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fifty, especially given the Commodore’s voyeuristic addiction to ultraviolence. Day and night, he needed to witness some form of over-the-top butchery at regular intervals. Failure to do this educed disorders ranging from apoplectic fits to unruly psychotic interludes. TV was insufficient. Lucid dreams were insufficient. Pharmaceuticals didn’t work. Ultraviolence needed to be enacted in real life (and at close range) for Rabelais to temporarily suppress the strange flows of his desires. In general, the disorder manifested in Tier One citizens who could afford enough androids on an hourly basis to keep themselves in balance. It was almost unheard of in government employees. But Rabelais’s connections were deep and wide.
    “One leg at a time,” remarked the Commodore as he put on the new pants. They zipped and buckled themselves. He sat back down and retrieved his cigar. He admired the ember. “This is a fine cigar. I insist on smoking fine cigars.”
    Prague studied his lap.
    “Wake up!”
    Prague flinched. “Who’s there?”
    “Your boss, Hamlet.” He leaned back in his chair. “Did you know ‘Who’s there?’ is the opening line of Hamlet ? Did you know that I know every opening line of every Shakespearean play by rote? R-O-T-E. Every play can be analyzed in extremis through the filter of its opening line. In Hamlet , for instance, ‘Who’s there?’ introduces, first of all, an element of mystery, of something unseen, perhaps nonexistent, yet present , if only in the mind of the player who speaks the words, who is on guard , if you will, literally, as he is a guard by vocation. This initial reading is deepened when we recognize that it is night and the guard speaks into the darkness, a foreboding setting for obvious reasons, viz., night and darkness symbolize death, misery, horror, dread, and so forth. Ultimately the guard’s query signifies a rift between what may appear to be real and what is actually real—in other words, between reality and fantasy, between the world of consciousness and dreams. In that moment, the guard can’t discriminate between one and the other, not until his partner answers him and moves into the light of his torch. It is this very moment that holds the diagnostic key to the rest of the play. To varying degrees, the same can be said for all of Shakespeare’s plays. Which means that there’s no reason to read the plays. It would be a waste of time. All one needs to read are the opening lines. In fact, anybody who reads more than the first line of a Shakespearean play is a fool, in fact.”
    “You said ‘in fact’ twice.”
    There was a long silence.
    Rabelais leaned forward and tapped the paper on his desk again. “As I was saying, your assignment.” He clenched the cigar with his teeth. “You are to leave City City this instant and fly to the city of Prague in the Former Czech Republik. FYI I’m aware of the irony that your questionable self-designated codename happens to coincide with the name of your destination. I assure you, it’s purely coincidental, although you’ll discover that this irony will be exacerbated by the fact that you are to go to the Hotel Prague on Prague Street and contact a bellhop named Henrí Prague who will usher you up to your room, the Galactic Pot-Healer Suite, and introduce you to his sister, Mädchen “The Prague” Prague. She will serve you breakfast and run you a hot bath. Then she will escort you to a discotheque called The Delova Prague beneath which is a casino called Pragensia St Cagney. At this point you are to play Yahtzee and wait for further instructions.” A mechanical arm reached out of the desktop, took the Commodore’s cigar, tapped it over an ash tray, and returned it to his mouth. “Oh yes,” he added. “One last thing. Here.” He removed something from a drawer and threw it at Prague…a T-shirt. Prague took it by the shoulders and let it fall open. Inscribed onto the front was a CGI version of Vincent Prague