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and external code identification, then linked himself to the BASS mainframe and dived into the Net. His body assumed the rigid stillness that was unique to pros like him who jacked in at a level far deeper than mere entertainment—he was working, not playing—but his mouth moved incessantly, softly but rapidly uttering codes and commands to find what he was looking for. I knew that navigation, download, and other functions could be manipulated by thoughts alone in the newest technology, with the controls taking the form of complicated patterns, such as long words spelled backward, so they wouldn’t be accidentally triggered or diverted by random brain activity. But that was cutting edge at this point, and the best techs still used voice recognition, which was faster and more trustworthy for them.
    As I watched Kim do his thing, it occurred to me how I might know him. So when he emerged from cyberspace and told me the data I requested would be on my glasses in a few minutes, I made some conversation with him to pass the time.
    â€œYou weren’t at the Presidio, were you?” I asked.
    â€œYes; I hoped you’d remember me from the reunion,” he said with an eager smile, some sweat from his dive still glistening above it. Following my eyes, he wiped it with his sleeve. “Your wife was there for a few years while I was … or I should say, I was there when she was.” He chuckled nervously again, equally excited and embarrassed to be talking to an “important person.”
    There were not too many BASS employees from Mrs. Rabin’s orphanage, especially at this level—someone had to be exceptionally gifted and skilled to succeed here, so favoritism was not very practical. But out of the thousands of children who had lived at the Presidio, some were bound to be prodigies, and the education they received made good use of their abilities. Also, I remembered Saul saying something about how the program produced the kind of ethical character he desired, so perhaps that had given someone like Kim a leg up on the competition.
    â€œI didn’t know her personally, just saw her around,” he added, then smiled again. “Very beautiful.” Now he was even more embarrassed, so I just nodded in agreement and smiled politely. For the next few moments he studied the hardware in front of him, and I studied the hardware attached to his head and neck. I found it somewhat odd that a well-educated man would have surrendered to such implants, or “imps” as they were commonly called, because “cyber virginity” was a mark of status and prestige among the upper crust. Foreign objects in the brain were thought to be a possible gateway to external control, and freedom from them spoke of individuality and personal power. And even though techs like Kim had to be augmented to do their jobs sufficiently, they were inevitably viewed and treated as second-class citizens, with no opportunity for advancement beyond the service professions.
    At this point the mainframe informed me politely that the data I asked for had been transferred to my “personal desk.” I put the glasses on and pressed the arm a few times until I found the file, then switched to all-video so I could read the fine print underneath the seven names listed there. Displayed within the lenses of the glasses, the script then filled my vision, but seemed to be to be about a foot away from my eyes, so I could read it normally.
    One entry was a former high-level tech, a woman, whom D had visited in June of last year. But the record (drawn from the use of security passes, no doubt) showed that he had visited her in a hospital in L.A., and she was dead now. So, although that might have been an interesting story to pursue, it wasn’t pertinent to my investigation. I began to feel a bit of voyeuristic guilt for peering into my friend’s life this way, but I pressed on anyway.
    The next three names on the