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altitude until it
skimmed the water. Sandy watched Cornelius to see if he gave the sea a wistful
look, but apparently the sealman harbored no tender sentiments for the cradle
of his ribosomes.
    One sea-flung form loomed directly ahead of them. In a moment, Sandy saw the lights for what they were: windows in a massive offshore office building. The
forward beam of the aircar showed wind-whipped wavelets lashing at the sea-level
panes. Sandy gripped the edges of his seat, expecting to crash at any moment.
    Cornelius brought up the Jaguaero in a smooth motion; they soared
five stories in the time it took Sandy to gasp, then poised motionless over the
roof while an aircar below them taxied into the indoor garage, freeing the
landing pad for Cornelius. A minute later they were humming down fluorescent
corridors. Cornelius parked in his reserved space near the elevators.
    “This way, Master Santiago.”
    As they stepped into an elevator car, Sandy caught a whiff of
powerful female pherofumes. His head filled unavoidably with the sights and
sounds of sex, all called up by the smell. He shoved his hands into his swim
trunks to hide a sudden woodie from Cornelius, who probably wouldn’t have
cared.
    As the doors closed, he tried distracting himself with equations
and mnemonics. Sandy knew he had a closet full of sexual anxieties from his
years in the wires, when he couldn’t so much as scratch his crotch without
exciting legions of horny teenage wire-hoppers. Even now, as an RO, privacy was
something he couldn’t believe in.
    The scent maddened him. He wanted to tear off his shirt and
trunks. Even Cornelius was starting to look good in the stuffy compartment.
    The doors opened. Laughter and music washed into the car and swept
them out. Cornelius took hold of his arm, leading him firmly around the edge of
the crowd, though Sandy would rather have dived in and followed that smell to
its source. He knew intellectually that the pherofume was completely
superficial, but the knowledge did him little good in the face of olfactory
lust. He wanted to find that woman, whoever she was, pull her into a dark
office and bury his face between her—
    But Corny kept tugging him along, toward the smell of food and
fainter perfumes. Many guests wore osmodelic pomanders around their necks; as
he passed among them, the air filled with trails of light and his nose began to
vibrate with desire. The multitude merged into a boundless blur of colored
cloth and jewelry, a single, buzzing, hive-mind party insect.
    They passed a row of tall windows at sea level. Waves broke
against the panes, throwing phosphorescent foam and spray like wide, lacy fans
above the heads of the guests. Kelp clusters rose and fell on the water,
barnacled root systems trailing away beneath. Periwinkles left gleaming trails
on the glass.
    “Suddenly I want sushi,” Sandy said.
    “Haven’t you eaten?”
    Sandy shook his head, and Cornelius pointed out a
long serving table.
    “If you care to serve yourself, I’ll find your father.”
    As the sealman disappeared into the crowd, Sandy grabbed a handful
of honey-glazed prawns from an icy tray and hurried to lose himself. It was
difficult being a Figueroa. Guests broke off chattering and smiled at him, some
bowing slightly, some greeting him with hearty halloos that meant nothing to
him, coming from total strangers.
    “Sandy! Hey! How’s life?”
    “Very lifelike, thanks.”
    He was halfway across the vast room when a syrupy voice said, “Sandy,
my boy!”
    The voice was unmistakable. Turning, he put on his phoniest
smile. “Reverend . . .”
    The Reverend Governor of California, Thaxter H. J. Halfjest,
waited with his arms spread wide to embrace Sandy. His crown of gold wire
glittered with huge precious and semiprecious stones. His thick, red-gold hair
stuck out through the crown, giving him an unkempt look. His clothes were gold,
to match his shoes, and a golden mantle descended from his shoulders. Diamonds
pricked his