Bethina shrill across the office, “Back on task! Eyes on your duty!”
Mr. Strickman began listing what shortcomings Mr. Roeg might have seen. Sweat dampened his shirt. He had looked weak. He had looked incompetent. He seized up, his breath caught in his throat. He could be tested and expelled. If that happened, he knew he would die before nightfall.
....
Lloyd liked his freshly pressed work uniform. It smelled really good the first evening he would wear it, as night watchman at the Acro D underground, station twelve. Subsequent nights his uniform lost its crispness along with its artificially fresh smell. Since there wasn't much to do, he noticed such things. Every Tuesday and Friday for twenty minutes, he stood aside as security escorted anywhere from five to two hundred people into the underground, off to one of the other acros, for whatever reasons. Or even to be expelled, he thought in a whisper.
To pass the rest of the time, Lloyd played games with his flashlight, making patterns on the wall or flipping it around. He also practiced singing a bit. He knew he was not very good, but the echoes in the long concrete room made him sound better. Lloyd hoped to someday surprise Loris by singing her a song, perhaps at her birthday, or after the next time they were intimate. He figured he'd have at least two months to practice.
He was awakened by someone talking to him. He struggled to sit up on the bench where he'd fallen asleep. Cameras probably caught it. Lloyd staggered to his feet, trying to get his eyes and tongue and brain on the same page.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Don't mean to trouble you.”
“Hi.” Lloyd straightened his hat. “I almost dozed off.”
“My name's Albert,” Quentin said. “I was walking by and thought, 'Darn, I've never been down there,' so here I am.” Arms and eyes wide in surprise.
“It's where people go to the other acros. This station isn't used a lot.”
“I've never been to another acro. Have you?”
“Not me. This is as close as I ever got. But security escorts people down here, and they leave.”
Quentin pointed at the wide door of the underground tube. It had an unusual latch. “What's that?”
“It's a latch. But you have to take training to open it, so it works like a lock.”
Quentin bent over to look at it. Surreptitiously he took a ten-second multi-angle vid of it. “It really is complicated,” he said, stupidly emphasizing syllables with abdominal contractions.
“It is. I could never do it. The security people can do it real fast.”
“And,” Quentin said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I hear that in the tubes there are doors to the Outside.” He said it with a capital O.
“There are. They're called hatches. I don't know how many there are, but there's one in this tube, just down a little way. A hatch.”
“Wow, I wouldn't want to go out there. You got good surveillance here, that's good, so you won't get mugged or whatever.”
“Workers come down here two three times a month to work on the wiring. I think the dampness wrecks it or something.”
“Yeah,” Quentin goofed, “or maybe evil spirits do it!”
“Yeah, the ones that make wires break!” Lloyd said. “Hey, I got a extra sandwich. Want it?”
....
“I declined the sandwich,” Quentin said, “and I don't like where this coversation is going.”
Today they had met at a mall restaurant. It was loud.
Loris was glued to the playback of the intricate latch. She held her hands around the player so it wouldn't be conspicuous to others. They had several empty beer glasses in front of them, and, as atmosphere, a recent grab-it song, “Hit Me Like I Like It” played out of the ceiling. Quentin was glad that Loris could ignore her surroundings. The tastes of these people no longer provoked her vocal expressions of indignant disgust.
“Where do you think this conversation is going?” she murmured, still focused on the vid, running it back and forth.
“I think it's going
Mr. Strickman began listing what shortcomings Mr. Roeg might have seen. Sweat dampened his shirt. He had looked weak. He had looked incompetent. He seized up, his breath caught in his throat. He could be tested and expelled. If that happened, he knew he would die before nightfall.
....
Lloyd liked his freshly pressed work uniform. It smelled really good the first evening he would wear it, as night watchman at the Acro D underground, station twelve. Subsequent nights his uniform lost its crispness along with its artificially fresh smell. Since there wasn't much to do, he noticed such things. Every Tuesday and Friday for twenty minutes, he stood aside as security escorted anywhere from five to two hundred people into the underground, off to one of the other acros, for whatever reasons. Or even to be expelled, he thought in a whisper.
To pass the rest of the time, Lloyd played games with his flashlight, making patterns on the wall or flipping it around. He also practiced singing a bit. He knew he was not very good, but the echoes in the long concrete room made him sound better. Lloyd hoped to someday surprise Loris by singing her a song, perhaps at her birthday, or after the next time they were intimate. He figured he'd have at least two months to practice.
He was awakened by someone talking to him. He struggled to sit up on the bench where he'd fallen asleep. Cameras probably caught it. Lloyd staggered to his feet, trying to get his eyes and tongue and brain on the same page.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Don't mean to trouble you.”
“Hi.” Lloyd straightened his hat. “I almost dozed off.”
“My name's Albert,” Quentin said. “I was walking by and thought, 'Darn, I've never been down there,' so here I am.” Arms and eyes wide in surprise.
“It's where people go to the other acros. This station isn't used a lot.”
“I've never been to another acro. Have you?”
“Not me. This is as close as I ever got. But security escorts people down here, and they leave.”
Quentin pointed at the wide door of the underground tube. It had an unusual latch. “What's that?”
“It's a latch. But you have to take training to open it, so it works like a lock.”
Quentin bent over to look at it. Surreptitiously he took a ten-second multi-angle vid of it. “It really is complicated,” he said, stupidly emphasizing syllables with abdominal contractions.
“It is. I could never do it. The security people can do it real fast.”
“And,” Quentin said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I hear that in the tubes there are doors to the Outside.” He said it with a capital O.
“There are. They're called hatches. I don't know how many there are, but there's one in this tube, just down a little way. A hatch.”
“Wow, I wouldn't want to go out there. You got good surveillance here, that's good, so you won't get mugged or whatever.”
“Workers come down here two three times a month to work on the wiring. I think the dampness wrecks it or something.”
“Yeah,” Quentin goofed, “or maybe evil spirits do it!”
“Yeah, the ones that make wires break!” Lloyd said. “Hey, I got a extra sandwich. Want it?”
....
“I declined the sandwich,” Quentin said, “and I don't like where this coversation is going.”
Today they had met at a mall restaurant. It was loud.
Loris was glued to the playback of the intricate latch. She held her hands around the player so it wouldn't be conspicuous to others. They had several empty beer glasses in front of them, and, as atmosphere, a recent grab-it song, “Hit Me Like I Like It” played out of the ceiling. Quentin was glad that Loris could ignore her surroundings. The tastes of these people no longer provoked her vocal expressions of indignant disgust.
“Where do you think this conversation is going?” she murmured, still focused on the vid, running it back and forth.
“I think it's going
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