on.
“But the tracking protocols in this time are efficient,” I went on. “If they track me to this terminal it’s a jail sentence. If I’m in jail, I can’t contact the Invidi. And we can’t get home.” The computer on the desk made its usual preparatory clicking and whirring noises.
Primitive did not mean easy to use. I hated the inefficient, limited tools they called computers, hated the inorganic quality of them. Superficially, the interactive surfaces were similar to ours. No holoviewers or voice activation here in the out-town, but the screens weren’t too hard on the eyes. Some miniature versions were like our handcoms, although clumsier. The keyboard input mode threw me at first—we tapped in commands to our interfaces on the station, but not on keys. Or we used audio or visual modes.
The user interfaces were confusing and getting inside them carried all the frustrations of being blindfold in a two-dimensional maze—every few paces I’d come up against another blocked path. In the Confederacy, interface use at anything more than an everyday level was more like a conversation. You’d discuss with the system what could be done and what couldn’t.
“See you later, then,” said Murdoch, and left.
Seven
W ill was the only person who enjoyed dinner on Saturday night. Grace and Murdoch sat in Levin’s backyard cooking sausages until the mosquitoes became too savage, then retreated to the house. A single-story brick veneer, it backed onto the shop front of Levin’s “business” and boasted three rooms down a long hallway and a main room down the shop end, in which sat a televid, sofa, and dining table.
I arrived late, bad-tempered because a deal on a laser had fallen through. It was the wrong kind, hopeless for what I wanted. Who’d have thought it could be so difficult to get my hands on such a simple tool? And yet something like fiber-optic cable was practically lying around waiting to be taken away. Impossible to predict what would be easy in this century.
“Where’s Levin?” I said. I might just have to take him up on his offer to find a laser for us.
“He’ll be in soon,” said Grace. “Have a sausage.”
“They’re good,” put in Murdoch. His plate held nothing but greasy smears and some sauce. Both he and Grace were drinking beer. Having fun, while I wandered around getting hot and filthy looking for the essential component we needed to get home.
“Hi, Maria,” yelled Will from in front of the televid.
“Hello, Will.”
I poured myself a glass of water. If I did have to negotiate with Levin, I wanted a clear head.
“How many slices of bread?” said Grace.
“One.” It was thin, tasteless stuff, smelling of its plastic packaging.
“You oughter eat more.” She shook out a slice of bread, placed two blackened sausages diagonally across it, and smothered the lot in tomato sauce. “Blokes might pretend they like skinny women, but really they want a bit of backside to grab on to.”
“You...”
should know,
I started to say, then changed it to, “you been busy today?”
“Oh, yeah, real busy. I haven’t got a job and it’s a holiday.” She smiled at Murdoch to show it was a joke, and popped the top of another can of beer.
I folded my bread around the sausage and watched the sauce dribble out. “I only asked because we could do with a hand at the Assembly. Getting posters out before the march, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you a hand,” she said expansively.
Levin came in.
He entered through the shop door. We could hear the key turn in the lock, the door open, close, and the key click again. Then footsteps down the hall. Heeled boots, not sandals.
He made a good entrance, standing for a moment in his black jacket as though he were part of the darkness behind him.
I stood up, mainly because I didn’t want to finish the sausage.
“Levin, this is an old friend, Bill McGrath. He’s in town for a while and he dropped by.”
“Evening,”
“But the tracking protocols in this time are efficient,” I went on. “If they track me to this terminal it’s a jail sentence. If I’m in jail, I can’t contact the Invidi. And we can’t get home.” The computer on the desk made its usual preparatory clicking and whirring noises.
Primitive did not mean easy to use. I hated the inefficient, limited tools they called computers, hated the inorganic quality of them. Superficially, the interactive surfaces were similar to ours. No holoviewers or voice activation here in the out-town, but the screens weren’t too hard on the eyes. Some miniature versions were like our handcoms, although clumsier. The keyboard input mode threw me at first—we tapped in commands to our interfaces on the station, but not on keys. Or we used audio or visual modes.
The user interfaces were confusing and getting inside them carried all the frustrations of being blindfold in a two-dimensional maze—every few paces I’d come up against another blocked path. In the Confederacy, interface use at anything more than an everyday level was more like a conversation. You’d discuss with the system what could be done and what couldn’t.
“See you later, then,” said Murdoch, and left.
Seven
W ill was the only person who enjoyed dinner on Saturday night. Grace and Murdoch sat in Levin’s backyard cooking sausages until the mosquitoes became too savage, then retreated to the house. A single-story brick veneer, it backed onto the shop front of Levin’s “business” and boasted three rooms down a long hallway and a main room down the shop end, in which sat a televid, sofa, and dining table.
I arrived late, bad-tempered because a deal on a laser had fallen through. It was the wrong kind, hopeless for what I wanted. Who’d have thought it could be so difficult to get my hands on such a simple tool? And yet something like fiber-optic cable was practically lying around waiting to be taken away. Impossible to predict what would be easy in this century.
“Where’s Levin?” I said. I might just have to take him up on his offer to find a laser for us.
“He’ll be in soon,” said Grace. “Have a sausage.”
“They’re good,” put in Murdoch. His plate held nothing but greasy smears and some sauce. Both he and Grace were drinking beer. Having fun, while I wandered around getting hot and filthy looking for the essential component we needed to get home.
“Hi, Maria,” yelled Will from in front of the televid.
“Hello, Will.”
I poured myself a glass of water. If I did have to negotiate with Levin, I wanted a clear head.
“How many slices of bread?” said Grace.
“One.” It was thin, tasteless stuff, smelling of its plastic packaging.
“You oughter eat more.” She shook out a slice of bread, placed two blackened sausages diagonally across it, and smothered the lot in tomato sauce. “Blokes might pretend they like skinny women, but really they want a bit of backside to grab on to.”
“You...”
should know,
I started to say, then changed it to, “you been busy today?”
“Oh, yeah, real busy. I haven’t got a job and it’s a holiday.” She smiled at Murdoch to show it was a joke, and popped the top of another can of beer.
I folded my bread around the sausage and watched the sauce dribble out. “I only asked because we could do with a hand at the Assembly. Getting posters out before the march, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you a hand,” she said expansively.
Levin came in.
He entered through the shop door. We could hear the key turn in the lock, the door open, close, and the key click again. Then footsteps down the hall. Heeled boots, not sandals.
He made a good entrance, standing for a moment in his black jacket as though he were part of the darkness behind him.
I stood up, mainly because I didn’t want to finish the sausage.
“Levin, this is an old friend, Bill McGrath. He’s in town for a while and he dropped by.”
“Evening,”
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