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what about my percy?”
    Bagshaw snorted. “That junk? Those rental jobs are all right for two-bit lawyers or their wives coming into town for the day—mostly because no one cares about them except tin-pot muggers. Even them not much. No city resident would ever trust a rental; no one of any real importance.”
    So? Cedric was not of any real importance. He stepped under the shower, a fine, cold mist and a suffocating odor of chlorine. The rotting rug around it suggested the electronics were not working too well. He knew about percies from seeing holo commercials. Most people owned a percy. Anyone really important had half a dozen—one to ride in, the others to run interference.
    Damn, but his gut hurt! He wondered about the four percies that Bagshaw had brought with him—were there watchers inside those, staying silent? Was Bagshaw genuine? If he was, then why so nasty? If not, then what use was all that extra equipment? None of that mattered much, Cedric decided. Having used up the last of his credit calling Madge, he had left himself with no options but to do as he was told.
    “That rental abortion probably has more pitches and patches on it than you could believe,” Bagshaw remarked. “I turned it off before I even opened the door. I could have taken it over and made it break your neck instead. Never, ever, trust anyone else’s percy!”
    Cedric gave up hope that the water would run hot, or the soap ever produce a lather. Perhaps such things were luxuries that only places like Meadowdale could provide. He turned off the water and reached for the dryer.
    “Don’t!” Bagshaw shouted. “Jeez, man! Those things are deadly!”
    “I’ve used one hundreds of—”
    “Easiest booby trap in the world!”
    Cedric scowled back at the older man’s glare. “All right, how do I dry myself?”
    “With the bed sheets, dummy! You’ll catch some bugs and funguses, of course, but we can treat most of those. You probably got them already, just sleeping there.”
    Not sure how much of that to believe, Cedric stalked across to the bed, feeling absurdly aware of his nudity as he did so. He hauled off a sheet. “Tell me about your friends,” he said. He nodded at the percies.
    Bagshaw had pivoted to watch him. “Those? Just some girls I know.” He laughed meanly. “Naw, they’re empty. Backup equipment.”
    “You run them?”
    “Sure.” Bagshaw frowned, making odd wrinkles in his synthetic skin. “My job. I’m a pro, sonny. Remember, percies are only robots. That means computers. Computers have limitations. They’re not good enough for the real enchiladas, the nobs, the big bumps on the world’s ass— they have personal guards as well, real human beings who go everywhere with them, who open the doors and taste the soup and defuse the bombs and step in front of the bullets…usually a team of two or three, taking shifts. They’re known as bulls.”
    “Short for pit bulls,” Cedric said, to show he knew such things. “You’re telling me you’re a bull? You guard Gran?”
    “Naw. I’m not senior enough to be trusted with her. The Institute has five people who rank high enough for bulls—the old girl herself and the four horsemen…deputy directors.”
    “Five?” Cedric was impressed. “Five just in 4-I?”
    “Don’t call it that! It’s the Institute. Yes, five—right up there with the Secretary General, and the chairman of IBM, and the Speaker of the Chamber.”
    Cedric threw his bag on the bed and rummaged for clothes. “So why are you telling me this?”
    “Because from now on it’s six. I’m your bull, buster.”
    Half into his pants, Cedric tried to turn around and almost fell over. “Me? You’re crazy! I don’t rank a bodyguard!”
    Bagshaw rose from his invisible chair. He stretched and yawned. “Yes, you do. Two of us—me and Giles Ted. In future, one or the other of us will be breathing on your neck and stepping on your toes twenty-four hours a day. Like your grandmother said,