Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

“OFFICER!” the girl shouted across the lobby. “Please help me!” In what seemed like no elapsed time at all there was a policeman standing between her and Sta-Hi.

“This man,” she said in her clear little Georgia belle voice, “has been annoying me for the past hour . He started off in the lounge over there, and then he followed me here!”

The policeman, a Florida boy bursting with good health and repressed fruit-juice, dropped a heavy hand onto Sta-Hi’s shoulder and clamped down.

“Wait a minute,” Sta-Hi protested. “I just got here. Me and gramps. We’re goin to Disky, ain’t we, gramps?”

Cobb nodded vaguely. Crowds of people always threw him into a daze. Too many consciousnesses pushing at him. He wondered if the officer would object if he took a little sip of scotch.

“The young lady says you annoyed her in the bar,” the policeman stated flatly. “Did he make remarks of a sexual nature, ma’am? Lewd or lascivious proposals?”

“Ah should say he diyud! ” the blonde exclaimed. “He asked if ah would rather be wined and dined or stoned and boned! But ah do not want to be bothered to press charges at this tahm. Just make him leave me a-lone.”

The person ahead of her left the counter, his business completed. The blonde gave the policeman a demure smile of thanks and leaned over the counter to consult the visa-issuing machine.

“You heard the lady,” the cop said, shoving Sta-Hi roughly out of line. “Beat it. You too, grandpa.” He dragged Cobb out of line as well.

Sta-Hi gave the policeman a savage, open-mouthed smile, but kept his silence. The two ambled across the lobby towards the ticket counter.

“Did you hear that cunt?” Sta-Hi muttered. “I’ve never seen her before in my life. Stoned and boned .” He looked back over his shoulder. The policeman was standing by the visa counter, vigilance personified. “If we don’t get a visa they won’t let us on the ship.”

Cobb shrugged. “We’ll get the tickets first. Do you have the money? Maybe we better count it again.” He kept forgetting how much there was.

“Power down, fool.”

“Just don’t get us arrested by accosting strange women again, Sta-Hi! If I don’t get on this flight I may miss my connection. My life depends on it!”

Sta-Hi walked off without answering. Cobb sighed and followed him to the ticket counter.

The woman behind the counter looked up with a quick smile when Sta-Hi approached. “ There you are, Mr. DeMentis. I have the tickets and visas right here.” She patted a thick folder on the counter in front of her. “Will that be smoking or nonsmoking?”

Sta-Hi covered his confusion by drawing out the wad of bills. “Smoking, please. Now how much did you say that would come to?”

“Two round-trip first-class tickets to Disky,” the woman said, smiling with inexplicable familiarity. “Plus the visa fees comes to forty-six thousand two hundred and thirty-six dollars.”

Numbly Sta-Hi counted out the money, more money than he’d ever seen in his life. When the woman gave him back his change she let her hand linger on his a moment. “Happy landings, Mr. DeMentis. And thank you for the lunch.”

“How did you swing that?” Cobb asked as they walked towards the loading tunnel. The ten-minute warning for take-off was sounding.

“I don’t know,” Sta-Hi said, lighting a joint.

There were quick footsteps behind them. A tap on Sta-Hi’s shoulder. He turned and stared into the grin of Sta-Hi 2, his robot double.

Fucked your head good, didn’t I , Sta-Hi 2’s grin seemed to say. He gave Cobb a familiar wink. They’d already met in Mooney’s garage.

“This is a robot built to look just like you,” Cobb told Sta-Hi in a low voice. “There’s one for me, too. This way no one knows that we’re gone.”

“But why?” Sta-Hi wanted to know. But they weren’t saying. He took a puff of his joint and held it out towards his twin. “Do . . . do you want a hit?”

“No thanks,” Sta-Hi 2said, “I’m high on life.” He flashed a long sly smile. “Don’t tell anyone on the Moon the old man’s real name. There’s some boppers called diggers that have it in for him.” He turned as if to go.

“Wait,” Sta-Hi said, “What are you going to do now? While I’m gone?”

“What am I going to do?” Sta-Hi 2said thoughtfully. “Oh, I’ll just hang around your house acting like a good son. When you get back I’ll fade and you can do whatever you want. I think they can set up that immortality deal for you, too.”

The two-minute warning sounded. A last few stragglers hurried past.

“Come on,” Cobb boomed, “Time’s a-wasting!” He grabbed Sta-Hi by the arm and dragged him down the ramp.

Grinning like a crocodile, Sta-Hi 2watched them go.

With no transition at all, Ralph Numbers was back. He could feel the patter of little feet inside his body-box. He’d been rebuilt. He recognized the feeling. No two arrangements of circuit cards can be exactly the same, and adjusting to a new body takes a while. Slowly he turned his head, trying to ignore the way the objects seemed to sweep with his motions. It was like putting on a new pair of glasses, only more so.

A big silver tarantula was crouched in front of Ralph, watching him. Vulcan. A little door in Ralph Numbers’s side popped open and a tiny little spider of a robot eased out, feeling around with its extra-long forelegs.

“Copasetic,” the little spider piped.

“Well,” Vulcan said to Ralph. “Aren’t you going to ask how you got here?”

Vulcan had worked for Ralph before. His workshop was familiar. Tools and silicon chips everywhere, circuit analyzers and sheets of brightly colored plastic.

“I guess I’m the new Ralph Numbers scion?” There was no memory of a tenth visit to the One, no memory of disassembly . . . but there never was. Still . . . something seemed wrong.

“Guess again.” The little black spider, Vulcan’s remote-controlled hand, hopped onto the big silver spider’s back.

Ralph thought back. The last thing he could remember was Vulcan taping him. After the taping he had planned to . . .

“Did I go meet Wagstaff?”

“You sure did. And on your way back, someone lasered your parasol. You’re lucky I’d just taped you. You only lost two or three hours of memories.”

Ralph checked the time. If he hurried he could still meet BEX when it landed. He started to turn around, and nearly fell over.

“Slow down, bopper.” Vulcan was holding up a sheet of transparent red plastic. Imipolex G. “I’m going to coat you with flickercladding. Nobody uses parasols anymore. You’ve looked like a file-cabinet long enough.”

The red plastic was not quite stiff, and rippled invitingly. “It might be good for you to look a little different,” Vulcan went on coaxingly. “So the diggers can’t spot you so easily.” He had been trying to sell Ralph some flickercladding for years.

“I wouldn’t want to change too much,” Ralph said uncertainly. After all, he made his living by selling curious boppers his memories. It might cut into his business if he stopped looking like the moon’s oldest bopper.

“Gotta change with the times,” Vulcan said, measuring out rectangles of the red plastic with two of his legs . . . or arms. “No bopper can afford to stay the same. Especially with those new big boppers trying to take things over.” Leg to leg he passed a sheet of the gelatinous plastic around to hold against Ralph. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

One of Vulcan’s legs ended in a riveter. Eight quick taps and the red plastic was firmly mounted on Ralph’s chest. The little robot-remote spider-hand scuttled up Ralph’s side, patching some thread-like wires from the plastic into Ralph’s circuitry. A light-show blossomed on his chest.