I take a minute to cram some gyoza and noodles into my face—hot enough to scorch my tongue, but who gives a frag, it’s (synthesized) food—then I tell the pay phone to call Cat’s number. The vidscreen shows the normal shifting colors and patterns, supposedly designed by psych-wonks to calm people down so they don’t trash the phone while they’re waiting for the connection to be made. Then the status bar along the bottom of the display flashes CONNECTED. The screen clears, and there’s Cat—copper hair that looks like it’s polished, big round eyes, a polite if distant smile. "You have reached...."