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distant wail of several horns behind me. I pushed the accelerator and the vision slipped behind me.

SEATTLEHAMA: THE PURPLE AND GOLD ROCOCO ENTERVATOR
    The last yarn rip Withor wanted me to do wasn't from the split trundle skirt of some giant Seattlehama celeb, or even a sample from some obscure black and white kalamkari for a designer's mega-creation. Instead it was from an unnamed woman who was going to be in a certain obscure hallway at a certain moment. The only feature I had to identify her was the cloth of her suit: drap-de-Berry, a heavy woolen twill. The details were something of a letdown, but I was just thrilled that it was to be my last, and spent most of the day dreaming about what I might do next.
    And as the hour approached, I ate a light meal, bought myself a new navy serge suit and trimmings in the Full-Fashion Hallway
    403. The saleswarrior dressed in nothing but gemstones and a belt skirt. "Before my vocal cords are severed tonight," she whispered, "I want you to hear my last words, my last whispers, and smell the smoke of my moans."
    I was more surprised that she had finally spoken to me than what she had said. By then I had heard lines like these-warTalk, it was called-from other saleswarriors.
    "The fumes of our destiny are salt, acid, and semen." Her eyes, like those of most other warriors, were large, beautiful, but empty.
    "I'm busy," I said, shaking my head. "Sorry."
    The Full-Fashion Hallway was just five floors above Withor's office in the color building. The rip was to take place on floor 881 in the Parfum Spaceship. All the buildings had wide sets of showstairs, filled with performers, singers, organ jugglers, fortune advisors, and massagers. They also had internal elevators, but the way to get around, the real way to get from floor to floor and building to building, was one of Seattlehama's most famous attractions: the entervator.
    Between the buildings hundreds of cables, leads, wires, lines, and supports connected the city. Shuttling travelers along this cacophony of greased links were tiny theaters featuring dial bands, howlers, peek shows, voice wrestlers, tongue cappers, cat-walkers, cheeps, and push shows.
    When I first traveled on these odd ships to yarn-rip assignments on the high floors, I found them alien and tedious. In one a band of five men wearing chartreuse crinoline screamed in unison. In another females stabbed each other with satin pins and sewing needles. In another a woman punched herself as she sang about being a cat. But on the way to my last yarn rip, I happened to take the Europa Showhouse. The interior was decorated in purple with gold ornate accents, and the air smelled of smoke and pollen. Once the ship started up, a man in a large red suit and red top hat came on the stage.
    "I now present to you, graceful shoppers and consumers, the star of the Europa Showhouse-the only fully invented Baroque-style entervator serving the south and west side-the lovely, the talented, the erotic, the mysterious, the genetically patented Vada !"
    The crowd cheered and hollered. The woman on my left removed the chrome gag from her mouth and screamed. "I love you, you treasonous whore!" From the point on the chrome plug came a viscous stream of saliva that dripped like spider's silk onto the purple carpet.
    Although I had never seen a doll before, in retrospect that's what Vada looked like. Two large circles of rouge dotted her cheeks. Atop her head, her luminous auburn hair was wound into a pile and ornamented with tiny birds, baubles, and golden rickrack. Her burgundy dress was part corset, part gown, and part giant insect shell. She wore the most fantastic and elaborate pair of deep-red boots I had seen, glazed with glowing beads of various shapes and luminosity. The pointed toes curled up and around. And the heels were made of what looked like little machines, with spinning gears, pistons, and exhaust pipes that puffed tiny, pearly beads of smoke.
    And unlike most of the faultless