15, the father of the family with the two kids. As I walked by, I heard him say, “—we can’t talk about it, is this what you are saying—”
“That is correct, Citizen Doolittle.”
“—and we have to sign where?—”
I continued past to the food table and picked up a croissant, there not being anything that fell into the cheese-chocolate-or-nuts category of foods that I could taste, and a reddish tea. Bean was sitting as far away as possible from the DIM officials, which considering the size of the cafeteria, was not very far.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked her, placing my tray down across from her fruit plate. My head had stopped throbbing, which was a nice change; I had spent most of yesterday, after our rooftop excursion, holed up in my room with a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.
“The DIMs? They are making everyone sign information-halt agreements before we leave.”
“About the pet bug?”
She speared a strawberry on her plate with a fork. “Yup. We can’t talk about the pet bug or the quarantine.”
“To the media?”
“Or anyone else.”
“Surely they don’t mean anyone ?”
“Haven’t you ever had to sign a highly restrictive information-halt agreement?”
“But—I’ve already talked to two people about it, my boss and a private det—and someone else.”
“They had me sign as soon as I came in the door and tried to give me a cover story, which was that I was admitted to the health center due to laryngitis.” She picked up her tea mug and clutched it with both hands. “I told them laryngitis wouldn’t work since—like you—I’d already talked to someone, a fellow graduate student, and he—Arni—would have noticed if I’d been unable to talk. That seemed to annoy them, but it’s not my fault they waited ‘til Monday morning to have us sign. So, it’s not laryngitis, but suspected appendicitis. Of course,” she took a serene sip of the tea, “there’s the small matter of me already having told Arni about the pet bug when I called to tell him I’d be late coming into the Bihistory Institute today, if they let me out. I didn’t feel compelled to mention that to the DIMs.”
The officials had finished with quarantine cases 15 and 16 and now had their kids at the table. I heard the younger of the kids exclaim, “Ooh, a secret.”
“So they want the story to die down,” I said, peering into my mug and sloshing the tea around. “At least there’ll be no lawsuits against James. After all, it’s hardly the man’s fault Murphina caught the pet bug,” I added, though I was irked that the pet bug quarantine had so completely thwarted my plan to stay off the radar of local DIM officials. Hoping they wouldn’t ask me too many questions, I was prepared to tell them that I was looking forward to riding the Baker Beach Ferris wheel.
Bean, who also seemed discomfited by the presence of the DIM officials, gave an almost imperceptible shrug and speared another berry. “Tell me about your childhood, Felix. What was it like?”
I sat up a bit in my chair. She wanted to know more about me. “Well,” I said, blowing out my chest and deciding to begin at the beginning, “I was born in Carmel. A year or two later my parents quit their art gallery jobs, adjusted some paperwork—like I said, it’s a long story, ask me about it some other time—and we moved to San Francisco. After high school—I’ll tell you my high school stories another time too—I went off to the San Diego Four-Year and my parents moved back to Carmel. They opened their own art gallery but died in a boat accident shortly after. As for me, after I got out of school, I got a job putting together user manuals at Wagner’s Kitchen and have been doing that ever since. That’s my history in a nutshell. Speaking of history, that’s your field of study, isn’t it?” I added, taking a cautious sip of the tea.
“Bihistory is more related to what used to be called physics than to
“That is correct, Citizen Doolittle.”
“—and we have to sign where?—”
I continued past to the food table and picked up a croissant, there not being anything that fell into the cheese-chocolate-or-nuts category of foods that I could taste, and a reddish tea. Bean was sitting as far away as possible from the DIM officials, which considering the size of the cafeteria, was not very far.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked her, placing my tray down across from her fruit plate. My head had stopped throbbing, which was a nice change; I had spent most of yesterday, after our rooftop excursion, holed up in my room with a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.
“The DIMs? They are making everyone sign information-halt agreements before we leave.”
“About the pet bug?”
She speared a strawberry on her plate with a fork. “Yup. We can’t talk about the pet bug or the quarantine.”
“To the media?”
“Or anyone else.”
“Surely they don’t mean anyone ?”
“Haven’t you ever had to sign a highly restrictive information-halt agreement?”
“But—I’ve already talked to two people about it, my boss and a private det—and someone else.”
“They had me sign as soon as I came in the door and tried to give me a cover story, which was that I was admitted to the health center due to laryngitis.” She picked up her tea mug and clutched it with both hands. “I told them laryngitis wouldn’t work since—like you—I’d already talked to someone, a fellow graduate student, and he—Arni—would have noticed if I’d been unable to talk. That seemed to annoy them, but it’s not my fault they waited ‘til Monday morning to have us sign. So, it’s not laryngitis, but suspected appendicitis. Of course,” she took a serene sip of the tea, “there’s the small matter of me already having told Arni about the pet bug when I called to tell him I’d be late coming into the Bihistory Institute today, if they let me out. I didn’t feel compelled to mention that to the DIMs.”
The officials had finished with quarantine cases 15 and 16 and now had their kids at the table. I heard the younger of the kids exclaim, “Ooh, a secret.”
“So they want the story to die down,” I said, peering into my mug and sloshing the tea around. “At least there’ll be no lawsuits against James. After all, it’s hardly the man’s fault Murphina caught the pet bug,” I added, though I was irked that the pet bug quarantine had so completely thwarted my plan to stay off the radar of local DIM officials. Hoping they wouldn’t ask me too many questions, I was prepared to tell them that I was looking forward to riding the Baker Beach Ferris wheel.
Bean, who also seemed discomfited by the presence of the DIM officials, gave an almost imperceptible shrug and speared another berry. “Tell me about your childhood, Felix. What was it like?”
I sat up a bit in my chair. She wanted to know more about me. “Well,” I said, blowing out my chest and deciding to begin at the beginning, “I was born in Carmel. A year or two later my parents quit their art gallery jobs, adjusted some paperwork—like I said, it’s a long story, ask me about it some other time—and we moved to San Francisco. After high school—I’ll tell you my high school stories another time too—I went off to the San Diego Four-Year and my parents moved back to Carmel. They opened their own art gallery but died in a boat accident shortly after. As for me, after I got out of school, I got a job putting together user manuals at Wagner’s Kitchen and have been doing that ever since. That’s my history in a nutshell. Speaking of history, that’s your field of study, isn’t it?” I added, taking a cautious sip of the tea.
“Bihistory is more related to what used to be called physics than to
Similar Books
