The Jupiter Theft

“You sound just like everybody else,” she flared. “Sure, Privies are lazy and dirty and ignorant! Give them enough subsidy tickets to keep their bellies full of rice and soycorn, give them a free high on Saturday night, give them a cheap holovid to keep them quiet, bottle them up and forget them! Well, I can’t be as smug about it as you! There are two hundred million Privies today—twenty percent of the population. You can’t just write them off!”

“Nobody’s writing them off. The Private Sector’ll be brought into the system gradually. These things can’t be done overnight.”

“You sound just like a Washington stonewallah!”

“Maggie, let’s not quarrel. We’re supposed to be out for a good time. You’re beginning to sound like a Rad.”

That stopped her. She reached back and squeezed his hand. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She laughed uneasily. “Just don’t tell Caffrey.”

The cabbie’s voice made an insect buzz in the battered speaker. “Here we are, mizz.”

The trike pulled into a huge Lexiglass-enclosed courtyard with manicured lawns and dwarf trees. Jameson paid off the driver and held the lid of the passenger pod open for Maggie while she climbed out. She was wearing a layered pettiskirt with leg tubes, but she managed it with a supple grace that surprised him. She turned to him with a big smile.

“Home sweet home,” she said.

Jameson looked around. Marine guards patrolled the walks, and transparent escalators rose to an elevated loggia lined with convenience shops. At either end of the court, visible through the arched roof, were twin residential towers, graceful trapezoids soaring a thousand feet into the night sky, ablaze with squandered energy. Jameson looked sharply at Maggie. It seemed rather expensive for someone with a computer tech rating. Maggie read his expression and said disarmingly, “I splurge on my rent. The view’s worth it. Otherwise, I’m disgustingly frugal.”

They passed a lobby security check, with a hard-eyed Marine sergeant studying their silhouettes on the screen of an ultrasonic mass detector, and rode a tinted transparent box up a central shaft to a floor that was very near the top. Maggie showed the holo pattern on her passbook cover to the door, and it let her in.

Jameson forgot to breathe when he saw the view. The city was a jeweled carpet spread out below. A pattern of streets stretched on forever like a spider web of glowing wires. The tall shapes of other residential towers rose out of the electric glitter like pillars of glowing coals. And there, across the silvered ribbon of a river, he could see the mile-high mirror of the Federal Tower dancing with reflected points of light.

He turned back to Maggie’s living room. It was sparsely furnished, but the pieces he could see looked good. There was a couch upholstered in an expensive coarse fabric, and an antique coffee table made of glass and driftwood. There was a transparent rocking chair facing the couch, and a Lexiglass cabinet holding Maggie’s collection of twentieth-century plastic bottles completely covered one wall.

“Fix yourself a drink and put some music in the slot,” she said, heading for the door at the far end. “I’m going to peel off these tubes and put on something more comfortable.”

Jameson wandered over to the omnisound hanging on the wall. Maggie’s collection of music cards was stacked untidily on a little shelf beneath it. He flipped through the plastic oblongs, reading the titles showing through the meaningless herringbone patterns of the holo imprints that held the music. It was the usual pop junk put out by the big music combines—creative-group stuff, with the words sung by whatever computer-constructed pseudovoices were the fads of the moment.

But there was a small stack of cards that didn’t seem to go with the rest. They looked newer, unplayed. Bach’s Art of the Fugue. A couple of Mozart symphonies. And—he blinked—the out-of-print collection of Farnaby virginal pieces he’d been trying to track down for years. How had Maggie managed to stumble on such a rarity?

He slipped the card into the slot of the omnisound, and the strange, otherworldly tones of “Giles Farnaby’s Dreame” began to float into the room. The Moog technician had given it a pure, lutelike twang, sustained beyond what would have been possible for a real instrument, but otherwise hadn’t tampered with it.

Jameson scooped some frozen martini from the nitrogen-chilled vessel on the sideboard and dropped it into a clear stemmed glass, where it caused a satisfying instant explosion of frost. He carried his drink over to the view window, and was losing himself in the glorious sparkle of the vista when Maggie entered the room, wearing a slinky green pantsgown made of some frictionless fluorocarbon material that slid over the surface of her body like oil.

“You must have been reading my mind,” she said. “You’re playing one of my favorites.”

Chapter 8

The image faded from the screen. “Is that all you have?” Ruiz asked.