Kiln People

“He also said the fear was unjustified,” Kaolin replies. “Yosil was recovering from that paranoia when he made the ditto.”

“Unless he later had a relapse … which could help explain the fatal accident if Maharal felt compelled to flee something, or someone.” I thought for a moment. “In fact, the ditto never actually denied that anyone was after him. He only said the danger felt less frightening when he was made. Can you think of a reason—”

“Why anyone might want to hurt Yosil? Well, in our business there are always dangers. Fanatics who think Universal Kilns is a front for the devil. Every now and then, some nut tries to unleash holy vengeance.” He snorts disdainfully. “Fortunately, there is a famous inverse relation between fanaticism and competence.”

“That correlation is statistical,” I point out. Antisocial behavior is my field, after all. “There are exceptions. In a large, educated population, you’ll have at least a few genuine Puerters, McVeighs, and Kaufma

My voice trails off, suddenly distracted. Kaolin answers, but my attention veers.

Something’s wrong.

I glance left, toward the grand hallway, following a trace — something troubling that teased the corner of one eye.

What is it?

The broad, arched corridor looks unchanged, still lined with ancient arms and trophies from historical conflicts. Yet something’s amiss.

Think.

I had been dividing my attention, the way I always do, real or rox. Maharal’s ditto just departed in that direction, heading for the atrium … where a right turn would take him out the front door for that final trip to Universal Kilns.

Only he didn’t turn right. I think he turned left instead. It was only a glimpse, but I feel sure of it.

Is he trying to see Ritu, one last time?

No. She quit the library in the opposite direction, with her green companion. So where’s the ditto heading?

On one level, it’s none of my business.

The hell it isn’t.

The magnate is explaining why he doesn’t worry about fanatics. It sounds like a ca

“Excuse me, Vic Kaolin. I have to check on something. I’ll be back in time to ride with you to the lab.”

He looks surprised, perhaps miffed, as I turn to go. The marble floor squeaks under my cheap shoes as I hurry down the hall, sparing a moment to grab one more good look at the oldtime weapons and ba

At the atrium, I glance right. The butler and his three copies look up, interrupting their conversation. (What could the duplicates possibly have to talk about? My selves almost never have anything to say to each other.)

“Did you see ditMaharal come by here?”

“Yessir. Just a moment ago.”

“Which way did he go?”

The butler points behind me, toward the rear of the mansion. “Is there anything I can do for—”

I hurry in the direction indicated. It may be a dumb impulse to give chase like this, instead of quizzing Vic Kaolin while I have the chance. If Maharal were real, his detour wouldn’t bug me. I’d assume he went to the toilet. Take a pee before going on your last ride. Nothing more natural.

But he isn’t natural. He’s a thing, with no bladder and with no rights, who’s been asked to walk into a room where agonizing interrogation and death await. Anyone might veer from that path. I know I have, on at least three occasions.

Striding past the grand staircase, I duck into a minor hallway lined with cloakrooms and closets. Beyond a pair of double doors, dishes clatter amid a murmur of cooks. The gray might have dodged through there. But sensors in my left eye discern no vibration. The big swinging doors haven’t been touched for at least several minutes.

Hurrying past the kitchen, I pick up a faint scent that most normal humans barely notice or else avoid. A sweat-sweet tang of ultimate redemption.

The Recyclery.

Most of us just put our expired dittos (or leftover parts) in a sealed bin on the street for weekly pickup. But businesses that deal in high volumes need their own rendering plants to compress and filter the remains. Down a short, windowless passage stood a door few dittos pass through twice. Did Maharal go that way, preferring a quick end in the vats over the agony of brain-sifting? He didn’t seem the kind to suicide over mere pain. Still, there are other possible reasons … like dying to keep a secret.

Seeking alternatives, I turn left to look down a broader hallway. Ahead lies a glass-covered veranda, furnished in wicker, overlooking a lawn and private woods.

A screen door is still hissing gradually shut, closing against a pneumatic damper. Deciding quickly, I hurry and push through, stepping onto a parquet balcony. To the left stands a big screened aviary filled with greenery and cooing sounds. Kaolin’s famed avocation is bird-raising, especially genetically enhanced racing doves.

Not that way. To the right, steps lead down gardened slopes. Hurrying after my hunch, I’m rewarded soon by a soft noise. Footfalls, somewhere ahead.

I can sympathize if Maharal’s ghost doesn’t want to go through the torment of image-sifting. If he’d rather stroll under a blue sky for his last hour or two. But I work for his heir and legal owner. Anyway, if villainy murdered his original, the culprits should be held accountable. I want whatever clues lie hidden in his ceramic skull.

A flagstone path plunges past a wide meadow toward a grove of old trees. Sycamores and purple prunus, mostly. Nature’s nice, when you can afford it.

There! I glimpse a moving figure. ditMaharal, all right. He leans forward, shoulders hunched, hurrying. It was just intuition before. Now I’m sure, the golem’s up to something.

Only what? This trail swings by the brow of a low hill to overlook a row of small houses on the other side, lined up along a compact street, complete with sidewalks and front lawns — a quaint old suburban neighborhood, transplanted to Vic Aeneas Kaolin’s east forty acres. This must be where his domestic employees live. The richer you are, the more benefits you have to provide in order to keep real servants.

Man, he sure is rich.

No sign of Maharal. My immediate concern, did he plunge into the tract? He may vanish among the houses.

I turn, sca

There! Half-crouched behind a hedge, he’s trying to open a backyard gate.

Better not spook him. Instead of charging ahead, I creep just inside the pocket forest, staying shadowed as I work my way closer.

Only a few people are about, this time of day. An orange gardener mows someone’s lawn with a noisy machine. A woman hangs laundry from a clothesline, something I never used to see in the days before kilning, when time was so precious you never had enough. Now the air’s better and some folks find sun-drying worth a ditto’s hour.

The woman’s skin is sunburned pink — a human shade. Huh. Well, maybe she enjoys the tactile feel of pi

Soft retro music flows from an open window at one end of the small neighborhood, clashing with two loud voices that rise in shrill argument from a house in the middle. The same one where Maharal’s hands fumble over the back gate and finally seize the latch. Hinges squeak as he slips through — and I’m ru

Maharal shut the gate after himself, so I must reach over like he did, feeling for the latch. Not the ideal way to perform a modern break-in. Normally I’d test for alarms and such. But this little neighborhood sits within Kaolin’s ultra-security cordon, so why bother? Besides, I’m in a hurry.