A Place so Foreign

by Cory Doctorow

looking around for a public phone. After severalblocks, I realised that no one was paying any attention to me, and I took myhands out of my pockets. The sun filtered down over me, warm through the bigdome, and I realised that even though I'd gotten myself stuck in 75, been'jacked, and left in the worst neighbourhood in the whole State, I'd landed onmy feet. The thought made me smile. Another kid, say Oly, wouldn't have copednearly as well.

  I still hadn't spied a public phone. I figured that the taprooms would have aphone, otherwise, how could a drunk call his wife and tell her he was going tobe late coming home? I picked a bar, whose airlock was painted to look like abrick tunnel, and walked in.

  The airlock irised shut behind me and I blinked in the gloom. My nose wasassaulted with sickly sweet incense, and stale liquor, and cigar smoke.

  The place was tiny, and crowded with dented metal tables and chairs that werebolted to the floorplates. A woman stood behind the bar, looking hard and brassyand cheap, watching a soap opera on her vid. A spacer sat in one corner, staringat his bulb of beer.

  The bartender looked up. "Get lost, kid," she said. "No minors allowed."

  "Sorry, ma'am," I said. "I just wanted to use your telephone. I was packjacked,and I need to call the police."

  The bartender turned back to her soap opera. "Go peddle it somewhere else,sonny. The phone's for customers only."

  "Please," I said. "My father's an ambassador, from 1898? I don't have any money,and I'm stuck here. I won't be a minute."

  The spacer looked up from his drink. "Get lost, the lady said," he slurred atme.

  "I'll buy something," I said.

  "You just said you don't have any money," the bartender said.

  "I'll pay for it when the police get here. The Embassy will cover it."

  "No credit," she said.

  "You're not going to let me use your phone?" I said.

  "That's right," she said, still staring at her vid.

  "I'm a stranger, an ambassador's son, who's been robbed. A kid. Stuck here,broke and alone, and you won't let me use your phone to call the police?"

  "That's about the size of things," she said.

  "Well, I guess my Pa was right. The whole world went to hell after 1914. Nomanners, no human decency."

  "You're breaking my heart," she said.

  "Fine. Be that way. Send me back out on the street, deny me a favour that won'tcost you one red cent, just because I'm a stranger."

  "Shut _up_, kid, for chrissakes," the spacer said. "I'll stand him to a Coke, ifthat's what it takes. Just let him use the phone and get out of here. He'sgiving me a headache."

  "Thank you, sir," I said, politely.

  The bartender switched her vid over to phone mode, poured me a Coke, and handedme the vid.

  #

  The policeman who showed up a few minutes later stuck me in the back of hiscruiser, listened to my story, scanned my retinas, confirmed my identity, andretracted the armour between the back and front seats.

  "I'll take you to the station house," he said. "We'll contact your Embassy, letthem handle it from there."

  "What about the kids who 'jacked me?" I asked.

  The cop turned the jetcar's conn over to wire-fly mode and turned around. "Yougot any description?"

  "Well, they had really nice packs on, with the traffic beacons snapped off. Onewas red, and I think the other was green. And they were young. Ten or eleven."

  The cop punched at his screen. "Kid," he said, "I got over three million minorseight to eleven, flying packs less than a year old. The most popular colour isred. Second choice, green. Where would you like me to start? Alphabetically?"

  "Sorry, sir, I didn't realise."

  "Sure," he said. "Whatever."

  "I guess I'm not thinking very clearly. It's been a long day."

  The cop looked over to me and smiled. "I guess it has, at that. Don't worry,kid, we'll get you home all right."

  #

  They gave me a fresh jumpsuit, sat me on a bench, called the embassy, and forgotabout me. A long, boring time later, a fat man with walrus moustaches and ruddyskin showed up.

  "On your feet, lad," he said. "I'm Pondicherry, your father's successor. You'vemade quite a mess of things, haven't you?" He had a clipped, British accent,with a hint of something else. I remembered Mr Johnstone saying he'd been inIndia. He wore a standard unisex jumpsuit, with his ambassadorial sash overtopof it. He looked ridiculous.

  "Sorry to have disturbed you, sir," I said.

  "I'm sure you are," he said. "Come along, we'll see about fixing this mess."

  He used the station's teleporter to bring me to his apartment. It was asridiculous as his uniform, and in the same way. He'd taken the basic elegantsimplicity of a standard 1975 unit and draped all kinds of silly trophies andmodels overtop of it: lions' heads and sabers and model ships and framed medalsand savage masks and dolls.

  "You may look, but not touch, do you understand me?" he said, as we stepped outof the teleporter.

  "Yes, sir," I said. If anyone else had said it, I would have been offended, butcoming from this puffed-up pigeon, it didn't sting much.

  He went to a vid and punched impatiently at the screen while I prowled theapartment. The bookcase was full of old friends, books by the Frenchman, ofcourse, and more, with strange names like Wells and Burroughs and Shelley. Ilooked over a long, stone-headed spear, and the curve of an elephant's tusk, anda collection of campaign ribbons and medals under glass. I returned to thebookcase: something had been bothering me. There, there it was: "War of theWorlds," the book that Mr Adelson had given me for Christmas. But there wassomething wrong with the spine of this one: instead of _Jules Verne_, the authorname was _H.G. Wells_. I snuck a look over my shoulder; Pondicherry was stillstabbing at the screen. I snuck the book off the shelf and turned to the titlepage: "War of the Worlds, by Herbert George Wells." I turned to the firstchapter:

  The Eve of the War

  No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that thisworld was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man'sand yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their variousconcerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a manwith a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm andmultiply in a drop of water.

  It was just as I remembered it, every word, just as it was in the Verne. Icouldn't begin to explain it.

  A robutler swung out of its niche with a sheaf of papers. I startled at thenoise, then reflexively stuck the book in my jumpsuit. The roboutler deliveredthem to Pondicherry, who stuffed them in a briefcase.

  "The embassy will be able to return you home by courier route in three hours.Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of waiting around here until then. I havean important meeting to attend -- you'll have to come along."

  "Yes, sir," I said, trying to sound eager and helpful.

  "Don't say anything, don't touch anything. This is very sensitive."

  "No, sir, I won't. Thank you, sir."

  #

  The meeting was in a private room in a fancy restaurant, one that I'd been tobefore for an embassy Christmas party. Mama had drunk two glasses of sherry, andhad flushed right to the neck of her dress. We'd had roast beef, and a goosewrapped inside a huge squash, the size of a barrel, like they grew on the Moon.

  Pondicherry whisked through the lobby, and the main dining room, and then up anarrow set of stairs, without checking to see if I was following. I dawdled alittle, remembering Pa laughing and raising his glass in toast after toast.

  I caught up with Pondicherry just as he was ordering, speaking brusquely intothe table. Another man sat opposite him. Pondicherry looked up at me and said,"Have you dined, boy?"

  "No, sir."

  He ordered me a plate of calf livers in cream sauce, which is about the worstthing you can feed a boy, if you ask me, which he didn't. "Sit down," he said."Mr Nussbaum, Master James Nicholson. I am temporarily in _loco parentis_, untilhe can be sent home."
r />   Nussbaum smiled and extended his hand. He was wearing a grey suit, with astrange cut, and a black tie. His fingers dripped with heavy gold rings, and hishair, while short, still managed to look fancy and a little sissy-fied. "Good tomeetcha, son. You Lester's boy?"

  "Yes, sir, he was my Pa."

  "Good man. A damned shame. What are you doing here? Playing hooky?"

  "I guess I just got lost. I'm going home, soon as they can get me there."

  "Is that so? Well, I'll be sad to see you go. You look like a smart kid. Youlike chocolate cake, I bet."

  "Sometimes," I said.

  "Like when?"

  "When my mama makes it, with a glass of milk, after school," I said.

  He laughed, a strangled har-har-har. "You guys kill me. Your mama, huh? Well,they make some fine chocolate cake here, though it may not be as good as thestuff from home." He thumbed the table. "Sweetie, send up the biggest piece ofchocolate cake you got down there, and a glass a milk, willya?"

  The table acknowledged his request with a soft green light.

  "Thank you, sir," I said.

  "That's quite enough, I think," Pondicherry said. "I didn't come here to watchyou rot young James's teeth. Can we get to business?"

  Pondicherry started talking, in rapid, clipped sentences, punctuated by viciousbites of his food. I tried to follow what it was about -- trading buffalo steaksfor rare metals, I got that much, but not much more. The calves' livers wereworse than I imagined, and I hid as much of them as I could under the potatoes,then pushed the plate away and dug into the cake.

  I sneaked a look up and saw that Nussbaum was grinning slyly at me. He hadn'tsaid much, just ate calmly and waited for Pondicherry to run out of steam. Hecaught my eye and slipped a wink at me. I looked over at Pondicherry, who wasnoisily cudding a piece of steak, oblivious, and winked back at Nussbaum.

  Pondicherry daubbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Excuse me," he said, "I'll beright back." He stood and walked towards the WC.

  Nussbaum suddenly jingled. Distractledly, he patted his pockets until he locateda tiny phone. He flipped it open and grunted "Nussbaum," into it.

  "Jules!" he said a moment later. "How're things?"

  He scowled as he listened to the answer. "Now, you and I know that there's adifference between _smart_ and _greedy_. I think it's a bad idea."

  He listened some more and drummed his fingers on the table.

  "Because it's not _credible_, dammit! Even the title is anachronistic: no one in1902 is going to understand what _Neuromancer_ means. Think about it, wouldya?Why don't you do some of Twain's stuff? Those books've got _legs_."

  My jaw dropped. Nussbaum was talking to the Frenchman -- and he was helping himto _cheat_! To steal from Mark Twain! I was suddenly conscious of "War of theWorlds," down the front of my jumpsuit. I thought back to Mr Adelson'sassignment, and it all made sudden sense. Verne was a _plagiarist_.

  Nussbaum hung up just as Pondicherry re-seated himself. He took a sip of hisdrink, then held up a hand. Pondicherry eyed him coldly.

  "Look," Nussbaum said. "We've gone over this a few times, OK? I know where youstand. You know where I stand. We're not standing in the same place. Much as Ienjoy your company, I don't really wanna spend the whole day listening to yourepeating yourself. All right?"

  "Really, I don't think --" Pondicherry started, but Nussbaum held up his handagain.

  "That's all right, I'm a rude son-of-a-bitch, and I know it. Let's just take itas read that you and me spent the whole afternoon letting the other fella knowhow sincere our positions are. Then we can move onto cocktails, and compromise,and maybe have some of the day left over." Pondicherry started to talk again,but Nussbaum plowed over him. "I'll go to six troy ounces per steer. You won'tget a better offer. 98% pure ores. Better than anything you'd ever refine backhome. It's as far as I go."

  "Sir, is that an ultimatum?" Pondicherry asked, his eyes narrowing.

  "Call it whatever you please, buster. It's my final, iron-clad offer. You don'tlike it, I can talk to the Chinaman. He seemed pretty eager to get some goodmetal home to the Emperor."

  "You wouldn't -- he's too far back, it would violate the protocols."

  "That's what you say. It may be what the trade court decides. I'll take mychances."

  "Six and a half ounces," Pondicherry said, in a spoiled-brat voice.

  "You don't hear so good, do you? Six ounces is the offer on the table; take itor leave it." Nussbaum pushed some papers across the table.

  Pondicherry stared at them for a long moment. "I will sign them, sir, but it iswith the expectation of continued trade opportunities. This is a good-willgesture, do you understand?"

  Nussbaum snorted and reached for his papers. "This is about steaks and metals.This isn't about the future, it's about today, now. That's what's on the table.You can sign it, or you can walk away."

  Pondicherry blew air out his nose like a crazy horse, and signed. "If you'llexcuse me, I need to use the WC again." He rose and left the room, purple fromthe collar up.

  "What a maroon," Nussbaum said to the closed door. "This's gotta be a real blastfor you, huh?" he said.

  I grinned. "It's not so bad. I liked watchin' you hogtie him."

  He laughed. "I never would've tried that on your father, kid. He was too sharp.But fatso there, he's terrified the Chinaman will give the Middle Kingdom anedge when it faces down his Royal Navy. All it takes is the slightest hint, andhe folds like a cheap suit."

  That made me chuckle -- a cheap suit!

  I gave him my best innocent look. "Who else knows about the Frenchman?" I askedhim.

  Nussbaum grinned like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Irealised about halfway through that conversation that being Lester's boy, you'veprobably read just about every word old Jules 'wrote.'"

  "I have," I said. I took out "War of the Worlds." "How does Mr Wells feel aboutthis?" I asked.

  "I imagine he's pretty mystified," Nussbaum said. "Would you believe, you're thefirst one who's caught on?"

  I believed it. I knew enough to know that the agencies that policed theprotocols had their hands full keeping track of art and gold smugglers. I'dnever even thought of smuggling _words_. If the trade courts found out. . .Well, hardly a week went by that someone didn't propose shutting down theambassadorships; they'd talk about how the future kept on leaking pastwards, andif we thought 1975 looked bad, imagine life in 1492 once the future reached it!The ambassadors had made a lot of friends in high places, though: they usedtheir influence to keep things on an even keel.

  Nussbaum raised an eyebrow and studied me. "I think your father may've figuredit out, but he kept it to himself. He and Jules got along like a house on fire."

  I kept the innocent look on my face. "Well, then," I said. "If Pa didn't sayanything, you'd think that I wouldn't either, right?"

  Nussbaum sighed and gave me a sheepish look. "I'd _like_ to think so," he said.

  I turned the book over in my hands, keeping my gaze locked with his. I was aboutto tell him that I'd keep it to myself, but at the last minute, some instincttold me to keep my mouth shut.

  Nussbaum shrugged as though to say, _I give up_. "Hey, you're headed home today,right?" he said, carefully.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've got a message that you could maybe relay for me, you think?"

  "I guess so. . ." I said, doubtfully.

  "I'll make it worth your while. It's got to go to a friend of mine in Frisco.There's no hurry -- just make sure he gets it in the next ten years or so. Onceyou deliver it, he'll take care of you -- you'll be set for life."

  "Gosh," I said, deadpan.

  "Are you game?"

  "I guess so. Sure." My heart skipped. Set for life!

  "The man you want to speak to is Reddekop, he's the organist at the Castrotheatre. Tell him: 'Nussbaum says get out by October 29th, 1929.' He'll knowwhat it means. You got that?"

  "Reddekop, Castro Theatre. October 29th, 1929."

  "Exac-atac-ally." He slid "Wa
r of the Worlds" into his briefcase. "You're doin'me a hell of a favour, son."

  He shook my hand. Pondicherry came back in then, and glared at me. "The embassycontacted me. They can set you at home six months after you left -- there's acourier gateway this afternoon."

  "Six months!" I said. "My Mama will go crazy! Can't you get me home any sooner?"

  Pondicherry smirked. "Don't complain to me, boy. You dug this hole yourself. Thenext scheduled courier going anywhere near your departure-point is in fiveyears. We'll send notice to your mother then, to expect you home mid-July."

  "Tough break, kiddo," Nussbaum said, and he shook my hand and slipped me anotherwink.

  #

  The courier gateway let me out in an alleyway in Salt Lake