From: atmpas@vax.oxford.ac.uk
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: The Inverse Square Law : One to Seven
Date: 28 Aug 92 06:48:18 GMT
Organization: Oxford University VAX 6620


			 The Inverse Square Law
			 ======================  


	What follows is a couple of bits of glossary, originally in part four,
followed by the whole thing.


	The Mujina Foundation Empathic Dual Enhancer, Mark 24.3 and 24.3a
	
	2.01  Basic Layout and Orientation

	Two enclosed couches are provided, in the head-to-head configuration,
and the connecting cultured nerve tissue is of the highest quality, designed to
minimise unwanted feedback while giving the operator maximum finesse,
receptivity and subject response. 

	The nutrient tank accepts Mujina solution 7, and - due to improvements
in efficiency - is good for one week maintenance or fourty-eight hours active
use.  The temperature equalisation tolerance has been increased to a range of
thirty Kelvin, and as a result, tissue restructuring is not expected to occur
during normal use.  The life of the device is therefore increased to the
geriatric limit of the living component, namely fifteen to twenty years if
regular maintenance is carried out. 

	More powerful by far than a backstreet 'mind moulder', the Mark 24.3
EDE will be a joy for the operating empath to use.  Compare the two millisecond
response time or the 0.973 coupling coefficient to your previous model, and we
are sure you and your psychic employees will agree that the Mark 24.3
represents a quantum leap in empathic technology. 

	From the moment the machine is activated, the operator is completely
free to probe the most deeply hidden emotions of the subject, and to bring
about appropriate, and permanent, changes by issuing gentle rewards and
punishments.  The Model 24.3a includes aural and visual stimulus control to
allow problems of a more intellectual nature to be handled more precisely. 

	WARNING:  THIS DEVICE IS SOLD SOLELY FOR EDUCATIONAL AND PSYCHIATRIC
USE.  USE FOR ANY OTHER PURPOSE, INCLUDING INTERROGATION AND INDOCTRINATION
IS EXPLICITLY FORBIDDEN IN THE TERRITORY OF ALL COUNTRIES AND ORGANISATIONS
WHICH ARE SIGNATORIES TO THE TREATY OF MUNICH, 2089.

			************************  
	

	Dictionary of Slang and Jargon, 2096 update.

	Empath, n.  

	1) The most common kind of psychic, one who experiences the emotions of
	others.  With training and effort, empaths can influence the emotions of
	others in many ways, and control their own emotions.

	2) (vulg.)  A serial killer, anyone who is violently insane, disruptive
	or undesirable person.  From assumed tendancies of (1) above.

	Blocker, n.

	1) A psychic who subconsciously uses their talent to suppress their
	innate response to the emotions of others, and must therefore mimic this
	intellectually.  Blockers also limit and reduce their own emotions.

	2) A variety of drug, used by empaths (q.v.) to supress their abilities
	at need, such as in large crowds or while sleeping in the vicinity of 
	other humans.

	D.I., n.

	Corporate jargon, 'Destructive Interrogation', one carried out 
	without regard to the final condition of the subject.  Theoretically
	illegal.

	Chi, n. (vulg)

	1)  A psychic (who must, by law, carry brands in the shape of the
	Greek letter Chi on forehead and hands.  More specifically, an empath.
	(q.v., both meanings)

	2)  A person with no legal rights, anyone not legally human.

			************************

			 The Inverse Square Law
			 ======================  

	Paradise is in the south-west Pacific, anchored on the Lord Howe rise,
off the east coast of Australia.

			************************  

	The bubble was filled with the scent of rosemary.  The air conditioning
raised just enough breeze, and taped crickets chirped in the background.  Mark
could almost imagine that he was a boy again, lying in the herb garden in
Madrid.  Only the stars, and the gentle rocking of the bubble stood against the
feeling.  They were instantly forgettable. 

	He settled back into the cocoon of solitude and fell asleep. 

	In the morning, the tropical sun blazed through the roof of the bubble,
and they fed him a carefully chosen breakfast through the dumb waiter.  He
tried to forget all the reasons for it.  When he'd finished the rest, he took
the plate of fresh pineapple over to the wall of the bubble and settled back
into the padding to enjoy it, letting the juice dribble over his chin and on to
his chest. 

	He bit into the second piece and shuddered, just managing to spit it
out.  The bubble swam and the sun knifed down at him, stabbing in viciously. He
curled into a ball with a sharp scream, feeling the floor grab at him,
breathing fast.  The pineapple juice on his chest trickled horribly downward. 

	After a few minutes it stopped.  He got up and punched the intercom
button.  The response was a sweetly feminine computerised voice. 

	'Hello Mark, I'm Paradise Eliza.  I'm afraid the coordinator is busy at
the moment, but if you'd like to talk to me, then I'm sure I can help you deal
with your problem.' 

	'No you can't, you've got less sensitivity than a blocker on rainbow
and you haven't the faintest idea about anything that happens outside your
bloody constructive entertainment programs.' 

	'You're angry.  I can understand that...' 

	'No you can't, you're a machine you bloody idiot, get me the
coordinator!' 

	'...and I don't mind you insulting me if you feel that will help, but
I'd rather hear what you're really angry about.  I'm sure the coordinator
is...' 

	The voice paused with a click, and then the coordinator started.  He
was human, but his voice sounded studied and artificial, even to Mark. 

	'... with you now.  I'm sorry about that, umm, Mark, but I was talking
to someone else.' 

	Mark paused to try to work out what the coordinator's tone meant, then
gave up.  He was starting to calm down. 

	'Tell me what happened or you'll be talking to Personnel Monitoring by
the afternoon.  I can't take this kind of lunacy with all these ABs in my
system.  And you can turn the Happymakers off, too.  Don't think I can't feel
them.' 

	'Mark, we had a minor emergency in the next bubble, that's all.  It's
under control.  I can't tell you any more, and the Tranquillity Units are just
normal procedure under the circumstances.  I expect we'll be able to deactivate
them soon.' 

	Mark tried hard, but it was impossible to stay angry with the
Happymakers gurgling away behind the soft walls of the bubble.  When he started
to feel uncomfortable an hour later, he realised they'd been turned off.  After
that, he tried different piped sounds and smells for a few hours, but couldn't
settle again, even with the herb garden set up.  For once, he was relieved when
Dr. Taylor called for him. 

			************************  

	She sent the files in through the dumb waiter and briefed him over the
intercom while they waited for the ABs to wear off.  It felt good to get the
fog out of his head. 

	'It's a simple enough job, Mark.  There's a computer operator in the
Warsaw branch who's getting close to one of the contract scientists, a
biochemical engineer by the name of Dupont.  Fair enough, but one of our people
remembered seeing her around in the J-Corp branch, and it doesn't track in our
records.' 

	'So what does Warsaw want us for, doctor?  If they want to interrogate
her, they've got their own people.' 

	'Warsaw doesn't as far as I can tell.  This is straight from New Dehli,
and they haven't told me why.  I would guess that they either have some rumours
about Dupont, or they think there's something funny in Warsaw.  Either way,
they want someone they feel they can trust.' 

	'I'll have to deal with that feeling next time I'm around New Dehli.
I've still got Bangkok kicking around in my head, and then there was the
coordinator and his blasted "minor emergency".  Did they tell you about that?' 

	'I caught something about it over lunch.  A construct, I think.  Are
you all right?' 

	'I'll live.  They were only in the next bubble.  This woman - does
Dehli want a full DI done?' 

	'Yes.  I'm sorry Mark.' 

	'You're sorry, Doctor Taylor?  What's she going to be?' 




	End first section.

			************************  

	It takes eight hours for ABs to wear off.  They brought him out to the
plane after six, when the fog was clearing enough to let him near other people.
He felt stronger for the rest, but there was still a raw edge left somewhere
inside. 

	It was a small plane, blazing in the green and orange company livery
under the sunshine.  The woman they sent in the buggy to take him over seemed
scarcely human in the heat haze, and her bright, blank eyes didn't make it any
better.  He told her he preferred to walk, and she made off, running the buggy
hard over the asphalt. 

	Five minutes walk in the runway oven helped him prepare himself for the
plane.  He watched the pilot staring fixedly at him through the window, not
even making a polite pretence of checking instruments. 

	Dr. Taylor was in the back sleeping off jet lag, and he was glad to sit
up front near the cockpit, looking down over the beehive grid of bubbles on
their watery bed.  As they left Paradise behind, he found himself relaxing,
then, after a few minutes, tensing up again.  The co-pilot came out and
approached him warily, so he turned round to face the man, folding his arms. 

	'Would you like a drink or something to eat... sir?' 

	Mark felt glad that the man was keeping his distance.  He tried to
smile through the nerves. 

	'Some water, please.  Alcohol doesn't do me any good.' 

	The co-pilot went to get the water and Mark relaxed again, turning back
to the window.  The reflected face was lined and thin, with rapidly greying
hair cut very short.  It wasn't much of a face.  Ten years older than it should
have been, and it had never been able to compete with the white plastic chi
stamped on its forehead.  The sunlight outside was almost blinding. 

			************************  

	He awoke blank and unconnected.  Dr. Taylor was eating breakfast at a
table opposite, and he watched her dispassionately for a while.  The blockers
in the sleeping pills lingered for a time, and it was interesting to watch his
idea of her shift as they wore off. 

	At first, she was just a random collection of moving parts, like an
avalanche or trees in a storm, all moving independently and without purpose.
Gradually, she became an increasingly complex machine, and he found himself,
still half asleep, congratulating the engineer.  A minute or two later, he was
watching an animal, fastidious as a cat, wipe its lips and clear the plate
away. It was almost impossible to accept the book that she picked up, because
even though she was still Dr. Taylor, and he knew it, his mind refused to
accept her humanity while the wall of blockers still stood between them. 

	The stage after animal was the worst.  She became a beast-woman, a
caricature of humanity, soulless and implacable.  Confused emotional static
rolled over him, fear and lust, rage and pity.  One moment she seemed an animal
aping humanity, an agent somehow slipped into society.  The next she was a
degraded woman, her mind destroyed in some vile experiment. 

	At last she was just a person, sitting on the other side of the cabin,
and he could let himself relax.  He studied her for a while, enjoying the
separation, until the last of the blockers wore off.  The familiar unity washed
over him, shattering the barriers, and he felt her well fed contentment beside
his own hunger, and her own nervousness beside his. 

	'Good morning Dr. Taylor.  You could have got a less bigoted crew, but
at least they serve a good breakfast.' 

			************************  

	Warsaw was an odd city.  All reason for its existence had gone, since
neither Poland nor the Vistula - apart from a stream that ran for about six
months of the year - existed any more.  And yet it was still there and still a
city, for all that there were no people to speak of in the countryside around
it.  It survived by providing cheap labour for the megacorps, and where the
megacorps were, Third Eye would be as well, eyeing up the scraps from the
table. 

	Adam Weissman was at the airport to meet them, immaculate in his white
suit and Panama hat.  Weissman - any blocker, really - always unnerved Mark. It
was like watching Dr. Taylor as a piece of precision robotics that morning,
except that Weissman would never change.  No more than the faintest flicker
would ever get out from behind the black brand on his forehead. 

	Weissman greeted Dr. Taylor with a perfect smile. 

	'Good morning doctor.  I hope that you had a pleasant journey.' 

	'It was okay, thanks Adam.' 

	Adam drove them back to the company building through a vague Warsaw
haze of hunger and discomfort.  Mark watched them from the back seat.  Weissman
was practising his charm on Dr. Taylor, and she - for all her psychological
training - was charmed, a kind of warm, happy feeling in the stomach.  Mark
shut it out as best he could. 

			************************  

	Once he'd seen Adam off to the airport to get Mark and the doctor,
Malone got everything ready to get the girl.  It should have been done before,
but he felt better without Adam looking on.  He'd seen too many blockers freak
to feel safe around them. 

	Malone always wrote down everything he needed and checked it all three
times, in order.  He never felt quite right until he'd done that. 

	First, the fritzers.  Left pocket Mark, right pocket Adam.  Kevlar
vest, personnel monitoring ID, and stimulant patches.  Scanner and pistol - and
the shoulder holster.  Tranq, AP and HE for the pistol.  A simple job really -
basic equipment plus the scanner.  On balance, he decided to include the
mini-manual for the scanner, since he'd only got the thing that week. 

	He called in the interpreter and left. 

	It was hot on the way to the building.  Malone whistled 'See that Laser
Girl' to keep his nerves down.  The gun helped too. 

	He went straight to the head of the queue in reception.  The
receptionist started to protest in Polish, so he opened up his ID and glared. 

	'English.  Oder Deutsch.  Ou Francais.  Fast!  Vite!  Schnell!' 

	The ID did the trick.  It always made Malone feel good to watch someone
go to jelly like that.  The interpreter tried to intervene, but Malone stopped
her with another glare. 

	He signed himself in with a flourish.  J. Malone, Personnel Monitoring,
to see Maria Jaruzelska in the computer pool.  He considered the 'purpose of
business' slot for a few moments and decided to leave it a nice, ominous blank.

	The lift spouted Arabic pop music at him on the way up to the pool. He
had the interpreter tell it to play some American stuff, and it cut into the
latest hit parade, which was worse.  Once they'd reached the floor, he checked
the scanner.  The interpreter jumped out of her skin when he ran her up and
down with it.  It found the homer in his shoe, the tie wire and the fritzers,
so he reckoned it was working.  Just before they went in, he decided to put on
his mirror shades, for that extra something. 

	The computer pool was a low level place.  The people were just ordinary
programmers putting together code blocks, usually without knowing what they
were for.  The room was a subdued orange, well lit with neon, and clean. 
Malone always liked to think of computer poolers as intelligent but not bright
- just little people doing little jobs for a little more than most of their
friends made.  A young man looked up at them and Malone looked back for a
while, examining the red honeycomb craze across the bare scalp.  The programmer
shivered and went back to the limited matrix Third Eye set up for its poolers. 

	'Call Maria out here.  Tell her to collect her things and come into the
corridor.' 

	The interpreter jabbered for a while, and a girl got up.  She was quite
pretty - prettier than a Warsaw pooler can afford, Malone thought - and she
didn't look scared.  She must be good.  He went over to 'help' her get her
things out of the locker, just in case she had a gun, though he knew she was
too bright for that. 

	She had thin, fair hair that came down in two neat plaits on either
side of her face, and perfect pale skin without a hint of tan or freckles.
Expensive skin.  Only her eyes showed the red, watery rims of Northern poverty.
She didn't have much in the locker: gloves, ventilated allcover and wide
brimmed hat. 

	Out in the corridor, he went over her with the scanner.  She asked the
interpreter what it was and who he was.  The red rimmed eyes seemed scared for
the first time.  She was clean as a whistle, which made Malone sure.  Everyone
had something on them. 

	End part three here.

			************************  

	When they got back to the building, Malone was still out.  Dr. Taylor
let them in to the floor Third Eye had allocated to them. 

	Mark stepped inside and looked around.  The layout was bitterly
familiar.  Four chairs, one bolted to the ground, and a table.  A rack of high
powered lights and one of medical instruments.  A portable colour cell, still
half in pink and yellow pieces.  And the mind moulder, lying in the shadow of
its nutrient tank like a double sarcophagus. 

	He felt sick for a moment, and then he sent himself spinning back into
the herb garden, filled with a child's delight in the colourful world - his own
delight from two decades ago.  He stepped round the mind moulder to stare out
of the window over the patchwork of old town and skyscrapers.  He noticed that
it was double-glazed - soundproof - with the joy of a small boy finding a
grasshopper chirping in a bed of sweet thyme. 

	Dr. Taylor came up behind him as Adam set to work finishing the colour
cell.  Mark watched their reflections in the glass like coloured stones in the
rockery.  Then the doctor's anxiety intruded on his mind, making a glaring
contrast with the playfulness.  He turned, half smiling. 

	'Are you all right, Mark?  You seemed upset for a moment.' 

	'I'm fine, Dr. Taylor.  Just screening off a few bad memories.' 

	The doctor's nerves were still there, jangling.  He took a deep breath
and embraced them, absorbing them until his own teeth almost started to
chatter, and then belly flopped back into the pungent aromas of the herb
garden.  She smiled and turned away, walking back over towards Adam. 

	'Just as long as you feel okay.  Oh, I almost forgot.  You'd better
read through the manual for the moulder.  They brought out a new model while
you were in Paradise.  Have fun.' 

	She went over to read her book, some kind of bright pulpy looking
thing. Mark sat down on the edge of the moulder and picked up the manual.  He
was a few minutes into the 'debriefing procedures' section when she got up
suddenly and threw down the book. 

	'Mark!  Don't do that again, you manipulative bastard!  I don't
appreciate being 'cheered up' whenever you happen to think I need it!' 

	Mark looked up and tried to smile disarmingly.  The wave of anger was
strong enough to make a brief appearance in the lazy heat of the herb garden,
and his voice was slightly strained as he apologised. 

	'I'm sorry, Doctor.  Your nerves were upsetting me.' 

	'Look, Mark.  Just tell me to sit on the other side of the room next
time.  Okay?' 

	'Yes, Doctor.  I'll try to remember.' 

	In the moments that followed, both of them looked over at Adam, who was
busily finishing the cell.  Although they each tried to decide what he thought
of the incident, the blocker's face was as inscrutable as his shielded soul. 

			************************  

	While he walked the girl back through the building, Malone decided on
the course of the interrogation.  The first thing would be to leave her in the
colour cell - probably pink - for a few hours to soften her up, followed by a
few hours of verbal interrogation from Adam.  Or perhaps James, he thought,
grimacing, though I'll have to watch him.  The good doctor is always a bit slow
to provide her drugs, but given an hour or two I can probably get something out
of her. 

	He looked after the girl admiringly.  He knew that she wouldn't crack -
she was much too good for that, especially without full access to the drugs.
She was probably condition-trained and getting into her role already.  So they
would have to put her in the moulder.  Give that blasted empath something to
do. 

	Her shoes were shiny and black, with high heels.  Malone guessed at
Paris style, but a year or two old.  They fitted the pattern, but it was odd
that she should be wearing out of date fashion shoes. 

			************************

	Mark had almost finished reading the 'debriefing instructions' when
Malone came back with Maria.  While they were still coming down the corridor, a
strange mixture of Malone's lazy cynicism and hard edged fear sloshed and
sliced into the outside of his mind.  Mark, of course, was still cushioned in
the safety of sage and Little Dorrit.  He wouldn't be able to keep up the
doublethink forever, but he hoped that it would last until the DI was over. 

	He wasn't really prepared for the strange bundle Malone ushered in to 
the room.  Maria Jaruzelska was a mess of contradictions.  Cheap clothes were
married with expensive shoes, and blaze of hard white fear combined with a
face and posture that - even to an empath - seemed the very model of precise
composure.  Her eyes scanned the room taking in first Adam's, and then his own
brands with twin spikes of terror.  Mark found his legs carrying him jerkily to
the far corner of the room where he cowered, shivering, against the wall.

	'_That_ scared, Maria?  You've given our empath quite a fit.  I'm sure 
he'll want a payback later.  Adam, I'm glad you've set up the colour cell so
nicely for Maria.  Open it up please.'  Malone flashed Mark a mocking smile as
Adam methodically popped the bolts on the cell.

	Adam stared fixedly at Maria and fired out a few words in speed learn
Polish.  She insulted him, and he repeated the order with a menacing step 
forward.  Relenting, she took off her shoes and glasses and allowed herself to
be locked in.

	'Set the cell to pink, Adam.  We'll stew her in there for a while.  
Mark - tell me how things are.'

	Mark struggled to reassert his control.  He didn't want to give Malone 
any more ego boosts.  A sledgehammer of a block, crude and destructive but
effective, settled things down.

	'She is terrified, Mr. Malone.  I can't get anything more from her at
the moment.  I don't think she was expecting an empath or a blocker.  If she's
going to be in there for a while, I think I'll need some rainbow.  She's a 
strong transmitter.'

	Dr. Taylor got up and went to the rack of drugs, but Malone stopped her.

	'Sit down, Doctor.  Maria is a tough nut and I want everything Mark can
give if we're going to crack her.  There's at least one layer of conditioning in
there - that'll be why she's blasting out the fear so much.  If you give him the
rainbow, he won't be able to give us the best time to take her out of there.'

	'Can it, Malone.  Mark's still recovering from Thailand, and he's my 
responsibility.  I'm giving him the rainbow.'

	'You can it, Doctor.  This is run time, and I'm in charge of everything
for the moment.'

	Adam stepped forward to quell the argument.

	'Please Doctor, Mr. Malone.  The cabinet won't take less than an hour
to work, so why don't I take Mark for a walk.  That way, he can be insulated 
from the subject but still able to work at full efficiency later.  In fact,
assuming your assessment is correct, Mr. Malone, we can easily take two hours.'

	Malone looked round at Adam.  Mark couldn't resist letting the block 
drop enough to feel Malone's thwarted rage, and noticed that Maria wasn't as
scared as she had been.

	'Okay Adam, you do that.'

	End Part Five

			************************

	Outside the sun shone high over Warsaw, driving the people in from the
streets.  The heat was enough to soften the asphalt on the road, and even under
the pavement overhang, Mark's allcover got hot and sticky within minutes.  Adam
was as cool as ever, relying on goggles, sunblock and his own half-indian skin
to protect him from the sun.  The white suit made him shine like an angel.

	They were walking on the back streets, to keep Mark as far away from 
people as possible.  The buildings all around were still full, of course.  
Hungry people eating, tired people sleeping, nervous people turning and turning
on the beds.  All the people were hot, and most of them were unhappy.

	The only person they saw in the crowded streets was an old man, walking
his dog with difficulty from under an off-white allcover.  The dog kept licking 
the white dab of sunblock from its nose, and every time the owner would stop and
berate it in polish, adjusting its goggles and readministering the cream.

	Adam listened for a moment before slipping himself into a humorous 
mood.

	'He should be glad.  It's panting so much, it would burn its tongue
if it didn't keep licking the stuff from its nose.'

	'He ought to buy the poor thing a proper mask if he's going to walk it
at this time of day.'

	They were silent for a few more minutes while the spectacle stopped and
started its way down the street and round the blackened stone corner.

	'Would you like to try a bar, Mark?  It would be a bit cooler than the
streets.'

	'They'd just throw us out again.  It isn't worth it.'

	The I'm-going-to-have-some-fun grin came back to Mark with a blaze of
well-rehearsed schadenfreude.  Adam was playing to the gallery for him.

	'If they try it, I'll just have to remind them who they're dealing 
with.'

			************************

	The bar was a small, run down joint.  With the doors closed against the
heat and the shutters down, it seemed shut, except for the fans that whined and
groaned inside.  Adam thrust the door open and half-skipped inside. Mark
followed more cautiously. 

	The room was almost empty.  The barkeep and an old man were playing 
chess on the bar, with a few coins and saltshakers on the board instead of
pieces.  On the far side of the room, by a small table under the fans, a couple
in their thirties had turned instantly to the door.  A wave of surprise rolled
across the room and subsided into animosity and prickling fear.  Mark felt the
familiar chill run through him and made for a chair by the door, away from the
people.

	Adam put a spring in the steps that took him over to the chess game and
slapped his arm down on the bar.  The barkeep slowly spat on a filthy rag and
polished a glass.  'Closed,' he said, in a black treacle voice.

	Adam didn't reply.  He paused for a moment, smiled, and pulled away
from the bar.  His elbow caught a couple of empty coffee cups and sent them
spiralling down towards the floor.  Brown drops span in the air.  The rest of
the room stopped silently as the cups plunged and a flurry of white movement
turned by the bar. 

	A teaspoon crashed against the foot rest under the bar.  Adam was
standing, holding a cup and saucer in each hand, and smiling at the barman. 
A dark stain was just starting to spread across the bluish whiteness of his
suit.

	'Oops.  Clumsy of me.  I'll have to be careful or I'll break something.
We'll have ... two coffees, thank you.' 

	The bar was alive with the barman's fury.  Mark felt it from the
shelter of a Spanish evening, and expected the move before it came.  The man's
right hand made a dive for something under the bar.  In a flood of fear and 
surprise, he found himself holding a cup.  Adam's right hand slipped fluidly
out of his jacket and pressed a few coins on to the bar with a loud crack.

	'Be careful!  You almost broke it!'

			************************  

	Apart from the fans, the bar was silent as they drank.  The other
customers had left, leaving the barman to ostentatiously polish the bar
and eye them nervously.  Adam watched him in return, giving him a cheery
wave from time to time.

	'Did you have to do that, Adam?  We could have just found another
place.'

	'Of course I did.  The guy's an out and out bigoted bastard, and
the same thing might have happened in the next place, and the next.  Until,
speaking of bigoted bastards, we had to go back to Malone and company.'

	'You haven't exactly made us flavour of the month, you know.  You
won't change the poor guy by scaring the living daylights out of him.'

	'Your problem is you care too much about the ungifted idiots.  They
don't care about us, so why should we care about them?'

	Adam grinned and changed his mood.

	'Besides, I did him a favour.  He was losing.'

			************************  


	Mark started crying as the lift halted at their floor.  He didn't notice
at first, because he was absorbed by the tension running between the two 
executives who had smiled and chatted their way up from the ground floor.  

	Half of their banter was to disguise their hatred for each other, and
the rest was to hide the bottomless pit of contempt for their fellow
passengers.  Half of him wanted to mention it.  It would be good to say, 'I
know you loathe me.  Why do you think you can hide it?'  Then the mood suddenly
changed to a cocktail of pity and embarrassment.

	Even then, as he tried to work out what had happened, he didn't realise
until he felt the air conditioning blow cold on his face.  As he groped for a
handkerchief, he knew the reason.  Maria was still projecting, wave after 
sobbing wave of sorrow streaming out from the colour cell.  She was, as Malone
would say, ready.

	He allowed himself to be ushered back into the room.  The block had to
go back up, and the soft protest from somewhere inside made him gag.  His head
filled with the image of a light bulb, trembling under unimaginable pressure from
inside.

	'Hello children!  Did we have a nice walk then?'

	Mark swallowed hard and preempted Adam's slick reply.

	'Yes, thank you Mr. Malone.  It's time to bring ... the subject out of
the colour cell now.'

	'Good.  Adam, I think we'll have James talk to her for a while.  You'll
be our lie detector Mark.'

	Mark settled himself resignedly on a chair.  Adam stripped off his 
jacket and threw it, with the hat, across the room to lie in a crumpled heap
on the floor.  The tie followed, leaving a very different Weissman, his 
appearance dominated by a scowl and the black holster of his gun.

	'Gotcha boss.  I'll get the dirt from the bitch for you.  Bring her
out.' 

	Malone brought her out.  After two hours in the colour cell, it must
have been a relief.  Her makeup had run with her tears, and the mascara that had
set off the paleness of her skin instead formed an oil slick rainbow down her 
cheeks.  Her neat plaits were in tatters - she must have been chewing them.
The red rimmed eyes were even redder now.  The strain had been too much for 
them, and Maria's tears must have been blood for the past half hour or so.

			************************

	The interrogation lasted hours.  Mark did his best not to watch as
they took her apart.  All he had to do was speak up when Maria lied - which
didn't seem to be often.  It was delicate work.  He had to set up a kind of
model Maria in his head, one that felt everything the real one did.  He sat
behind his block and watched it, testing its reflexes and measuring its
pulse for the tell-tale signs.  Did it want to cover its face?  Did it make
him remember sneaking out in the night to go down into Madrid, even though
it made his mother cry?

	While he watched, the model screwed its bleeding eyes against the
blinding lights.  He watched the flocks of starlings and seagulls coming down
from the derelict tower blocks into the lengthening shadows.  It struggled
for its innocence in the face of James's chipped Polish as the sun swung low
over Warsaw.  Malone ordered stimulants to keep her from fainting, and the
model's arm - Mark's arm - stung from Dr. Taylor's needle.  The sun turned
crimson and set in the boiling West. 

	Finally they finished.  Mark pushed the bubbling ball of grief out
of his head.  Inside his head, he heard the crash of shattered dreams.

	'Well?', said Malone.  'Mark, _Adam_?  What do you think?'

	Mark wiped his eyes before he turned round.  That let Adam speak first.

	'Her story is quite simple, Mr. Malone.  She was a freelance beautician
for a while, and she used the products on herself.  She went bust from spending
too much on herself and from the Polish recession four years ago.  She had a
relationship with a J-Corp pooler for a while, but that ended two years ago.
That was how she came to apply to our pool.'

	'Too simple.  Mark?'

	'She seems genuine to me, Mr. Malone.  There's very little trace of
artifice, and she's such a strong transmitter that it would have to be the best
conditioning I've ever seen.'

	'Very little artifice, and it would have to be extra special 
conditioning.'  Malone spoke softly, knowing that he didn't need to express
his disbelief.

	Mark swallowed hard.  'Yes, sir.'

	'But not no artifice, and we all know J-Corp is good at conditioning.
They can do everything we can.'

	'No sir, but noone uses no artifice.  Everyone keeps something...'

	'Mark, get the moulder up to speed.'

	'Mr. Malone, please.  Dehli made a mistake.  It happens sometimes...'

	'Now, Mark.  And doctor, before you say it, yes I am over-ruling 
my psychics.  We have full DI clearance and I intend to use it.  Dehli wants
to know for sure whether J-Corp intends to extract Dupont, and I'll do 
everything in my power to get that information.'

	'Malone, I protest.  You can't just dismiss Mark and Adam's opinions
like this.  At least take some time to consult.'

	'I can and I will doctor.  I refuse to give the subject time to 
reconstruct its defences.  Mark's judgement in this matter is not impartial,
and yours is in doubt.  Adam conducted the interrogation as James and is not
reliable.  Was that a formal protest I heard?'

	Mark went resignedly over to the moulder.  He already knew both that
Dr. Taylor would protest formally and that Malone would promise to put it in
his report before ordering her to help with the moulder.  He barely heard the
exchange.

	The herb garden was dark, and the warm breeze brought him the scents of
rosemary and lavender.  Above the chirping of the crickets, he could hear 
someone screaming far away.

			************************
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