when they were done. Falk wondered about ordering some food for himself, but the service in the Hyatt was clearly terrible.
"I'm acting pissed off because I am pissed off."
"That I told you so?"
He sniffed.
"The SO thinks we're stupid. It treats us like we're idiots."
"You must have had that kind of shit before," said the man Falk didn't know.
"Have we met?" Falk asked him. He didn't feel like making a terribly big effort, socially.
"No," the man said. "But I know who you are. I was on Seventy-Seven for a work contract. Used to read your stuff. Enjoyed it."
"Thanks," said Falk.
The man stuck out his hand.
"Bari Apfel," he said.
Falk shook. "What do you do?" he asked.
"Consultancy work. I used to be with Liitz, then Norfolk-Zumin. Now I'm doing a short-term consult with GEO."
"What sort of consultancy?" asked Falk.
"Dull stuff. Corporate image, PR. I'm pretty good at what I do."
"He is," said Cleesh.
"GEO needs all the help it can hire right now," said Apfel.
A hearing- and vision-impaired waiter went by, ignoring Falk's waggling finger.
"The service blows," said the SO Logistics man.
"Why are you eating here?" asked Falk.
Cleesh and her friends exchanged a brief, awkward look. Falk was so busy jonesing for a Scotch-effect he barely cared. It had to be something to do with the big-deal secret thing she was working out.
"It just made a change," said Apfel. "We go to the GEO all the time."
Falk scraped his chair back.
"I'm going to get drinks from the bar. If I wait for these fucking idiots, I'll die of thirst. Get anybody anything?"
He could. He made a mental note and went over to the bar. His hip was still hurting from the ride in the Fargo, a dull, sore pain. He wondered if he should get a medical report and then use it to sue the SOMD.
The bar was up a few steps from the bistro in a corner alcove with vast windows. They were on the mast's fortieth floor. Outside, the night hung there as black and heavy as a theatre's safety curtain. Coloured blurds banged against the outside of the glass and left dusty splashes of wing scales.
The moon was out, a headlamp disk, small and high up. Down below, the lights of Shaverton twinkled like guttering votive candles at a kerbside vigil. In the western sky, three quick meteorites sketched lightpen tracks and vanished.
Falk ordered a Scotch-effect, and drank it while the barman was making another and filling the rest of the order. Gulping, Falk scanned the bistro. More of the ubiquitous Early Settlement Era furniture, repro and still shabby and worn. Corporate employees with over-loud voices and cosmetic laughs. The lemon stink of InsectAside. Falk turned three-sixty, took in the view again. He suddenly saw the familiar face he'd seen that first night at the GEO, the old, careworn version of a man he had once known.
He realised it was his own reflection. It must have been his reflection back at the chrome-and-glass GEO too. He felt heavy, deflated. He didn't want that medical report now, not even to sue the SOMD. He didn't want to know what was wrong with his sore hip. He didn't want to know what else it would turn up.
He didn't want to know how fucked up he'd got riding drivers and living poorly. He didn't look the way he assumed he looked any more. He wondered how long he hadn't.
"I need another Scotch-effect here," he told the barman.
"Want a hand with those?" asked Bari Apfel, appearing at his shoulder. "We thought you'd been kidnapped."
"Sorry," said Falk. "Deep in thought."
"Come to any interesting conclusions?"
"You know, I came here because it seemed like an easy score. Notch up some expenses, do some basic coverage. I knew the SO wouldn't play along. I knew it would be media tourism. I knew before Cleesh had to tell me. I didn't care."
"You didn't?"
"It was just the next thing to do. The next excuse not
"I'm acting pissed off because I am pissed off."
"That I told you so?"
He sniffed.
"The SO thinks we're stupid. It treats us like we're idiots."
"You must have had that kind of shit before," said the man Falk didn't know.
"Have we met?" Falk asked him. He didn't feel like making a terribly big effort, socially.
"No," the man said. "But I know who you are. I was on Seventy-Seven for a work contract. Used to read your stuff. Enjoyed it."
"Thanks," said Falk.
The man stuck out his hand.
"Bari Apfel," he said.
Falk shook. "What do you do?" he asked.
"Consultancy work. I used to be with Liitz, then Norfolk-Zumin. Now I'm doing a short-term consult with GEO."
"What sort of consultancy?" asked Falk.
"Dull stuff. Corporate image, PR. I'm pretty good at what I do."
"He is," said Cleesh.
"GEO needs all the help it can hire right now," said Apfel.
A hearing- and vision-impaired waiter went by, ignoring Falk's waggling finger.
"The service blows," said the SO Logistics man.
"Why are you eating here?" asked Falk.
Cleesh and her friends exchanged a brief, awkward look. Falk was so busy jonesing for a Scotch-effect he barely cared. It had to be something to do with the big-deal secret thing she was working out.
"It just made a change," said Apfel. "We go to the GEO all the time."
Falk scraped his chair back.
"I'm going to get drinks from the bar. If I wait for these fucking idiots, I'll die of thirst. Get anybody anything?"
He could. He made a mental note and went over to the bar. His hip was still hurting from the ride in the Fargo, a dull, sore pain. He wondered if he should get a medical report and then use it to sue the SOMD.
The bar was up a few steps from the bistro in a corner alcove with vast windows. They were on the mast's fortieth floor. Outside, the night hung there as black and heavy as a theatre's safety curtain. Coloured blurds banged against the outside of the glass and left dusty splashes of wing scales.
The moon was out, a headlamp disk, small and high up. Down below, the lights of Shaverton twinkled like guttering votive candles at a kerbside vigil. In the western sky, three quick meteorites sketched lightpen tracks and vanished.
Falk ordered a Scotch-effect, and drank it while the barman was making another and filling the rest of the order. Gulping, Falk scanned the bistro. More of the ubiquitous Early Settlement Era furniture, repro and still shabby and worn. Corporate employees with over-loud voices and cosmetic laughs. The lemon stink of InsectAside. Falk turned three-sixty, took in the view again. He suddenly saw the familiar face he'd seen that first night at the GEO, the old, careworn version of a man he had once known.
He realised it was his own reflection. It must have been his reflection back at the chrome-and-glass GEO too. He felt heavy, deflated. He didn't want that medical report now, not even to sue the SOMD. He didn't want to know what was wrong with his sore hip. He didn't want to know what else it would turn up.
He didn't want to know how fucked up he'd got riding drivers and living poorly. He didn't look the way he assumed he looked any more. He wondered how long he hadn't.
"I need another Scotch-effect here," he told the barman.
"Want a hand with those?" asked Bari Apfel, appearing at his shoulder. "We thought you'd been kidnapped."
"Sorry," said Falk. "Deep in thought."
"Come to any interesting conclusions?"
"You know, I came here because it seemed like an easy score. Notch up some expenses, do some basic coverage. I knew the SO wouldn't play along. I knew it would be media tourism. I knew before Cleesh had to tell me. I didn't care."
"You didn't?"
"It was just the next thing to do. The next excuse not
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