Kiln People

Well, tough, Albert. That’s what I’m for. She did ask for a ditto, after all. A high-quality gray.

Don’t worry, boss. All you gotta do is inload me later. I’ll get continuity and you’ll remember every detail. Fair exchange. Trading one day’s experience for an afterlife.

Transport is always troublesome on busy days. We have just one car, and archie holds onto it, in case he has to go out. Got to keep the rig body safe from rain and hard objects. Like traffic hazards. Or bullets.

Too bad, since he usually stays home in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, “investigating” cases by roaming the Net, paying for research scans with a flick-ident of our retina. So the Volvo mostly sits in the garage. We dittos get around by bus or scooter.

There are just two scooters left, and we made three golems today. So I have to share the little Vespa with a cheap little green who’s heading downtown on errands.

I drive, of course. The greenie rides behind, silent as a wart, as we putt-putt all the way to the rendezvous where Ritu’s sending a car to meet me. There’s a small park, just off Chavez Avenue. Shady enough for a ditto to wait without melting in the sun.

I stop the scooter, leaving the motor ru

He takes off without looking back. Tomorrow I’ll remember what Greenie’s thinking right now. If he makes it home. Which seems doubtful as I watch him weave through traffic, slipstreaming a delivery van. Ack, you can lose a perfectly good scooter that way! I really should drive more carefully.

Standing here, waiting for the car from Universal Kilns, I close my eyes and feel summer’s warm languor. My grays need good senses, so right now I can smell the nearby pepper tree as kids in long pants clamber the rough branches, shredding musty bark and shouting at each other with the sober intensity that children bring to play. And roses and gardenias — I inhale complex fragrances through sponge-sensor membranes, feeling almost alive.

Not far off, more than a dozen hobbyists can be seen, crouching in broad sun hats, indulging a passion for gardening — yet another way to pass time in a world without enough jobs. It’s one reason I chose this place for pickup. The local horticulture club is superb. Unlike my neighborhood, where nobody gives a damn.

I glance around to make sure I’m not in anybody’s way. Parks are mostly for archies. The kids are all real, of course. Most folks only copy a child in order to teach rote lessons — or to send an occasional me-gram to Gra

(I hear that some divorced couples are pioneering new styles of visitation. Mom lets Dad take Junior’s ditto to the Zoo, then refuses to inload the kid’s happy memory, out of spite. Yeesh.)

Most of the adult caregivers in the park are rigs, too. Why not? You can fire up a clay copy and send it to the office, but when it comes to hugs and tickles, flesh has no substitute. Anyway, it makes you look bad, sending your child out tended by a purple or green. That is, unless you hire a poppins from one of the Master Na

… wait a sec … The phone just rang. I pick up my portable to listen in as Nell answers. She passes the call to my real self.

It’s Pal. I can see him in the tiny display, propped in a big wheelchair, his half-paralyzed face surrounded by wish sensors. He wants me to come by. Something’s up. Too sensitive to explain over public netwaves.

My rig answers in a grumpy voice. Been awake two days. (Poor guy.) Can’t come in person and too tired for another imprinting.

“I’ve got three dits out on errands,” I hear me tell Pal. “One of them will drop by your place, if time allows.”

Huh. Pal lives downtown. Just a few blocks from the Teller Building. He couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?

Three dits? The green won’t be up to handling Pal, and I can’t picture Gineen Wammaker letting the other gray escape early, so it’s probably up to me. I’ve got to go console and consult poor Ritu Maharal — while cops glare and mutter about “meddling private eyes” — then take a stinking crosstown bus to hear Pal rant his latest conspiracy theory till I’m ready to expire. Great.

Ah. Here’s the car from UK. It’s no Yugolimo, but nice. Driver’s a stolid-looking purple — all focus and reflexes. Good for delivering you safely. Not someone you’d go to for sage advice about personal relationships.

I get in.

He drives.

City streets roll by.

Pulling out a cheap slate, I dial up something to read. The Journal of Antisocial Proclivities. There are always new developments to keep up on, if you want to stay employable in your field. My real brain always dozes when I try to read this kind of stuff. Good at concepts, but the Standing Wave drifts. So I pay extra for gray blanks with good attention foci.

I never would have made it through college without those dittos I sent to the library.

Wait a minute.

I lift my gaze from the article when the triple domes of Universal Kilns pass by on the right, then fall behind. We must be heading somewhere else. But I thought -

Ah, yes. Ritu never actually mentioned UK. She said “the Kaolin estate.”

So, I’ve been invited to the great one’s sanctum, after all. Well, lade-da.

Let’s go back to reading about the use of pseudo-incarceration in Sumatra, where it seems they’re using multi-dittoing to simulate a twenty-year prison sentence in just two. Saves money and chastens the wicked, or so they say. Yuck.

The next time I look up, we’re driving through an exclusive neighborhood. Big houses beyond tall hedges. Mansions perched at the end of long drives, each one bigger, more impressive, and better protected than the one before it. My left-eye sensors trace guardian fields lining the tops of walls. Decorative spearheads mask sleep-gas jets. Mock ferrets squat in trees, watchful against interlopers. Of course, none of it would keep out a real pro.

The Kaolin Manor entrance looks unassuming. No garish protections. The best are unseen.

We flow straight through, then up a curving drive.

It’s a big stone chateau, surrounded by meadows and old trees. A few modest outbuildings, gardens, and hedge-sheltered guest cottages can be seen, off to one side. The gardens are disappointing. Nothing special. Few of the rare specimens I’d plant, if I were rich. Then I spot an architectural anomaly — a mirrorlike dome covering the roof of one entire wing. The sanctuary that a famous recluse retired to, years ago, leaving the rest of the mansion for servants, guests, and golems. Apparently, Aeneas Kaolin takes his hermitage seriously.

There’s just a white hospital van parked in front of the main house. I expected official vehicles. Police inspectors. Portable forensic labs. Normal procedure when murder is afoot.

Clearly, Ritu’s notion of foul play isn’t shared by the authorities. Well, that’s why she called me.

A butler sends his copper-colored duplicate to open my door. Another escorts me inside. Nice treatment, seeing as how I’m not real.

I’m inside now, under a vaulting atrium. Fine wood paneling. Nice decorative touches — lots of wall-mounted helmets, shields, and pointy weapons from other ages. Clara would love this stuff, so I freeze a few picts to show her later.

Conversation wafts my way as I’m led to a book-lined library, now serving a more somber function. The splendid oak table bears a cherry-wood casket with an open lid. Somebody’s dear departed, lying in state. A dozen or so human figures are in view, though just two are real — the corpse and a grieving daughter.