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Deep.

11
    It was midnight when I finally cleaned the computer up from the postcard virus and packed the bagged file (in virtuality it'll look like the ordinary diskette now). The head stopped aching and the sleepiness disappeared completely. No Deeptown inhabitant sleeps at night, right?
    – Vika, restart, – I commanded.
    The thoughtful female face on the screen frowned:
    – Really?
    – Sure.
    The screen dimmed slightly, the image blurred. Then the hard drive started blinking indicating system restart. My machine is just Pentium, not a 'serious' one but I still can't make up my mind to substitute it with a newer computer. It's reliable enough.
    – Good evening Lenia, – said Vika, – I'm ready for work.
    – Thanks. Connect to Deeptown… use the regular channel.
    Modem chirped dialing, I put the helmet on and sat down.
    – 28800 connection, the channel is stable, – said Vika.
    – Turn the Deep on.
    – Done.
    Light blue on the screen, flash, then – colorfulness.
    How did you manage to create the deep program, Dima? With your shattered mentality, basic knowledge in psychology, and no knowledge in neurophysiology? What helped you?
    Now, when you're rich and famous, what are you trying to do? To understand how it dawned upon you or to invent something more amazing? Or just lead your dissolute life and smoke the grass as much as you want? Or wander along Deeptown's streets all around the clock looking at your creation?
    I wish I knew that, but – not to be in your shoes, because you're not more than the ordinary virtuality inhabitant, even with all your millions and Octium prototype as a home computer. The Deep holds you as tightly as any provincial programmer from Russian remote who saves money for months just to visit Deeptown once.
    You're not the diver, Dima, and this is why I'm happier than you.
    … The same room, but there are neon sign flashes and slight noise of moving cars outside.
    – Is everything okay Lenia?
    I look around.
    – Yes. I'll go for a walk, Vika.
    I pick up the diskette and put it into my pocket. The portable CD player lies on the shelf among several books and the pile of CDs. I insert ELO's CD into it, put on headphones, push 'play'. 'Roll over Beethoven' – just what I wanted. Accompanied by the cheerful music I leave the apartment and shut the door.
    No bugs this time. Standing on the sidewalk, I raise my hand and stop the cab. This time the driver is an aged man, stout and very intelligent looking.
    – Deep-Transit is glad to welcome you Lenia.
    I get inside and nod:
    – To the 'Three Piglets' restaurant.
    This address is well known to the driver. We move fast, a couple of turns and we're before the odd building: partially stone one, partially wooden, partially built of straw mats.
    I enter the too familiar restaurant and look around. It is divided into three parts – Eastern cuisine is served in the 'mat' one, European – in the stone one, and Russian
    – in the wooden one obviously.
    I'm not really hungry; virtual food subjectively satiates, and being in dire straits I usually eat in 'Three piglets', but now I just have to wait for my partner.
    I walk directly to the bar, behind which the robust man is standing, taking off the headphones as I walk.
    – Hi Andrei.
    Sometimes the owner serves his virtual customers himself, but today it's obviously not the case. The bartender smiles but it's just an automatic courtesy:
    – Hi! What would you like to drink?
    – Gin-Tonic with ice, as usual.
    I watch bartender mixing the drink. Tonic is the real Shweppes, Gin is the decent Beefeater. The liquor companies allow to use their trade marks and products' images in virtuality for just a symbolic charge: it's a good advertisement. Pepsi is free at all: it was their marketing trick. Coke costs as much as in reality though.
    And it has good sales.
    I take the glass and sit by the empty table, watching the guests: it's always interesting.
    The number of men and women is approximately the