Slant by Greg Bear

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    / SLANT 61
    He smiles with as much patient tolerance as he can muster. "I thank you for the arrangements." "You're paying," the oldest man says with a shrug. He rubs one ear like a cat about to clean itself, then says, "Want to inspect the merchandise? I take it you won't want it delivered until--" "I'll look at it, make sure it's what I ordered," Giffey says. The old man seems to want to make the facts plain to everybody. This is just all too thrilling for him. Ken Jenner grins at Giffey, gives a small shake of his head. Jenner is likely to be pretty essential in this scheme, so Giffey hopes he won't be compelled to kill the young man just to stop that unnatural scalp from moving. The old man leads them through gloomy hallways to the back of the house. The ceiling here is black, and thick with wiring arranged to mimic the heat signature of something other than what is actually in the long, cool room. Here on a pallet are four canisters of MGN, Military Grade Nano, not very old--dated June 19 2051. "This is good stuff, not easy to get, but here's what really takes the prize," the old man says. The brothers watch everything with religious awe. Jenner's scalp for once is still. The old man steps around the pallet and pulls back a tarp threaded with more wire. Two more canisters sit beneath the tarp. "The real stuff," he says. "Military complete paste. Just mix 'em and--wow." Giffey looks at the drums of MGN and complete paste. He has never seen so much of it in his life except in pictures and vids. They never had this much in all the time he was in Hispaniola. If they had, Yardley would have won in an hour instead of a week. "Bet you never seen more than a pint or two of this stuff all at once," Jenner whispers to Giffey. "Never," Giffey says. Jenner is proudly convinced he's responsible for the procurement. Giffey won't try to disabuse him. Military grade nano can be programmed to manufacture a large variety of weapons from many kinds of raw material available in a combat zone. By Geneva rules, however, it cannot manufacture or contain, prior to actual use, the ingredients necessary to make high explosives. The manufacture of military complete paste is closely monitored. It's the kind of thing that makes Green Idaho's legislature cry with economic self-pity: that the outside world won't let them make their own nano or complete paste. They are denied such essential pleasures. "Your first payment went through last night," the old man says. "Much appreciated. It was a pleasure getting this stuff, a real challenge." The old man also wants Giffey to believe he had a major hand in this procurement. The more hands take credit, the less clear a trail to the real source. "I'll enjoy thinking about it for weeks." "I'll bet," Giffey says. "Can I poke?"
    62 GREG BEAR
    "Be my guest," the old man says. Giffey takes a metal rod with a small wire on one end and hooks the wire to his pad. Then he goes to the canisters of paste and opens a valve in the closest. He pokes the tube into the canister and looks at his pad. The numbers come up triple zeroes. It's what he ordered, all right. Giffey decides against checking more than one. The men around him are as sensitive about honor as a bunch of teenage thugs. The old man is talking again, aiming his words at the brothers, who listen eagerly. "There's enough paste there to take care of all of Moscow. Unbelievable bang per gram. Every man, woman, and jackrabbit from here to--" "That's fine," Giffey says, staring hard to get him to shut up. The old man works his lips, nods in understanding--no need to say too much, no need. Then he offers Giffey a beer. "Best assignment I've had since emancipation," he says. "I'd like to toast it, for luck." There's time--just barely. "Sure, I'm grateful," Giffey says. The old man hustles back into the filthy kitchen to open a refrigerator. Giffey calls out