by Rudy Rucker
“Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd., is offering some really serious bread, Tre, which is what got me back onto this. It’s a mongo business opportunity. Ramanujan needs four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry right now, and Emperor Staghorn will pay whatever it takes to get them. Ramanujan can’t figure it out himself, and he has this conviction that you’re the man. It’s not just the actual tessellation that counts, you wave, it’s the gnarly Tre Dietz way you tweak it.”
“Well, that’s nice, but—”
“The loonie moldies are interested in this too. My old friend Willy Taze; he moved into the loonie moldies’ Nest a couple of years ago. He’s talking about creating a virtual dial to like set the Perplexing Poultry’s dimensionality to any number N.” Stahn cleared his throat uncertainly. “Like three, four, five, six, seven . . . N—you wave? Didn’t you say something about a general solution when we hired you?”
“Yes, the Schmitt-Conway biprism works for any N of the form 3 times M. Like for three, six, nine, and so on. And now that we have four and five, we can get all the others as Cartesian cross products. The dimensions sum when you cross the spaces. But you’ve got to understand that Conway’s prisms are ugly. They look like waffles or like factory roofs. Turning them into pleasing visual Poultry is just too—”
“Try harder, Tre. I’ve got something for you to download that might help. It’s a philtre Willy Taze sent me. Bye for now. It’s time for my morning pick-me-up.”
“Wait,” said Tre. “One question. What do Emperor Staghorn Beetle and the loonie moldies want N-dimensional Perplexing Poultry for?”
“They won’t exactly tell me. But supposedly it has something to do with better communications between humans and moldies. And merging is something I’m always for.” Grinning Stahn pulsed himself a big toot from a handheld squeezie and toggled the connection off.
The loonie philtre, which was called TonKnoT, generated silent movies of smooth, brightly colored tubes tying themselves into N-dimensional knots. TonKnoT kept pausing and starting over with a fresh knot. The knot would start as a straight stick with arrows on it, and then all the arrows would move about and the stick would turn, in some indefinable way, into a knot. The pictures seemed so urgent, yet the meaning continued to escape Tre. “Look at this,” TonKnoT seemed to be saying. “This is important. This is one of the hidden secrets of the world.” The knot deformations were almost insultingly slow and precise, yet the gimmick of the shift kept somehow eluding Tre. “Look harder and you will understand.”
And then in July, the jam broke and Tre finally designed his four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry.
Taking care of the kids and the motel had been getting to be too much grunt work, so as soon as Tre got his big advance from Apex for the four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry, he and Terri hired a moldie worker. Up until then, they’d been getting by with the bumbling uncertain labor of the sweet, bright woman named Molly, whom Terri’s mother had passed on to them with the motel. By the ongoing linguistic warpage of euphemism, bright in 2053 had come to mean what special or retarded or half-witted might have meant sixty or a hundred years earlier. Tre and Terri took some pains to prevent Molly from buttonholing guests to talk on and on about what kinds of foods she laaaahked—always a favorite topic of Molly’s. She liked oysters but not clams, crabs but not shrimp, squid but not mussels, beef but not ham, spaghetti but not macaroni, and on and on. The weird cryptic idiot savant joke in this was that Molly liked only the foods whose name did not contain the letter m—it was Terri who’d figured that out. They could never decide if Molly herself consciously understood this; if you asked her about it, she just laughed and said she didn’t know how to spell.
Once they had a moldie to do the rooms, Terri and Tre began using Molly as a baby-sitter. She’d worked for the Percesepe family so long that there could be no thought of letting her go. The baby-sitting job worked out fine, as Dolf and Baby Wren loved Molly and hated Monique. Like most children, they instinctively feared moldies, with their odd motions and their alien stench.
When Randy Karl Tucker checked into the Clearlight Terrace Court Motel—the day before he abducted Monique—it was eight-thirty on a clear October evening. Terri and Tre were in the process of giving the kids a bath—always a fun family time, with fat Wren slapping the water and shouting, while Dolf manned the faucets and guided a flotilla of floating things around the dangerous Wren. Terri was kneeling by the tub with a washrag and Tre was sitting on the closed toilet seat with a towel in readiness. Just then there was a chime.
“Uh-oh,” said Tre. “A guest. I better go help Monique.”
“Wren’s done,” said Terri. “Grab her and put her in her sleeper first. I can’t do both the kids alone.”
Tre pulled his uvvy out of his pocket, put it on his neck, and told Monique to stall. It was always good practice to get a face-to-face look at your guests. Not only did it make the customers happier, but it was unwise to trust a moldie’s judgment about who to let into the motel.
Terri handed Wren into Tre’s waiting towel. Moving quickly, Tre diapered Wren, zipped her into her sleeper, and set her down in her crib. “I’ll be right back, Wren.” Wren wailed to see her father go so quickly, but then shifted her focus to her crib toys.
Out in the office, Monique was behind the counter talking with a lanky young guy with a thin head and colorless eyes. He was dressed in cheap nerd clothes. He had his elbows on the counter and was slouched forward like a drunk at a bar. A small battered leather carry-on bag rested at his feet.
“Here’s one of our managers,” said Monique. “Tre Dietz. Tre, this is Randy Karl Tucker.” The narrow-skulled man looked vaguely familiar. Tre felt like he’d seen Tucker around Santa Cruz recently.
“Hi, guy,” said the man. With his accent it came out sounding like Haaaaah, gaaaaah. “I need a room for a night, maybe two nights. Nice li’l moldie you got yourself here.” He stretched one of his long arms across the counter and gave Monique an appraising pat, intimately running his hand down her shoulder onto her chest. Monique twitched away from him. In her anger, she released a cloud of pungent spores and redolent body gas.
“Haw-haw,” said Tucker. “She gets her dander up. I guess I shore ain’t in Kentucky no more.”
“Nope,” said Tre, moving forward. “Not hardly. What do we have free, Monique?”
“We can give him Room 3D,” said the reeking Monique.
“A nice room,” said Tre. “On the lower terrace. It has an ocean view.”
“Copacetic,” said Tucker. “I’ll charge it.” He leaned down and got an uvvy out of his bag, being careful to immediately snap the clasps on his bag shut.
“Monique can take your code,” said Tre.
“Monique the moldie,” said Tucker and sniffed the air savoringly. “I like it.” He put his uvvy on his neck and chirped Monique his authorization code. He did something internal in his uvvy space and his eyes glazed over, staring blankly at Monique, his eyes squinted up small as two pissholes in a snowbank. Some uvvy conversation got him briefly involved and he started subvocalizing and gesturing. “Fuckin’-aye, Jen,” said Tucker vaguely and took the uvvy off his neck. He favored Tre with a bogus grin. “Is that your hydrogen cycle right outside, Mr. Dietz? With the white DIM tires?”
“Call me Tre. Yeah it is. You like it?”
“What I do,” said Tucker, “what I do is limpware upgrades. When’s the last time you got those tires upgraded?”
“What for? It’s never occurred to me. The tires work fine.”
“Shit-normal rubber tires would work, but you don’t use ’em ,” said Tucker. “I happen to be the sole local distributor for a new limpware patch that enhances the performance of DIM tires a hundred and fifty percent. Smooths the hell out of the bumps.”
“You’re a limpware salesman?” said Tre disbelievingly.
“You don’t think I look like no kind of a hi-tech propellerhead, do you, Tre Dietz?” Tucker chuckled slyly. “I might’s well confess, I already
know who you are. That’s one of the reasons I’m bunkin’ at this hole; I admire the hell outta your philtres. But I’m not here to hassle you, man. The thing about the tires is, I’d be right proud to give you an upgrade for twenty percent off the room rate.”
Just then Dolf came tearing out of the back apartment, wet and naked. “Catch him, Tre!” called Terri.
Tre grabbed at Dolf, who roared with joy and ran back into the apartment. “I better go help with the kids,” Tre told Randy Karl Tucker. “We can talk about your offer tomorrow when I have more time, but I’m probably not interested. Thanks anyway. Do you mind if I have Monique show you to your room now?”
“It’d be my pleasure,” said Tucker.
The next morning Molly showed up to watch the kids, and Terri went surfing. Tre smoked a joint and went to sit in a sunny spot out in front of the motel office with his uvvy. Now that he’d mastered the four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry, he was getting close on a general N-dimensional method for creating attractive analogs of the Conway cross-product prisms. These days he had a lot of interesting work to do.
Monique come bouncing up from the lower terrace. Her facial expression was even more opaque than usual, and she was followed closely by Randy Karl Tucker, dressed the same as yesterday and carrying his bag. Tucker looked mussed and wild-eyed, as if he’d been wrestling with someone. His neck bore several red welts, some of them disk-shaped as if from a mollusk’s suckers. He was wearing his uvvy.
“Haaaaah, gaaaaah,” wheezed Tucker. “Here’s that upgrade I promised you!” Before Tre could object, Tucker had pulled two purplish postage-stamp-sized patches of plastic out of his pants pocket and had slapped them onto the fat white imipolex tires of Tre’s hydrogen cycle. “You’re gonna love these to death, freakbrain,” said Tucker. “I’m outta here. Monique, you whore! I want you to carry me on your fat ass!”
“Just a minute there,” said Tre, losing his temper. “You can’t talk like that. Monique has work to do. She doesn’t rickshaw for the guests. And I don’t want your xoxxin’ goober patches on my DIM tires! Who the hell do you think you are?”
Tucker didn’t bother to answer. Monique leaned forward and broadened her butt. Tucker sprang onto her, sinking one hand into her flesh and grasping his travel bag with his other hand. Monique found her balance, Tucker whooped, and they hopped rapidly away.
The enraged, flabbergasted Tre stared after them for a moment, then ran back through the office and yelled to Molly, who was playing checkers with Dolf while Wren watched from her walker. “Keep an eye on things, Molly! I have to go out!”
“All righty,” sang Molly. “The boy and me are about to eat cookies! I’ll give Wren one too. I love cookies, but I hate graham crackers!”
“Fine, Molly, fine.”
Tre dashed back out and jumped onto his hydrogen cycle. The burner hiccupped on, and Tre pedaled to the corner with the little engine helping him. There, down at the bottom of the hill, were Tucker and Monique, moving toward the wharf in long, graceful leaps. Tre hurtled after them.
He thought—too late—of Tucker’s patches on his DIM tires as he shot across the train tracks at the bottom of the hill. Instead of smoothing the bump energy into the usual chaotic series of shudders, Tre’s tires seemed to blow out. The raw metal of the wheel rims scraped across the pavement, showering sparks. The bike slewed, the front rim crimped and caught, Tre went over the falls. His shoulder made a horrible crunch as he hit the pavement.
Tre lay there gasping for breath, monitoring the nerve impulses from his battered bod. Big problem in his right shoulder, a scrape on his forearm, but he hadn’t hit his head. All right, he was going to be okay, but then—
Two strong slippery shapes wound around Tre’s waist. The DIM tires!?! Tre jerked up into a sitting position. Bone ground against bone in his right shoulder. The tires were like fat white hoop snakes who’d stopped biting their tails; they were the two sea serpents who slew Laocoon. Tucker’s DIM patches glowed on the tires like evil eyes. There was a hideous pressure around Tre’s waist, squeezing the air out of him. He got hold of the tires with his left hand and pulled them loose; they writhed up his left arm and twined around his neck.
“What’s he doing? Is it a trick?”
A group of tourists had gathered around Tre and the DIM snakes. The young man who spoke was a valley wearing a bright new Santa Cruz DIM shirt with a gnarly graphic of a surfer on a liveboard.
“He’s bleeding,” said the woman at his side. She wore her long pink hair in three high ponytails. “And it looks like those moldie things are choking him.”
“Help,” gasped Tre. “Get them off me. They—” The pressure on his windpipe made further speech impossible, but now, blessedly, the tourist stepped forward and tugged at the snakes. While continuing to grip Tre’s neck with their tails, the snakes elongated their heads and stuck at the man. Another onlooker—a lithe black woman in cotton tights—stepped forward and yanked the distracted snakes off Tre. She swung the snakes through the air and slammed them down hard on the pavement.
“Rogue moldies,” yelled an old man. “Hold ’em down! I’ll run into that liquor store and get some 191-proof rum to burn ’em !”
The valley guy planted his feet on one of the stunned DIM tires and the black woman stood on the other. The old man hurried hitchingly toward Beach Liquors. The woman with the three ponytails leaned over Tre, who was flat on his back.
“Are you okay, mister?” The woman’s upside-down face looked big and soft and strange. Watching her white-lipsticked lips move was like seeing someone with a mouth in her forehead.
“I think so,” whispered Tre.
There was a sudden cry, and now the DIM snakes had wormed out from under the people’s feet. They humped off rapidly, leaped into the air, and all at once flipped into the shapes of seagulls.
Still on his back, Tre stared at the white shapes flapping away. The blue sky. It was precious to be alive.
“What the hell?” asked the guy in the DIM shirt.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” said the black woman.
“Here’s the rum!” called a voice, and the old man’s footsteps came scuffing closer. “They got away? Gol-dang it. I’ve always wanted to burn a moldie. Well, what the hey.” There was a sound of a bottle being uncapped, followed by a gurgle of drinking. “Anybody else want some? How ’bout the victim here?”
Tre sat up and weakly waved the old man away. “Thank you,” he said to the tourists. “You saved my life. God bless you.”
“Shouldn’t he stay on his back?” interjected an old woman. “His neck could be broken. He might have internal bleeding. We should get him to a doctor. Where’s the nearest hospital? Stop guzzling that rum, Herbert!”
“Most of us don’t use doctors and hospitals here,” said Tre painfully. Moving very slowly, he got to his feet. “I’ll go to a healer.”
“But shouldn’t we call the Gimmie?” asked the valley.
“We don’t like to use them either,” said Tre, attempting a grin. “We use privatized cops. Popos. Welcome to Santa Cruz.”
After a little more chatter, the people drifted away. Tre stared briefly up and down Beach Street, then out toward the wharf, but nothing much was to be seen. People coming and going. A Percesepe cruise boat pulling away. No sign of Tucker, Monique, or the DIM tires/seagulls.
It was only two blocks back to the motel, so Tre decided to wheel his cycle back there before doing anything else. The bare wheel rims clanged, the bones in his shoulder grated, but Tre made it. He was thankful to find Terri there.
“Terri, I’m hurt. I was in an accident. I think I broke a bone.”
“Oh, Tre, that’s wiped! You’re so pale! How did it happen?”
“I was chasing Monique and Randy Karl Tucker. That weird hillbilly limpware salesman who checked in last night? Somehow he got Monique to rickshaw him away, and I was trying to chase them down with my cycle.”
“You fell off your bike?”
“My tire
s squirmed off the rims. Then they tried to squeeze me to death and then they tried to strangle me and then they turned into seagulls and they flew away.”
“Who did?”
“My DIM tires. Tucker put some kind of patch on them. He jammed their limpware.”
“You fell off your bike and your tires tried to choke you and then they flew away. Tre, you’re stoned, aren’t you? Why do you do this to yourself? To me and the kids?”
“I did smoke pot this morning, but that has nothing to do with it! Why are you so suspicious, Terri? I need your help, for God’s sake. My shoulder’s broken, I’ve nearly been killed, and I have to see a healer!”
“Fine,” said Terri curtly. “We’ll go to Starshine.”
“Can I come too?” asked Dolf. “I want to see Starshine make Daddy well.” The little boy stared worriedly up at Tre, who was grimacing.
“Yes, you can come,” said Tre, patting his son on the head. It would be good to have a buffer between him and Terri. Terri often got angry when she was afraid. “Molly, we three are going down to Starshine’s.”
“Bye-bye. Say bye-bye, Wren!” Little Wren stood unsteadily on Molly’s lap and waved bye-bye, dimpling her cheeks and showing her gums.
The sun was high and glaring. Dolf skipped down the sidewalk ahead of the silent Terri and Tre. They walked a block down the back side of the beach hill to the little house where Starshine and her husband Duck Tapin lived. The house was set back from the street with a garage up front by the curb in the shade of a huge palm tree.
Duck was visible in the shadows of the garage, wearing his inevitable outfit of tan shorts and flowered shirt. He had a long, weathered face with reddish-blond walrus whiskers; his hair was a floppy mat of blond curls.
“Yaar, Duck,” said Terri.
“Yaar,” said Duck. “What’s happening?” He looked up from the big table where he was carefully assembling some scroll-shaped pieces of colored glass into one of the windows that he sold for a living. Starshine’s orange-and-white dog Planet lay at Duck’s feet, quietly thumping his tail. Little Dolf hunkered down near Planet to pet him.
