up in an institution here for observation, on the grounds that I wasdangerously paranoid. When the people at the institution asked me about it, Itold them what had happened. Because I was claiming that the people who had melocked up were conspiring to make me look paranoid, the doctors decided that I*was* paranoid. But tell me, how could I demonstrate my non-paranoia? I mean, asfar as I can tell, the second I was put away for observation, I was guaranteedto be found wanting. Nothing I could have said or done would have made adifference."
The judge looked up from her comm and gave me another once-over. I was wearingmy best day clothes, which were my basic London shabby chic white shirt and graywool slacks and narrow blue tie. It looked natty enough in the UK, but I knewthat in the US it made me look like an overaged door-to-door Mormon. The judgekept looking at me. *Call to action,* I thought. *End your speeches with a callto action*. It was another bit of goofy West Coast Vulcan Mind Control, courtesyof Linda's fucking ex.
"So here's what I wanted to do. I wanted to stand up here and let you know whathad happened to me and ask you for advice. If we assume for the moment that I'm*not* crazy, how should I demonstrate that here in the court?"
The judge rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, making glossy blackwaterfalls of her hair. The whole hearing is very fuzzy for me, but that hair!Who ever heard of a civil servant with good hair?
"Mr. Berry," she said, "I'm afraid I don't have much to tell you. It's myresponsibility to listen to qualified testimony and make a ruling. You haven'tpresented any qualified testimony to support your position. In the absence ofsuch testimony, my only option is to remand you into the custody of theDepartment of Mental Health until such time as a group of qualifiedprofessionals see fit to release you." I expected her to bang a gavel, butinstead she just scritched at her comm and squirted the order at the courtreporter and I was led away.
I didn't even have a chance to talk to Gran.
26.
##Received address book entry "Toby Ginsburg" from Colonelonic.
## Colonelonic (private): This guy's up to something. Flew to Boston twice thisweek. Put a down payment on a house in Orange County. _Big_ house. _Big_ downpayment. A car, too: vintage T-bird convertible. A gas burner! Bought CO2credits for an entire year to go with it.
Trepan: /private Colonelonic Huh. Who's he working for?
## Colonelonic (private): Himself. He Federally incorporated last week,something called "TunePay, Inc." He's the Chairman, but he's only a minorityshareholder. The rest of the common shares are held by a dummy corporation inLondon. Couldn't get any details on that without using a forensic accountingpackage, and that'd get me fired right quick.
Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's OK. I get the picture. I owe you one, allright?
## Colonelonic (private): sweat.value==0 Are you going to tell me what this isall about someday? Not some bullshit about your girlfriend?
Trepan: /private Colonelonic Heh. That part was true, actually. I'll tell youthe rest, maybe, someday. Not today, though. I gotta go to London.
Art's vision throbbed with his pulse as he jammed his clothes back into hisbackpack with one hand while he booked a ticket to London on his comm with theother. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he ordered the taxi while scribbling anote to Gran on the smart-surface of her fridge.
He was verging on berserk by the time he hit airport security. The guard playedthe ultrasound flashlight over him and looked him up and down with his goggles,then had him walk through the chromatograph twice. Art tried to breathe calmly,but it wasn't happening. He'd take two deep breaths, think about how he was yup,calming down, pretty good, especially since he was going to London to confrontFede about the fact that his friend had screwed him stabbed him in the backusing his girlfriend to distract him and meanwhile she was in Los Angelessleeping with her fucking ex who was going to steal his idea and sell it as hisown that fucking prick boning his girl right then almost certainly laughingabout poor old Art, dumbfuck stuck in Toronto with his thumb up his ass, oh Fedewas going to pay, that's right, he was -- and then he'd be huffing down hisnose, hyperventilating, really losing his shit right there.
The security guard finally asked him if he needed a doctor.
"No," Art said. "That's fine. I'm just upset. A friend of mine died suddenly andI'm flying to London for the funeral." The guard seemed satisfied with thisexplanation and let him pass, finally.
He fought the urge to get plastered on the flight and vibrated in his seatinstead, jiggling his leg until his seatmate -- an elderly businessman who'dspent the flight thus far wrinkling his brow at a series of spreadsheets on hiscomm -- actually put a hand on Art's knee and said, "Switch off the motor, son.You're gonna burn it out if you idle it that high all the way to Gatwick."
Art nearly leapt out of his seat when the flight attendant wheeled up theduty-free cart, bristling with novelty beakers of fantastically old whiskeyshaped like jigging Scotchmen and drunken leprechauns swinging from lampposts.
By the time he hit UK customs he was supersonic, ready to hammer an entirepacket of Player's filterless into his face and light them with a blowtorch. Itwasn't even 0600h GMT, and the Sikh working the booth looked three-quartersasleep under his turban, but he woke right up when Art stepped past the red lineand slapped both palms on the counter and used them as a lever to support him ashe pogoed in place.
"Your business in England, sir?"
"I work for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. Let me beam you my visa." His hands wereshaking so badly he dropped his comm to the hard floor with an ominous clatter.He snatched it up and rubbed at the fresh dent in the cover, then flipped itopen and stabbed at it with a filthy fingernail.
"Thank you, sir. Door number two, please."
Art took one step towards the baggage carousel when the words registered.Customs search! Godfuckingdammit! He jittered in the private interview roomuntil another Customs officer showed up, overrode his comm and read in his IDand credentials, then stared at them for a long moment.
"Are you quite all right, sir?"
"Just a little wound up," Art said, trying desperately to sound normal. Hethought about telling the dead friend story again, but unlike a lowly airportsecurity drone, the Customs man had the ability and inclination to actuallyverify it. "Too much coffee on the plane. Need to have a slash like you wouldn'tbelieve."
The Customs man grimaced slightly, then chewed a corner of his little moustache."Everything else is all right, though?"
"Everything's fine. Back from a business trip to the States and Canada, alljetlagged. You know. Can you believe the bastards actually expect me at theoffice today?" This might work. Piss and moan about the office until he getsbored and lets him go. "I mean, you work your guts out, fly halfway around theworld and do it some more, get strapped into a torture seat -- you think Virginsprings for business-class tickets for its employees? Hell no! -- for six hours,then they want you at the goddamned office."
"Virgin?" the Customs man said, eyebrows going up. "But you flew in on BA, sir."
Shit. Of course he hadn't booked a Virgin flight. That's what Fede'd beexpecting him to do, he'd be watching for Art to use his employee discount andhop a flight back. "Yes, can you believe it?" Art thought furiously. "Theycalled me back suddenly, wouldn't even let me wait around for one of their owndamned planes. One minute I'm eating breakfast, the next I'm in a taxi headingfor the airport. I forgot half of my damned underwear in the hotel room! You'dthink they could cope with *one little problem* without crawling up my cock,wouldn't you?"
"Sir, please, calm down." The Customs man looked alarmed and Art realized thathe'd begun to pace.
"Sorry, sorry. It just sucks. Bad job. Time to quit, I think."
"I should think so," the Customs man said. "Welcome to England."
Traffic was early-morning light and the cabbie drove like a madman. Art keptflinching away from the oncoming traffic, already unaccustomed to driving on thewrong side of the road. England seemed filthy and gray and shabby to him now,tiny little cars with tiny, anal-ret
entive drivers filled with self-loathing,vegetarian meat-substitutes and bad dentistry. In his rooms in Camden Town, Arttook a hasty and vengeful census of his stupid belongings, sagging rentalfurniture and bad art prints hanging askew (not any more, not after he smashedthem to the floor). Bad English clothes (toss 'em onto the floor, looking forone thing he'd be caught dead wearing in NYC, and guess what, not a singlething). Stupid keepsakes from the Camden market, funny novelty lighters, retrorave flyers preserved in glassine envelopes.
He was about to overturn his ugly little pressboard coffee table when herealized that there was something on it.
A small, leather-worked box with a simple brass
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