Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

That evening, she placed a call to Desmond Drum. His answering service promised to pass the message on and Link began drafting an article tentatively titled “Doing It Backwards.” She was on the second version, working in old film clips and candid photos of various virt sites where the Ginger Rogers tee-shirt was cropping up, when Drum returned her call.

She took it on the virt and soon the detective manifested in the virtual annex Lydia Hazzard had furnished to resemble a parlor in a Victorian manor house. The ruffled skirts that tastefully concealed furniture legs were hardly a setting in which rough and craggy Drum looked at home.

“Ah, here,” Drum said cryptically.

He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the back of his left. When he completed the sequence, his casual slacks and button-down shirt metamorphosed into clothing appropriate for a Victorian gentleman gone calling. He remained clean-shaven, but his thick brows were tamed and his sandy hair was slightly longer. Bowing from the waist, he extracted a calling card case from his breast pocket, dropped a card onto the tray near the door, and winked at Link.

Link realized she was gaping and snapped her mouth shut. She considered changing into one of the outfits that she had prepared for this setting, but rejected the thought at once. All of them were meant for Alice Hazzard and, although she knew that Drum had long been privy to her masquerade, she found herself oddly shy when she played girl for him.

Instead she returned Drum’s bow and gestured him to a seat.

“Very nice, Drum. And thanks for returning my call.”

“My pleasure, Link. Your message sounded as if you had something interesting for me.”

“I do. Tea? Crumpets?”

“That would be nice.”

Link tugged at the bell pull and a simple maid-servant proge appeared with a prepared tea tray.

“I will pour, Maggie. That will be all.”

“Very good, sir.”

When the proge had exited and she had poured tea, Link had regained her composure.

“When I was out shopping for a birthday present for my mother I came across this.” Link shook out the virt shirt. “The vendor mentioned that they were becoming a hot fad and I thought I’d earn some eft by doing a write-up.”

“Eft is always useful. I’ve seen the shirts around, but I didn’t really think much about them. So, kid, am I right in guessing that you didn’t call me just to boast that you might have sold another article?”

Link grinned. “Yep. The vendor mentioned that this was a copyrighted product.”

“Good planning on the designer’s part,” Drum said. “Otherwise it’s so simple that it would get pirated in no time.”

“I did a routine check on the copyright and found that it was held by one Randall Kelsey.”

“Randall Kelsey… sounds familiar.”

“Member of the Church of Elish. I checked further and the money for the copyright and production of the virt template came directly from the Church.”

“A simple front, then.”

“That’s what I figure.”

Drum picked up the virt shirt, turned it so he could study the slogan and the picture. “Who was Ginger Rogers anyway?”

“An American performer in the twentieth century. She was best known for dancing with this Fred Astaire. He became famous for his dancing—there were dance studios named for him, he had a program of his own. Rogers was always in his shadow.”

“This slogan makes it sound like she had the harder job.”

“That was what I thought, too. The more I look at it, the harder it is to dismiss it as some sort of pop flippancy. It almost has the ring of a rallying cry.”

“Strange rally, if it invokes people no one but a dancing fiend would have heard about.”

“Still, they aren’t impossible to learn about. They’re both listed in the major databanks. In fact, if you have computer access and even a minor amount of curiosity, it’s easy enough to do.”

“So, who is it rallying? Women dancers?”

“Drum, stop playing with me. Think about what we discussed earlier. The Church of Elish was apparently founded by an aion—an aion who we think is taking a more active role in affairs.”

Drum crumpled a crumpet. “You think this is meant to appeal to aions, then.”

“That’s right. They do everything we do but in Virtu—which many-call a mirror of Verite.”

“And everything is backwards in a mirror.” Drum glanced around the parlor. “I wonder if we should even be having this discussion here.”

“If the dissatisfaction is so high that every virt site is monitored, we’re doomed already.”

“True. Still…”

“You’re paranoid.”

“I’m old and alive. Humor me.”

“You’re not saying I shouldn’t file my story, are you? I already have a contract with Virtropolis .”

“You don’t mention any of this rallying cry stuff, do you?”

“No, just fad and fashion sense with clips about Rogers and Astaire. There’s lots of good material that’s public domain.”

“Then file it and bank your eft. Can I buy you dinner?”

“News?”

“I’m just back from a trip, wanted to show you my snapshots.”

“Sure. Can we eat in RT? I got so busy that I skipped lunch. Mom laid down the law that while I’m still growing I should eat at least one solid meal a day.”

“Would Italian suit? I have a real craving for eggplant parmigiana. Amici’s is about midpoint between our places.”

“Give me an hour.”

“Very well.” Drum rose, bowed to Link. “Thank you for the tea and crumpets. I shall anticipate our meeting.”

He strolled to the door and vanished. Link stood a moment longer. Catching his/her reflection in one of the gilded mirrors, she realized that she was blushing. Furious at Drum’s ability to make her lose her studied masculinity, she stalked to her reporter’s cubby, touched up her story, and sent it off. There was time enough to put on a clean suit and tie and her nattiest fedora before the cab arrived to take her to dinner.

“Hey, kid,” Drum said, by way of greeting as Link came up to the table. He had a scotch and soda by one hand and was chewing a bread stick. The polished Victorian gentleman had vanished with the costume. “They have an antipasto special tonight—Italian cold cuts, marinated artichoke hearts, olives, cheeses. Sounded so good I went ahead and ordered one big enough for both of us.”

“Great.”

Link slid into the chair across from Drum and placed an order for a glass of the house’s rough red. She studied the menu and then tapped in a request for a clam and lobster spaghetti in a red sauce and a green salad with oil and vinegar.

“Have a bread stick, kid.”

Link took one, dipped it into olive oil and salt.

“I’m going to hate it when I stop growing and need to watch my weight.”

“You must be about done, now,” Drum said, “if your similarity to your mother is going to hold.”

“I know. It’s a pity. Maybe I should take up some terribly vigorous sport.”

“I play RT tennis twice a week,” Drum offered. “I’d be happy to teach you.”

“Maybe. You know, I never thought about you doing anything except chasing people around and reading their mail. Tell me about your trip.”

“I’ve been to California.”

A waiter brought the antipasto, Link’s wine, and a refill on the bread sticks. While he fussed with table settings, Drum finished his whiskey and soda and cleared his palate with a pinkish grey olive.

“Good and sharp,” he said, neatly placing the pit on the side of his plate. “Yes, I’ve been to California and to the land that our mutual acquaintances have just purchased. There’s lots of construction going on— and now that I think about it, quite a few of those tee-shirts you were telling me about.”