F. Wilson: Dydeetown World

"All right. Let's find out what you know about this guy."

Turned out she didn't know all that much.

Was what you call a whirlwind romance. Kyle Bodine worked for an import-export firm. Had contracts in the outworlds who’d welcome him and his new wife. Anti-clone laws were big out there, but no one would have to know she was one. She said she'd last seen him in Dydeetown on Friday morning. He had a medium-size compartment in one of the high-rent districts in Manhattan. The door was keyed to her. She'd already been there after many unanswered calls. No Kyle. No sign of foul play.

That's where I'd start.

"Okay," I said. "The fee is 200 a day plus expenses."

"Filamentous with me," she said, nodding.

Held up the gold coin. "This thing's worth more than a week in advance."

"If you find him before that — even if it's tonight — it's all yours."

She really wanted this guy back.

Told her I had some errands to run and would meet her at Bodine's compartment in a tenth.

Waited a while after she left, then took the downchute to street level. Wanted to get rid of this gold before tubing over to Manhattan. Not only illegal to possess, but it might get stolen before I could turn it into credit.

Knew I could do that at the usual place, no questions asked.

Never knew what Elmero's was going to look like week to week. Most businesses strove for a consistent exterior. Elmero strove for the opposite. Never knew when he was going to change the holographic front. Today it was suddenly the Bar-X Saloon in old Tucson, Arizona. Even had a couple of horses drinking from a trough in the bright noonday sun.

The sun never shone down here at ground level.

The usual crowd was holding up the bar inside, however. The usual mix of aimless chatter and straying vapors filled the air. And as usual, the datastream was playing in the near corner where I recognized Newsface Seven's features as she doled out the latest tidbits from CenDat. A howl came from the enclosure in the dimmest of the dim corners where someone was playing Procyon Patrol. Whoever he was — never saw him before — he spun out of the enclosure and rolled on the floor, all the while swatting at his left shoulder where the fabric of his jacket was burning. He got the fire out, stood up, shook himself, then re-entered the enclosure. People had been paying extra to play Procyon Patrol at Elmero's since he partially disabled the dampers on the enemy lasers. When those aliens shot back, they really shot back. You could get hurt real bad in that game. That's why altered machines were illegal.

Elmero's specialized in illegalities.

Doc waved at me from his table. Minn spotted me from behind the bar. She held up a vial of Dewar's green — my usual — and raised her eyebrows. Waved her off. Wasn't in the mood for a whiff right now. Needed to talk to the boss. Pointed toward the back room and she nodded.

"Busy, Elm?" I said, sliding the pocket door open a bit and poking my face through.

"Sig! Come in!"

Did, shutting the door behind me.

"You're looking unhealthier than usual, Sig."

He never passed up an opportunity to take a shot at my sallow complexion.

"Thanks, Elm. You're looking as roguey and robust as ever yourself"

Elmero pushed two meters heightwise and was as lean as he was long. His legs uncoiled from around each other as his polyform recliner straightened him up. Envied that recliner. Supposed to be the most comfortable chair in Occupied Space. Some day, if I ever got rich…

"What can I do for you?"

"Need an exchange on this," I said, tossing him the coin.

He rode his chair over to the corner console and dropped the coin in a little cup-like analyzer that weighed it, factored in the day's spot price for gold, and came up with a figure only he could see. Elm liked gold. He had lots of dealings outside the usual credit lanes and gold was universally accepted as barter.

"Give you sixteen hundred for it."

It was worth a good 2K and we both knew it but Elmero loved to haggle.

"Was figuring maybe seventeen or eighteen before taxes."

He smiled. Warned him about that — an ugly sight. He said, "Why don't we settle on a net of fifteen?"

"Filamentous," I said. That was what I'd wanted when I walked in.

He reached over to his employer's wageboard and punched in some data. He knew my ID number by heart.

"Okay, Sig," he said. "I just paid you eighteen hundred for a week's work. Which week you want it to be?"

Shrugged. "Last is as good as any."

He entered it. We waited a couple of seconds, then I went over to his credit terminal and stuck my thumb in the hole. A press of the status key rewarded me with a credit readout of 1522-post automatic deduction of the taxes. At least I wouldn't be getting any more red lights and could stop making up excuses about my thumb transponder acting up and needing replacement. Gets embarrassing after a while.

"Say, Elm…saw a phony greencard today."

"Phony how?" He seemed mildly interested.

"Well, it really didn't belong to this person."

"If the holder's genotype doesn't match the card’s, and if those two don't jibe with CenDat, what good is it? Only a real jog would carry it around."

He wasn't getting my meaning.

"I'm talking about CenDat — the change was made there."

Elm shrugged. "It can be done. Not on a routine basis, of course, but if you know the right people and have the right amount of barter, changes can be made — criminal records erased, credit histories altered. Don't tell me that's news to you."

"No, that's not news. But have you ever heard of a clone being recategorized as Realpeople?"

At last a reaction from Elm: his eyebrows lifted.

"That might be difficult. The people in position to make such a change might refuse, no matter what price offered." He smiled that smile again. "They'd refuse on the grounds of 'principle,' I'm sure."

"But it could be done?"

"Of course — as long as you had a tissue sample to identify the genotype and your middleman was someone devious and roguey and subtly ingenious."

"Like you, for instance?"

He leaned back and steepled his Fingers. Elmero liked to think of himself as an extralegal mastermind.

"It is not outside the realm of my capabilities."

Now the big question: "Ever had occasion to arrange something like that?"

"No," he said with a slow shake of his head, "but I wouldn't be averse to the opportunity."

Couldn't believe it.

"You'd help a dumb, walking tumor pass itself off as Realpeople?"

"Business is business. Besides, a clone’s as much a tumor as an identical twin. And as for dumb, if your education had been limited to self-grooming and sexual techniques and little else — which it obviously wasn't — you'd be duller company than you already are."

"Thank you, Elmero," I said with a laugh and headed for the door. "Didn't know you'd become an oozer."

"You're welcome, Sigmundo, and don't insult your elders."

The complex's holographic envelope was that of a cliff-dweller's adobe village, complete with dwellers, dinner fires, ladders, and all. Great job. Could hardly tell it wasn't real.

Don't know why they named it the Central Park Complex, though. No park here. Except for moss, wasn't much of anything green left at groundlevel in the whole megalops — only on the rooftop gardens. Maybe there'd been a park here once. Gone now. And who cared anyway?

Don't know why I bother myself with these questions.

As we’d agreed, the clone was waiting at the ground level entrance on Fifth. I was dodging puddles on my way across the mossy street when I spotted her squatting beside a little boy who couldn't have been older than two or three. She was holding the kid's hand, smiling and talking to him. Her face was very animated and the kid must have thought she was funny because he was laughing like she was the best thing since Joey Jose.