F. Wilson - Dydeetown World

He lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"No lookee backee."

"Oh. Right."

Remembered: Once you're out of the gang and topside in the shadow economy where everything's barter and nothing's connected to Central Data, you're who you are — no past. No one admits they're from urchinland — ever. Urchins don't exist.

The more I thought about it, the better this looked to me. The urchins would search out little Khambot among the gangs for me while I worked in the Realworld for them. Didn't see why they were so determined to find out what happened to the two little kids. No one had mentioned foul play. But why argue? The way I saw it, we'd both come out ahead.

"Okay. Got a good contact who can help us out."

"Come?"

Shook my head. "No place for a kid. Especially an urch."

True. Elmero's was not for kids, but even truer was that I didn't want to go sliding into Elmero's with an urch in tow.

"Nev know," he said.

"They'll know as soon as you open your mouth. The only kids who talk pidge are urchins."

"Helpee Realfolk?"

Shook my head again. "No time."

He lowered his voice and spoke haltingly. "I…know…some. I…can…do."

Had to laugh. "You've been practicing that? Getting ready for the Realworld?"

He looked at me with his big bown eyes. "Please, san?"

Something in a dusty, almost forgotten corner inside went soft and mushy.

"Okay," I said, wondering why even as the words came out. "Just keep your mouth shut. And if you have to say something, don't use 'san.' That's a dead give away. It's 'Mr. Dreyer.' Got it?"

Now he smiled. "Kay."

" O kay."

Called Elmero's. The man got on the screen. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked him if he could do a jack for me later today."

"How deep?"

"Top sector."

"That will cost."

"Don't I know. Can pay the freight if you can do the jack."

"Do I ever let you down?" Elmero said with his awful smile.

"Not never," I said, "but hardly ever. Doc around?"

"Should be soon. Bout time for his midday wiff."

"If you see him, ask him to wait around for me. Be by in a tenth or so."

"Sure." The screen blanked.

"Fees fren, come he — ?"

"Say it in Realtalk," I told him.

"If…he's…you…friend, how…come…he…charge?"

"'How come he charges.'" Felt like a tutor machine. "He charges because that's his business — one of his businesses. We're friends, but that doesn't mean I dip into his trade whenever I want. Business is business."

Could tell he wasn't following me too well so shifted to a topic I was sure he could track. "Interested in lunch?"

"Course. Y'got?"

"Not here. A restaurant."

His eyes saucered. "Mean sitdown?"

You'd think he'd just been offered a trip to Skyland Park.

"Yeah. There's a nice place on level 12 that has — "

He was out of his chair and heading for the door. "S'go!"

"Don't make yourself sick, now," I told him. The urch was ready to order two of everything on the menu.

"Nev had steak."

He was talking more carefully now. I guess sitting in a roomful of Realpeople was influencing him.

"Won't get one here, either."

"Said 'steak'?" he said, pointing to the glowing tabletop menu in front of him. The table had read off the menu selections in its feminine monotone, brightening each line as it went. Searched through the printed list. My reading skills left much to be desired, though I'd improved them a lot in the past year.

"Yeah. Here it is: steak with mushroom gravy. But it isn't real grass-fed steer steak." Not with the economic stratum this place serviced — no one could afford it. "You can either get chlorcow or soysteak."

"'Chlorcow'?"

Didn't want to go into an explanation of photosynthetic cattle so I told him, "The soysteak tastes pretty much like the real thing. And it's bigger."

"Soysteak me. Two."

"'I'll have two soysteaks, please,' and no, you won't. You'll have one. It's a big one — half a kilo." He made a face so I said, "If you finish it and you're still hungry, I'll get you another."

He smiled and for a fleeting moment he was a real little boy.

Ordered a shrimp culture sandwich and a beer for myself. Felt like his father or something as I helped him punch his order into the console, letting him add sides of chocolate soymilk and double speedspuds. Hadn't been called on to act like a father in an awful lot of years. Ten, to be exact. Gave me an odd little warm feeling, one I might want to get used to if I wasn't careful.

"What's your name, kid?"

"B.B."

Easy enough. "Okay, B.B. Your meal will be here soon. Just sit back and relax.

Watched him as we waited. He couldn't take his eyes off the servers wheeling by. On two occasions I thought he was going to lunge at the dessert cart. Finally a server wheeled up and slid our meals onto the table. When it asked if we wanted to modify our order, I told it no and stuck my thumb in its pay slot. As it trundled away, I turned back to the urch. He had the steak in both hands and was gnawing at it.

" Put that down! " I said in as forceful a whisper as I dared. To his credit, he didn't drop it, and he didn't buck me on it. He eased it back onto his plate.

"S'mat?" he said with a wounded expression as he licked the gravy off his lips.

"You trying to embarrass me? Ever hear of a knife?"

"Course."

"Well, unless you want everybody in this place to know you're an urch, use it!"

He proceeded to hold the steak down with his left hand while he cut with the knife in his right. Was ready to get real angry when I realized he wasn't trying to turn my screws.

"Okay, drop everything," I said softly.

He did, reluctantly, and sat there sucking his fingers.

If I was going to have to sit here with him, I didn't want him making a spectacle of himself. Held up my fork and said, "This takes the place of your fingers when you're eating with Realpeople. It's called a fork. Here's how you use it."

As I picked up my knife and reached across to demonstrate, he lunged forward and covered his plate with his hands. Just as quickly, he pulled them away and leaned back. Instinct, I guessed. I speared the gnawed corner of the soysteak, sawed through his teeth marks, and handed him the loaded fork. Watched him grab it and shove it into his mouth, watched him close his eyes as he chewed.

"S'steak?" he said in a hushed voice after he had swallowed.

"Well, something that tastes a lot like steak. Only the mushrooms are real."

He attacked the meal. My shrimp culture sandwich was only half gone when he looked up at me from his empty plate. Nice thing about soysteak — no fat, no bone, no gristle.

"Said nother."

"Look, if you're not used to gravy and that sort of — "

"Said!"

"All right, all right!"

Punched in a reorder of the soysteak but skipped the speedspuds. Finished my sandwich and watched him work his way through the second steak. Knew he was going to have a bellyache by the way he was wolfing it down. Surprised me, though. Asked for dessert. Treated him to a chocolate gelato-to-go as we left. He had it finished by the time we got up to midlevel. As we waited on the platform for a slot in the crossBrooklyn tube, he turned green.

"You feeling all right?" I asked.

"Na' s'good, san."

"Not surprised after the way you — "

And then he was running for the pissoir. Never made it. Chocolate-colored soysteak-speedspud stew splattered the platform. When he was empty, he returned to the boarding area, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Told you not to have that second soysteak."

He smiled up at me and jerked his thumb at the gravity chute that led back to the restaurant. "Third now?"