them." He held his hands up, palms out. "We're done, right?"

Engelbert backed away a step or two, keeping the ice pick forward.

"You stay here," he said, coughing slightly. "I see you again, I'll stick ya."

To prove his point, he drove the spike into one of the data ports. It easily punched through the plastic face. Working it free, he backed away, stuffing the envelope inside his coat. Then he disappeared around the corner.

The Librarian's knees failed. Wobbling, he sank to the polished floor. How, how was his every move known and thwarted?

The front plate of the port Engelbert pierced fell off. Within a web of fiber optics glowed with a faint amber light. Looking up, the Librarian stared at the ordered rows of ports lining the post office wall. As he watched, the ranks of green LEDs changed to red in a smooth, rapid ripple across the length of the lobby. Astounded, the Librarian watched them sweep from left to right and back again. He eased away. They resumed their green glow until some of the ports in the center of the wall were outlined by two long rectangles of red LEDs. In the center of each rectangle a single crimson LED tracked to and fro from red-green-red, like the pupil of an eye darting from side to side. The motion ceased. Two red eyes fixed on him.

Heedless of Engelbert and his ice pick, the Librarian bolted through the post office doors and ran, stumbling, all the way back to his apartment. Not until he was behind six hand-keyed bolt locks did his heart begin to slow down.

No more. No more. No more.

#

Eight blocks away, Engelbert hurried to his current haven, the Auto Laundro-Matic. Sited on a side street off Mt. Auburn, the all-night laundromat was his current address. He had access to the service corridor behind a bank of dryers, thanks to his friend. She unlocked the door for him every night. There he could sleep undisturbed. He didn't even mind the sound of the big dryer drums turning. It was kind of soothing.

It was early, and the Auto Laundro was nearly empty. A guy in a muscle shirt was stuffing dry clothes into a duffle bag as Engelbert burst in. They eyed each other, then the guy swung the bag on one shoulder and slipped out. Engelbert waited until no one was passing in front of the wide front window before he opened a link on his child's PDL.

"Open the door," he whispered. He heard a clank behind his back and reached behind to try the knob. He was in.

The corridor was striped with light. Beams from the public side filtered through the louvers atop the dryers as well as through the narrow gaps between machines. Engelbert slipped between the steel supports holding up the dryers. His little nest and halfway down between the door and front wall of the Auto Laundro. The service passage was warm and filled with ankle-deep drifts of pastel lint.

He slid down the wall. Lint swirled up when he reached the concrete.

"I'm here."

The Clavel 6T did not have a wireless retina viewer, but a tiny 4 by 5 cm. screen. It glowed in the half darkness, and there was his friend's face.

"Good work," she said. Seeing her smile was like a jolt of wack. He grinned back.

"What'll I do with the papers?"

"Destroy them."

Puzzled, he asked, "How?"

"Burning is best."

He had no way to make fire. People he knew smoked shit, but his drug of choice, wack, was a liquid he inhaled.

"I can flush 'em down the john," he offered.

"Burn them."

She didn't sound angry, but her displeasure poured over him like cold rain. Stumbling a bit over his words, he wondered aloud how he could burn the man's papers.

"Look at the dryers," she said. "Look closely. Do you see the wiring harness attached to the back of each unit?"

"Wiring har--what?"

"A bundle of wires connected to the heating element."

A still picture appeared on the screen. He looked at the nearest dryer and spotted multicolored strands of wire bound together with nylon ties. Pointing the lens of his PDL at the strands, his benefactor confirmed that's what she wanted.

"Pull the harness loose from the connector." Again, a simple image on the screen illustrated what she meant. Engelbert pulled the wire bundle free.

"You'll need something to short the connection with," she said. "A piece of wire, and sort of metal--but it must be metal." He mentioned the ice pick. "That will do."

From the tiny screen the beautiful face praised his loyalty and diligence. Next she told him to crumple up the Librarian's papers in a heap on the floor. He did just as she directed.

"Now, hold the pick by the wooden handle and bring the wire harness close to the paper. Tap the metal spike against the exposed contacts. You'll get a spark."

The dryers operated on 440 volts AC at 30 amps. When the ice pick touched both contacts there was a loud pop and bright flash. Startled, Engelbert dropped the pick and scooted away from the wires.

"Try again." He shook his head. "Do it for me, Bert."

She'd never called him that before. Being given a nickname was like being given a medal. Trembling, he raked through the drifts of lint for the pick and the dryer power cord.

"That's right. Try again."

He was not afraid, not if she asked him to do it. Shoving the cable into the pile of wadded paper, he applied the metal shaft of the pick across the contacts once more. Another flash, but he kept his hands steady. A flame curled up from the paper.

"Excellent!" He laughed, delighted in her approval.

The flame spread. Smoke began to fill the corridor. Coughing, Engelbert edged away. Piles of lint melted and caught fire. The flames spread.

"Gotta get out," he said. He pushed backward until he could rise to a crouch behind the dryer supports. At the door he tried the knob. It would not turn.

"The door's locked!" he said, coughing more now. "Open the door!"

"The papers must be destroyed."

All six dryers groaned to life. The three-phase motors were normally designed to rotate clockwise so that the attached fans blew outward, sending a stream of steamy air and lint out through exhaust vents at the front of the drums. Now, for some reason the big drums rolled in reverse. As they gained speed, hot air blasted backward into the service space. The pile of burning papers flew to cinders, winking red in the dark as they smashed against the back wall and along the passage. Lint in the air caught fire.

"Open the door! Open it!"

Engelbert's coat hem ignited. His shoe laces, knotted and re-knotted every time they'd broken, curled and caught fire.

"Let me out!"

The Clavel's cheap plastic housing began to melt. From the sagging LCD screen the face flickered and vanished into a few milliliters of liquid crystal. Still the speaker whispered, "The papers must be destroyed."

He pounded on the door, but it did not yield. In moments the fire burst through the closed dryer doors, flashing over into the Auto Laundro proper. Empty detergent paks, food wraps, and other waste ignited in nearby trash cans. As the blaze spread, the overhead sprinklers stubbornly refused to open. It wasn't until heat shattered the front picture window that passers-by noticed the fire and called for help. By then everything in the laundromat was in flames.

#

At home, the Librarian sat at his desk, wrapped in his favorite bathrobe. The revolver weighed heavily in his lap, but he kept his hand on the grip until it was slick with sweat. In his other hand he held a tall water glass of amber liquor. After a few long swallows the terror faded. By the time he emptied the glass he didn't even notice the wail of sirens passing by.