The Hacker and the Ants by Rudy Rucker Page A

the trunk of the car. He was
fixated on the idea that I should show him to the people at West West, whatever West West was. He said he had charged his batteries to the maximum, and that he was all set to go. With Studly probably contaminated by the ants, it was no doubt better to have him with me than home alone. Noticing my backup CDs in the trunk, I wondered if Studly might have tampered with them yesterday. On the off chance it wasn’t already too late, I took the CDs out of the trunk and put them up in the front seat with me.
    I drove down the hill and entered the California morning rush hour. Los Perros Boulevard was clogged all the way to Route 17, and 17 was at a standstill. Everyone was in a German or Japanese hybrid car with the windows rolled up; all of us were sitting there in our factory air, listening to the radio or talking on our cell phones. Almost all of us—there were always a few hippies, punks or Latinos in bloated old American SUVs with the windows down, plus a few mountain people in their six-wheel pickups, and the odd steroid ninja on a motorcycle. And, oh yeah, the slim young yuppie mamas in their electric jeeps.
    The GoMotion “campus” was on the other side of 101, up in the Silicon Valley flatlands near the South end of San Francisco Bay. The in-person receptionist at GoMotion today was a stunning blond in a padded-shoulder jacket that looked like an admiral’s dress whites. I hadn’t ever seen her before.
    â€œHi,” said I. “I’m Jerzy Rugby. I’m a developer on the Veep project?”
    Instead of buzzing me through the door behind her, the blond looked for my name on her computer screen and . . . it wasn’t there.
    â€œI don’t see you on our list. Did you have an appointment with someone, Mr. Rugby?”
    â€œLook, I work here. I need to talk to Roger Coolidge.”

    â€œYou can request an appointment, but Mr. Coolidge is very busy this week.”
    â€œThen let me talk to Trevor Sinclair. He’s here, isn’t he?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. Would you like me to ring his extension for you?”
    â€œThank you.” She handed me the phone, it buzzed, and Trevor answered. “Hi, Trevor,” I said. “It’s Jerzy. I’m out in the lobby and I can’t get in. Can you help me?”
    â€œSure,” said Trevor. A moment later he appeared, looking stocky, freckled, and bouncy. After last night’s ordeal, I was so glad to see a friendly face that I almost hugged him.
    Trevor leaned over the counter and conferred briefly with the receptionist, and then he turned to me. “She’s not supposed to let you in, Jerzy. There’s no mistake. Let’s talk about it outside.”
    My heart sank. I followed Trevor out into the parking lot. All around us were low glass and metal buildings, each with its parking lot and its sloped edgings of lawn and plants—agapanthuses were a popular choice in this neighborhood, plants with bunches of long sword-shaped leaves and stalks that rocketed up out of the leaves to explode in airbursts of purple freesia-like trumpet blossoms, one five-inch sphere’s worth of blossoms at the end of each stalk. Here and there, sprinklers scattered gems of water on the plants. The sun was pitilessly bright in the blank blue sky. Was I out of a job?
    â€œThe ants—” I began querulously.
    â€œHeavy shit coming down,” interrupted Trevor. “Jeff Pear has fired you.”
    â€œBut why? Are there ants all over cyberspace?”
    â€œYou’re still worried about that ant you saw on your machine yesterday? No, I haven’t seen any of your loose
ants. What happened is that somebody high up in the organization decided to get rid of you. Somebody who’s been around here a long time.”
    If I didn’t press Trevor too hard, he would tell me more. He was a terrible gossip. I just had to keep him talking. “Roger and the ants want me to