Read Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 for Free Online

toothsome," said Cammy when she finished. "Good call, Bengt. I'm surprised this place isn't completely full. And with a huge line around the block."
    "It's hard to find Lifter," said Bengt, siphoning up the last of his pale green milk-shake. "Olala says the truck moves around all the time. Very weird."
    "I like being in on a secret," said Cammy. "Maybe I shouldn't even try to post about this place." She paused, considering. "But, nah. If I post, I'll be breaking fresh news. Good for my numbers. In fact—" She drew out her ever present smart phone, captured some video of the dimly glittering space, and added a few keystrokes. And then she frowned. "Damn. It uploaded, but not to the right site. It's on something called Wiggleweb? What's that supposed to—"
    Just then the music started, a sweet reggae dub tape, played very loud; a bass line was running an insinuating melody over the percussive double-strums of a guitar. A seriously fat white guy hopped onto a tiny stage near the exit sign. He was pale as dough, shorthaired and clean-shaven, attired in nerdly sweatshirt and khakis. He wore a dangly glowing necklace like that of Barb the cook.
    Wobbling to the beat, the man began singing authentic reggae. In the break after the first song he introduced himself, delivering his words in a zestful Jamaican patois. "A man named Majek Wobble made me Churchill Breakspeare, ya know. I and I
rastafarize
you."
    During the next song, Churchill stepped down from the stage and began trucking from table to table. His smoothly f lowing voice had no need of a microphone. Some of the other guests seemed already to know him.
    During the next break, the singer paused by Bengt. "I surely see you again. The cut of your jib so fine." "I'm Bengt and this is Cammy. You're a great singer." "Irie," said the doughy Churchill. Bengt's attention was caught by Churchill's necklace. It was a loose string adorned by luminous scraps—shimmering rods, glittering lumps, patterned scrolls, tufts of threads. He'd never seen anything like it before. It was garish and...
    "Hypnotic," murmured Cammy, fascinated by the necklace as well. She looked up at Churchill, almost at a loss for words. "I don't, ah, understand your business model?"
    "We feed our people high and tall," said Churchill Breakspeare. "And down the line, we reap." He called out toward the corner kitchen. "Our guests want toothy treats, Sistah Barb!" "How do you manage that accent?" asked Cammy. "It's uncanny." "You'll learn before you know," said Churchill, patting his peculiar necklace. "Like Majek Wobble."
    Barb the cook was at their table again, bubbling with equivocal laughter. The dessert plates glowed with—luminous pudding. Dark shapes lurked within.
    "Living food," said Churchill. "Grow your glow." He swept the little Barb into his plump arms and the two of them began skanking around the room, with Churchill's voice lilting in another island song. By now some of the other guests had left, and the remaining ones seemed zonked.
    The effects of the dessert were dizzying and hard to recall. Bengt's sense of it was that he and Cammy lounged in their Lifter chairs for quite a long time, feeling ambitious, expansive and proud of themselves. At some point they decided to go home—and this wasn't entirely easy.
    All of the other guests had disappeared. Churchill and Barb were huddled in the corner kitchen, perhaps preparing the next day's food. By now Cammy and Bengt didn't feel like any further interactions with their vaguely disturbing hosts.
    "The exit sign," Bengt said, pointing. He and Cammy walked there holding hands—as if making their way through a frightening forest. The dim Lifter space seemed more cavernous than before. The empty tables and chairs were like toy furniturefrom a dollhouse. Small f littery shapes darted around the room's edges, never directly in view, visible only from the corners of one's eyes.
    No actual door could be seen beneath the glowing exit sign. But when Cammy