Kiln People

But what if their suspicions are right, and I help prove it?

If Universal Kilns is deliberately suppressing major improvements in dittotech, the news could be big. Albert’s reputation might skyrocket.

And I’ll have made him a new enemy. One of Earth’s biggest corporations.

17

Graying Gracefully

Ritu Maharal appeared reluctant to accompany me on a last-minute trip to the desert. But how could she refuse? Hardly any of the reasons that her mother might have used — from modesty to a hectic schedule — have any bearing nowadays.

“It’s quite a distance along twisty roads,” she said, clearly looking for an out. “There could be delays. If we’re gone more than a day, how will we get home?”

I had a ready answer.

“If it looks like we’re about to expire, we can stop at a ditimart and get our heads frozen.”

“Have you ever shipped your head from a ditimart?” Onscreen, her oval face gave a pursed frown. “The ditsicle can take days to arrive, and it’s never as fresh as the ads claim.”

“We won’t have to ship. I’ll copy another gray and stash it in the car, to thaw if time runs short. That way I can finish scouting around some more, and still bring the heads back in a cooler.”

At least, that’s what I told Ritu. In fact, I had other plans. Plans she didn’t have to know about.

NOHB. None of her business.

“You’re sure this is important?” she asked, shaking her gleaming black locks a bit petulantly. I wondered; was this major UK stockholder quibbling over the cost of a golem?

“You tell me whether it is, Ritu. You say you want your father’s death solved, yet you never bothered to tell me that your family owned a cabin by the border, just a hundred clicks from the crash site.”

She winced. “I should have mentioned it. But honestly, I thought Dad got rid of the place ages ago, before I was sixteen. Do you think it might relate to his … accident?”

“In my experience, nothing can be dismissed early in an investigation. So please, gather any data you can find regarding that property. And before you imprint, do spend a little time thinking about your childhood trips to the cabin, so your gray won’t have trouble remembering.”

I often do that — ask the client to think hard about a subject before they send a golem to be questioned. For some reason, most people fail to imprint their Standing Wave completely. The sloppy-copy effect — a kind of swiss cheese amnesia when the ditto tries to access older memories. It never happens to me. My grays even recall some things that I can’t in real form. I wonder why.

Hesitating another moment, Ritu finally agreed with a jerky nod.

“Very well. If you think it’s important.”

“I’m hopeful it may help break the case.”

She drummed elegant, long fingertips on the desk in front of her screen. “I’m at Universal Kilns right now. Going through some paperwork to keep busy … though Aeneas has given me an indefinite leave of absence.”

None of that was relevant to my current needs, not on any practical level. Yet I realized, suddenly, that I’d been insensitive. After all, this was about the recent death of her father.

“Yeah, well, I know it’s a hard time for you. Tell me, did they ever find—” I paused, but there were no better words. “Did they find Dr. Maharal’s ghost?”

“No.” Ritu stared past the monitor, looking stricken and a bit confused. Her full lips quivered. “There’s been no sign of the ditto. Aeneas is quite upset about it. He thinks your missing gray might have something to do with the disappearance.”

More likely the other way around, I thought, recalling the lengths Yosil Maharal took, back when he was alive, trying to drop out of sight. Top theory at the moment? My gray must have caught Maharal’s ghost sneaking off. Pursuing, I must have carelessly fallen for a trap.

I do that sometimes — underestimate the quarry. Nobody’s perfect … and you can get lazy when such mistakes are never permlethal. It kind of makes you marvel at those detectives of olden times, who confronted and confounded remorseless evil while equipped with just one life. Now those guys really had it.

So gray number one may be a puddle of dissolved slurry right now, sinking into the grass somewhere on Aeneas Kaolin’s mansion grounds. And by now Maharal’s ghost could be … what? Whiling away its last hour or so in seclusion somewhere? Maybe spending it with a hired Wammaker copy, for all I knew.

Or else, more likely, executing some final chore for its enigmatic maker. Something deep, complex, and possibly nefarious. I couldn’t shake a creepy feeling about that.

“I’m willing to send another gray to the estate, and help in the search,” I offered.

“That may not be a good idea right now,” Ritu answered, dubious. “Aeneas wants his own people handling that end. But you and I can still investigate other matters. In fact, this desert trip may be useful, after all. When do we start?”

Wondering at her change in tone, I nodded.

“Well, you could make a copy there at UK—”

“I’d rather do it at home … and pack a few things. Also, there may be some pictures of the cabin in my scrapbook.”

“That could help.”

Ritu worked her mouth. “Are you sure this can’t wait till morning?”

In fact, waiting might be wise. And yet, I felt a growing sense of urgency. A need to get on with the part of my plan that Ritu Maharal didn’t have any reason to know about.

“I’ll swing by and pick you up by six. That way, we can cross the desert at night and reach mesa country around dawn.”

Ritu shrugged, appearing resigned.

“Okay. Here’s my address—”

“No.” I shook my head. “We’ll meet at your father’s place instead. I’ve been meaning to give it a look-over. We can do that before heading out.”

I had to pack quickly. The Volvo has an expandable compartment in back, custom-designed to haul up to three imprinted golem blanks in a vac-pac, or just one with a ready-bake kilnette. There’s even room leftover to haul some forensic supplies. I had already prepared a gray ditsicle for the trunk. That left enough time for a makeover.

I stripped down, stepped into the shower, and asked Nell to gray me.

“First protect your eyes,” she reminded.

“Oh, yeah.” I grabbed a container off the shelf and popped out a fresh pair of dark, full-orb contact lenses. I hadn’t done this for a while, so they stung a bit going in.

“Ready.”

A tingling sensation began creeping upward, starting with my toes.

“Spread your legs and lift your arms,” Nell said.

I complied, feeling a bit creepy as she played a resonance laser over my skin, burning off hairs and dead skin cells in a zillion microscopic protein explosions, closer than a razor could shave. Air jets blew away ash and dross, followed by ion-focused droplets of a special solution, to both seal and nurture my pores during the hours they’ll spend cut off from air.

Next came the paint job, quick-staining with my own secret formula. In minutes — lacking only some touch-ups with ditspackle — I could pass for a high-class golem. Except under very close inspection. I held off inserting the mouthpiece for a while yet. It can be a bit uncomfortable.

The procedure’s not exactly illegal — not like disguising a golem to look real in public. But it’s highly discouraged. Someone could shoot me dead when I’m like this, and get off with a mere fine. Small wonder it’s not done very much. Ironically, that’s why a gifted amateur like Yosil Maharal nearly pulled off an inverted version of the same ruse a few weeks ago. Studying those recorded images, my ebony specialist had been lucky to spot certain telltale discrepancies in skin texture. Discrepancies I carefully eliminated there in my dressing room.