suit is one big sandwich, lots of layers, millions of tiny, selectively permeable microtanks. Just like the beads in that—that red-tape whatchacallit you were telling me about?”
“NCR paper? But how much air could that—”
“At a couple thousand tons per square— Boss, you’ve got to be ki d ding.”
No wonder it was so damned hard to puncture a smartsuit. Half its su b stance was semiconductors, and the other half, microscopic vacuoles pumped rigid with consumables. I jogged in place, then along one wall and back again, reluctant to imitate Koko’s advanced gymnastics; it was hard enough just waiting for my feet to touch the deck again between steps. F i nally, I parked it on that selfsame deck, observing the rest of the class a football field away, doing their own thing. With sufficient magnification, it seemed like I was there among them. As the light threatened to grow di m mer with enlargement, the area my suit was using for vision automatically expanded beyond the face, until my forearms blurred the bottom of the screen. A little practice, and I discovered I could sit there and scan the wall behind me—eyes literally in the back of my head.
And then the deck below—hindsight, already!
But before too long I began tiring of my new toys, and found myself wondering where Clarissa was, hoping miserably that she was all right. What could have happened to her? Had she gone wherever Olongo, L u cy, and Ed were? Had they all gone the same place, for that matter? Were Deejay and Ooloorie really traveling to Mercury? I’d tried to find out, only to be told that communications sunward were being bollixed up by solar flares.
Clarissa! I slammed a helpless fist into the titanium decking. What the hell was I doing here, playing space cadet in a suit I’d never have any pract i cal use for? Why wasn’t I doing something? Why couldn’t they just stop this tub and let me off? I don’t know how many miserable minutes passed. I n credibly, I caught my chin in mid-nod toward my chest.
“Win... Boss? ” Someone in a decorated smartsuit stood lightly beside Koko, his features repeated in an inset on my screen next to hers.
“Hunh? Oh—sorry, guess I got lost in there somewhere.”
“Boss, this is Mr. Camillus. Mike Morrison sent him.”
I stood up. Morrison was turning into a regular guardian angel. The fe l low walked over and extended a hand. “Gerber Camillus—call me Gerb—stunt coordinator for Mike’s new picture, Revenge of the Thrint . Mike said no offense, but maybe you could use some pointers with a blade?” His other hand held a pair of floppy movie knives. I looked him over as much as his suit allowed, a wiry figure, small, but not a chimp—his shoes didn’t have fingers. They were decorated, though, like the rest of his suit: black, with mock red cummerbund and sash, white frilly shirtfront and satin tie. To this he’d tacked on a pair of rubbery tails, and, to top the whole e n semble off, a tall “silk” hat above his face-display.
It made me feel even more naked. “Yeah, I guess I could stand a lesson or ten. But not now, I’m right in the middle of a—”
“ Nap ,” finished Koko. “Getting comfy with a suit real fast, aren’t you?” She glanced at my forearm displays and made a few adjustments. “Oh, I see. If you’re going to fret yourself to death, Boss, then override your medic a tion circuits—see, like this. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself being electr o tranked again.” As she lectured, we noticed that the other students were filing back through the lock.
“I guess class is over for today. Not too sure I like this automatic med i cation jazz. You sure I’ll be all right, now?”
Koko nodded.
“Then let’s get started,” suggested Camillus. “Mike said you were doing some weird kind of hand-to-hand fighting up in the bar.”
“Tae Kwon Do,” I replied. “Green Belt, though I haven’t been working out regularly for a while. Camillus bobbed his head,
“NCR paper? But how much air could that—”
“At a couple thousand tons per square— Boss, you’ve got to be ki d ding.”
No wonder it was so damned hard to puncture a smartsuit. Half its su b stance was semiconductors, and the other half, microscopic vacuoles pumped rigid with consumables. I jogged in place, then along one wall and back again, reluctant to imitate Koko’s advanced gymnastics; it was hard enough just waiting for my feet to touch the deck again between steps. F i nally, I parked it on that selfsame deck, observing the rest of the class a football field away, doing their own thing. With sufficient magnification, it seemed like I was there among them. As the light threatened to grow di m mer with enlargement, the area my suit was using for vision automatically expanded beyond the face, until my forearms blurred the bottom of the screen. A little practice, and I discovered I could sit there and scan the wall behind me—eyes literally in the back of my head.
And then the deck below—hindsight, already!
But before too long I began tiring of my new toys, and found myself wondering where Clarissa was, hoping miserably that she was all right. What could have happened to her? Had she gone wherever Olongo, L u cy, and Ed were? Had they all gone the same place, for that matter? Were Deejay and Ooloorie really traveling to Mercury? I’d tried to find out, only to be told that communications sunward were being bollixed up by solar flares.
Clarissa! I slammed a helpless fist into the titanium decking. What the hell was I doing here, playing space cadet in a suit I’d never have any pract i cal use for? Why wasn’t I doing something? Why couldn’t they just stop this tub and let me off? I don’t know how many miserable minutes passed. I n credibly, I caught my chin in mid-nod toward my chest.
“Win... Boss? ” Someone in a decorated smartsuit stood lightly beside Koko, his features repeated in an inset on my screen next to hers.
“Hunh? Oh—sorry, guess I got lost in there somewhere.”
“Boss, this is Mr. Camillus. Mike Morrison sent him.”
I stood up. Morrison was turning into a regular guardian angel. The fe l low walked over and extended a hand. “Gerber Camillus—call me Gerb—stunt coordinator for Mike’s new picture, Revenge of the Thrint . Mike said no offense, but maybe you could use some pointers with a blade?” His other hand held a pair of floppy movie knives. I looked him over as much as his suit allowed, a wiry figure, small, but not a chimp—his shoes didn’t have fingers. They were decorated, though, like the rest of his suit: black, with mock red cummerbund and sash, white frilly shirtfront and satin tie. To this he’d tacked on a pair of rubbery tails, and, to top the whole e n semble off, a tall “silk” hat above his face-display.
It made me feel even more naked. “Yeah, I guess I could stand a lesson or ten. But not now, I’m right in the middle of a—”
“ Nap ,” finished Koko. “Getting comfy with a suit real fast, aren’t you?” She glanced at my forearm displays and made a few adjustments. “Oh, I see. If you’re going to fret yourself to death, Boss, then override your medic a tion circuits—see, like this. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself being electr o tranked again.” As she lectured, we noticed that the other students were filing back through the lock.
“I guess class is over for today. Not too sure I like this automatic med i cation jazz. You sure I’ll be all right, now?”
Koko nodded.
“Then let’s get started,” suggested Camillus. “Mike said you were doing some weird kind of hand-to-hand fighting up in the bar.”
“Tae Kwon Do,” I replied. “Green Belt, though I haven’t been working out regularly for a while. Camillus bobbed his head,
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