LITMIR.BIZ

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describes us all, Atom.’

      ‘Very droll.’

      ‘Here’s one you won’t get - a paradox. "A" states that everything "B" says is a lie. "B" states that everything "A" says is true.’

      ‘Easy. A and B are lying and mistaken, both and simultaneously. Happens all the time.’

      ‘Okay,’ he frowned, thinking, then brightened. ‘How about this one. I want power in desperation, but when comfortable I am content with comfort. Who am I?’ His look was calculating.

      I realised I didn’t know, and became brisk. ‘What a one you are for questions, Toto. Well, I better go check in somewhere, the Socket maybe.’

      ‘What about the slabhead who’s been asking for you?’

      ‘Unless you got any better ideas, which no-one expects, I’ll consult the gap and see if there’s any pattern.’

      ‘They’ll be cutting your clothes off before you’re finished.’

      ‘Thanks, Toto.’

      I drove to the Eyesocket Hotel on Devant Street and took a room. On the bed was a brown beetle the size of a violin. I flipped a sheet over it and threw the whole sack out the window, laying down. ‘i-beam. Give me an exploded view of this argument.’ I repeated Toto’s ‘power in desperation’ taunt and a wireframe hovered below the ceiling. The shape broke open and revolved, its elements re-assembling in a different shape - now the structure gave off a more electric flavour. ‘The average citizen,’ I concluded. Toto would have been gratified to know I’d resorted to tech to solve the puzzle. I’d have to think one up for him.

      I switched to the gap. The gap factors in the peripheral vision around the edge of the net - on the principle that the real facts were sunk in the gaps and brackets of the equation, like the sparkle of light between leaves. The net had more holes since its collapse and slow rebuild. From these patterns of absence I inferred the extent of the city’s onrush. It was pretty precise. The gestalt was an irregular cylinder dried open at both ends, with an entropic wind fluming through it. People clung to the inside walls like dead flies. I was amazed that any dynamic could be maintained here. Was it pure after-momentum or was it actively pushing toward something? Was any new energy being created in this husk? It looked totally played out. Science had changed the point at which a thing was declared dead, but that presupposed an outside observer who could call time. And I was getting involved. The truth is, I was so cheerful to be saying a final goodbye I got generous with my time - a gem of a mistake. I’d fallen through a hole in my head.

      Get out, Atom. Look at the shape of the thing, it’s a bonanza of emptiness. You owe it nothing.

      There should be a procedure to formally quit a species.

      I got up and stood at the window, which showed an edge of the O from the dead neon HOTEL on the front of the building. In the street below, a car lay smoking on its side. The crump of distant explosions became hypnotic. My pupils were poised to dilate but never got the chance - there was a landphone like a landcrab on the sidetable and this shrilled into life. It was Toto. ‘You get the answer to that riddle yet?’

      ‘Sure. Comfort’s the one merit of material empires.’

      ‘So where is it now, eh? End of empire. Cloudy remains found by robot submarine etc.’

      ‘A casino under murky water, roulette wheel locked up with moss.’

      ‘Beautiful. Anyway, why I called - there’s an event node at the Stina Gate.’

      ‘Sounds promising.’

      ‘Promising? You searched the gap, right? And you don’t get this? You’re outta touch, Atom.’

      I switched the receiver from my right hand to my left. ‘Guess I am.’ It was strange. Even factoring in several flip-flops of irony the info didn’t interest me - it seemed to have as much content as a decoy duck. I was still detuned. People de-cypher others’ statements in the assumption that they don’t mean what they say. The statements of someone who does mean what he says will also be put through the de-cyphering process - in other words, it’ll be scrambled and nothing he tries to communicate will ever get across. Such a person can’t even give secrets away. I’ve come to like this - I depend on it. But it plays merry hell in a fresh neighbourhood. ‘You sure about this?’

      ‘Let me reply with a question of my own.’

      ‘No.’

      As I put down the phone I gazed at the room safe. It was a single-use openless Chubb TriGuard with show relockers, anti-drilling plates, blast-resistant Trilite shielding and Chobham armour – known in the trade as a ‘trickledown’. I opened the bedside table. Inside was a copy of Eddie Gamete’s Haruspex Virus. It hit me with the punctual surprise of being shot. An early example of Zero Point Literature, this book was like a device built for stress-testing prejudice and because such beliefs will buckle under an instant’s examination, the remaining excess torque would tend to rip the reader open. It was a rehearsal for The World Cup Ordination of Schottner Kier, a later book that laid down the architecture of a linear accelerator in the reader’s mind. This device was activated by a signal concept at the end of the text.

      A little atmosphere cradled exquisite minutes in which I contemplated the first few pages. Some of it was pretty straight:

      ‘As the police, the thieves and their authorities work to the detriment of the majority, all the majority do is applaud. Now, ofcourse, too few are left alive to get a real applause going. Maybe a timid little patter now and again. But the approval is still there. Approval keeps the spine straight and the chin up, in a slave.’

      Then I closed the book and left the hotel, stuffed to the eyes with questions.

      3 RING THE BELLS, I’M GOING OUT

      Parked by the shamefaced and abandoned building of the Terminal Embassy, I nursed a needle, thumb on the plunger. It was Jade, the stuff people took to either raise or lower their intelligence to a median level: communication was almost impossible otherwise. Tonight though, a mistake.

      If your heart stops in Beerlight they steal the wheels off it. I cloaked the car and walked down Plenti Street in slate Faraday pants, a decoy shirt and glacier glasses rare as copper wire. Stina Hang was a smashed piazza of shattered asphalt and white dust. The bone idle stood around traditional trashcan fires or sat on the lumpy ground trying to identify their next meal. I spotted a group of three guys who looked to be Mexican. They were sat around a fire, smoking cigars rolled on the thighs of baffled women. I let them know I was coming by giving a brief sketch of my interests and depravities: ‘My hobbies are shaped charge explosions and being meticulously misunderstood. Other than that I’m as useless as a hen on a garbage island.’

      ‘Friend or foe?’ asked the leader, a dashing bastard in a vintage AV-6 flight jacket.

      ‘Neither.’

      ‘Join my bottle.’

      I did as instructed. ‘Here I am, crouched for adventure.’ I found I had to shout above the sound of growing mustaches. ‘Mexican eh?’

      ‘Si - it’s final.’

      I drank whisky out of a dead spyglass.

      He continued in a sawmill voice. ‘I first came to Beerlight on a sniper exchange program, to see the Miracle of the Snarling Virgin. What I found dried the slime on my heart. Numb calibrations. Russian doll pinatas. Abominations.’

      I nodded. That sounded like the way it might have happened. ‘I agree tooth and nail. I remember when there were banks to be robbed or supported. Let’s pray something’ll crawl out of an ocean trench to bring retribution on us all, eh? I’ll drink to that! I’ll die, and nature will probably be unsatisfied with rotting me once.’

      ‘As for me, my judge shall find me ready and ripe with crimes.’

      ‘We’ll be clearing you away with a

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