Greg Bear: Dead Lines

‘They don’t turn off,’ the young man explained to Peter, drawing closer. His wide blue eyes assessed Peter’s character and the size of his wallet. ‘You can turn the ringer down, however.’

Peter smiled as if at a half heard joke. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Free talk,’ Joseph said. ‘But it doesn’t work. Where’s Mishie?’ ‘She told me to get the door,’ the young man said. ‘Well, hell, Peter has a key. Mishie!’

The young man regarded Peter with newfound but uncertain respect.

Mishie – Michelle – walked out of the hall leading back to the drawing room. ‘I’m here.’ She smiled at Peter and hooked her arm around Joseph’s. ‘Time for his lordship’s monkey nut shots,’ she announced with thespian cheer. ‘Come along, dear.’

Joseph stared gloomily at the small elevator to the left of the long flight of stairs, as if doom awaited him there. ‘Don’t ever leave me alone with her, Peter,’ he said.

‘You two fine young bucks wait in the drawing room,’ Michelle instructed primly. ‘We’ll be down in a whiffle.’

‘I’m down now,’ Joseph said. ‘If there’s anything I hate, it’s monkey nuts.’ He patted Peter’s arm in passing.

‘Nice couple,’ the young man said as they sat in an alcove looking over the west lawn. The wistful last of the day faded far out over the cliffs and the ocean. ‘They were joking, weren’t they?’

‘I think so,’ Peter said. ‘I’m Peter Russell.’ ‘Stanley Weinstein.’

They stretched out of their chairs and shook hands. Chairs throughout Flaubert House were always set shouting distance apart from one another.

‘Scouting for an investment?’ Peter asked.

‘An invest or,’ Weinstein corrected. ‘One million dollars, minimum. A pittance to finance a revolution.’

‘In telecom?’

Weinstein cringed. ‘Let’s please avoid that word.’

Peter raised the plastic ovoid to eye level and twisted it until he found a seam, then tried to pry it open with a thumbnail. It wouldn’t budge. ‘If it’s not a phone, what is it?’

‘We call it Trans,’ Weinstein said. ‘T-R-A-N-S. Plural, also Trans. Invest a little, and you get one to use. Invest a lot, and you get more to hand out to friends. Very chic, extraordinarily high tech, nothing like them on the market. Feel that weight? Quality.’

‘It’s a cell phone,’ Peter said, ‘but not.’

‘Close enough,’ Weinstein agreed with a lean of his head. ‘They’ll be free for the next year. Then we go public and open booths in every shopping mall in the world.’

‘Joseph won’t invest?’ Peter asked.

Weinstein shrugged. ‘Our demo did not go well. Something seems to be wrong with the house.’ ‘There’s a steel frame. Lots of stone.’

‘Trans will work anywhere from the center of the Earth to the moon,’ Weinstein said, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what the problem is. I shall have to ask my boss.’

‘And your boss is …?’

Weinstein held his finger to his lips. ‘Mr Benoliel trusts you?’

‘I suppose,’ Peter said. ‘He trusts me not to hit him up for money too often.’

Weinstein looked funny at that, then wiggled his finger in the air. ‘Monkey nuts?’

‘That is a joke,’ Peter said. ‘I do stuff for them. I’m nobody, really.’

Weinstein winked. ‘You have influence. They trust you, I can tell,’ he said. ‘Keep the unit. In fact, let me give you more. Hand them out to your friends, but if you would, please give one to a good friend of Mr Benoliel’s, or better yet, Mrs Benoliel’s.’

Peter shook his head. ‘I already have a cell phone,’ he said. ‘I get calls every week about new service plans.’

‘What about no service plan?’ Weinstein thrust out his fingers like a magician. ‘A Trans unit lasts for a year, and then you replace it with another, price yet to be established – but less than three hundred dollars. Unlimited calling day or night, anywhere on the planet. Better than digital – in fact, pure analog sound quality, just as God intended. Do you like vinyl LPs?’

‘I still have a few.’ In fact, Peter had hundreds, mostly jazz, classical, and 1960s rock.

‘Then you know what I mean. Lovely, like a soft whisper in your ear. No interference, just clean sound. If you can convince Mr Benoliel we’re on to something, you’ll get free units for life. You and five – no, ten of your friends.’

Peter gave a dry chuckle. ‘And?’

Weinstein lifted an eyebrow. ‘Five thousand shares, IPO guaranteed to be set at twenty-three dollars a share.’

Peter raised his own eyebrow even higher. He hadn’t survived a career in films for nothing.

Weinstein grinned devilishly. ‘Or five thousand dollars, up front, your choice, payable when Mr Benoliel invests.’

‘How about ten thousand?’

Weinstein’s smile remained, tighter but still friendly. ‘Okaaay,’ he said, mimicking Joseph’s deliberate drawl. ‘Pardner.’ He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and began scrawling on it with a fountain pen. ‘Do you have an agent?’

‘He hasn’t heard from me in a while.’ Peter examined the short, neatly penned document. The address was in Marin County. He would probably need to go north anyway, for Phil’s funeral – if there was going to be one. He asked for the fountain pen and signed. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Joseph rarely changes his mind.’

Weinstein excused himself and returned a few minutes later with a white cardboard box. In the box, buried in layers of foam, were ten plastic ovoids in various cheery colors.

‘All active and good for a year. Push the help button for instructions.’

‘How do you open them?’ Peter asked.

Weinstein demonstrated. Pressing a barely visible dimple on one side released the upper half, which swung aside with oily smoothness. There were no buttons. A screen covered most of the revealed face and lit up pearly white with black touch keypad and letters, different from his Motorola. The unit was neatly made and felt just right in his hand, slightly warm, slightly heavy.

‘It’s not a gift from aliens, is it?’ Peter asked.

‘It should be,’ Weinstein said, chuckling. ‘No, it’s entirely human. Just … people.’

Weinstein handed Peter the box and looked around the drawing room. ‘Quite a place,’ he said. ‘Have you worked here long?’

Peter smiled. Joseph did not like to be talked about, in any fashion, by anybody.

Weinstein turned serious. ‘Get this done, Mr Russell, and you’ll rate a visit to our new headquarters, as well as your bounty money. Then you’ll meet the man behind Trans.’

Peter folded shut the top of the box. ‘I’ll put these in my car,’ he said.

‘That lovely old Porsche?’ Weinstein asked. ‘Is it a replica?’ ‘Nope,’ Peter said.

‘Then it’s older than I am,’ Weinstein said.

After Weinstein’s departure, Peter followed Michelle up the long curve of marble stairs to the second floor. Flaubert House was huge and quiet, as solid as a tomb but cheerful in its way. ‘That was awkward,’ Michelle murmured. ‘Joseph knew someone’s daddy way back when. Now one of his boys sends a salesman to hit him up for ten million dollars.’

Peter walked beside her for the last few steps, silent. It had taken him into his forties to realize that the true art of conversation was saying almost nothing.

‘Joseph’s been a little down. I mean, not that he’s ever a ball of fire, you know? But a little less twinkle.’

In truth, Joseph had never struck Peter as being capable of twinkle. Blunt honesty, sharp conversation, an uncanny ability to pin down character – and a good joke every now and then – defined his few charms. Over the years, Peter had come to like Joseph; honesty and the occasional joke could make up for a lot.