The Nearest Exit

14

They were sitting seven rows apart in coach, another sign of Tourism’s budget constraints, and James Ei

Once they had boarded this American Airlines flight to London, Milo plugged himself into his iPod, pressed a complimentary napkin to his nostrils, and tilted his head back as far as it would go. He closed his eyes and listened to David Bowie, circa 1972:

News guy wept and told us,

Earth was really dying

He wasn’t angry about the punch-he’d deserved it. Last year’s fight with Ei

The real shock was that he was still here. Drummond hadn’t released him from Tourism; the morning hadn’t found him free of all this. Now he even had a chaperone to make sure he didn’t step out of line.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, they met by the bathrooms. Ei

Milo gave him a generous smile and looked at the dried blood on the napkin; the flow was finished. “I’m just wondering why I’m still employed. Drummond doesn’t trust me.”

Ei

Back when he’d been in administration, twelve had been the default number, but there’d been cutbacks. “Eight?”

“Five,” said Ei

“He told you all this?”

“This guy’s not like Grainger. I know the old man was your friend, but he was a goddamned sphinx when it came to sharing information. And Mendel-you dealt with him, right?”

Milo nodded.

“You got a little more information from him, but it’s like he was always leaving out the most important detail. Drummond, though…” He faded off a moment. “He’s trying to make you a partner with him. I like it, this new Tourism.”

“So what else has he told you?”

Ei

“We.”

“What?”

“You said we can’t afford to lose Tourists. Drummond really does have you thinking you’re partners. It’s fantastic.”

Ei

Because of air traffic, they had to float for a half hour over Heathrow before finally descending at nine Saturday night. Milo hadn’t been able to sleep at all, so when they finally approached the gate, he was flagging, and Ei

“Excuse me?”

He tapped the side of his nose.

“Back in America. I’ll survive.”

“Then please enjoy yourself, Mr. Hall. And try not to have any accidents here.”

He felt itchy and clammy in his starched suit as he moved through the throng of real-world tourists, but it was another rule of Tourism that, when traveling, one should look as much like a businessman as possible, like someone who has come to invest in the host nation, who has money to blow, who has no patience for customs delays and might easily take his gold card elsewhere. As young and old tourists flushed in the face of hard questions from British customs, Milo passed unmolested, pulling the Baggallini behind him.

In preparation for the next day, he perused the stores in Terminal 3 and bought a T-shirt with a silhouette of London across it, white sports socks, and sunglasses. He took the escalator back down to the arrivals level and joined a twenty-minute taxi queue.

As he finally made his way into the redbrick metropolis, to Piccadilly and Mayfair, he considered his situation. His new boss looked upon him with suspicion, and James Ei

Adriana was gone-but only a fool could believe that it set him free of anything other than guilt, and it didn’t even do that.

The reason he remained, like the reason Drummond hadn’t fired him, was far more practical than the safety of a Moldovan girl: He wasn’t sure he could survive the exit interview.

These extended interrogations went on for weeks as you spilled everything you had done and seen, accounted for all your absences and contacts, and made a general accounting of the money you’d spent. The Company didn’t spend so much on Tourists just to have them walk away. It wanted to squeeze every dollar out of each Tourist before setting him free. Milo knew this because he’d once supervised the exit interviews himself. He knew how an interrogator sniffed out inconsistencies like a truffle dog burrowing under wet leaves.

And what if he did make it? What if he survived weeks of interrogation, and by some stroke of luck they didn’t find a way to co

Before entering the modern Cavendish Hotel, he found a Boots pharmacy. What he wanted was a pack of Davidoffs, but the only way to keep going was to hold on to the promise of a future. He’d decided on the flight to end his relationship with Dexedrine, and in the pharmacy asked the cashier for a box of Nicorette gum, the “fresh mint” flavor. He ripped open the box as he returned to the hotel. He chewed two, the rush of eight milligrams of nicotine bringing on hiccups at the front desk, and his desire for a cigarette ebbed. Predictably, though, it was nowhere near as good as the real thing.