“Mum! Haven’t killed anybody, don’t intend to. And know that lecture by heart.”
“Please be civil, dear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forgiven. Forgotten. I’m to tell Professor de la Paz to leave a number. I shall.”
“One thing. Forget name ‘Wyoming Knott.’ Forget Professor was asking for me. If a stranger phones or calls in person, and asks anything about me, you haven’t heard from me, don’t know where I am . . . think I’ve gone to Novylen. That goes for rest of family, too. Answer no questions–especially from anybody connected with Warden.”
“As if I would! Manuel you are in trouble!”
“Not much and getting it fixed.”–hoped!–“Tell you when I get home. Can’t talk now. Love you. Switching off.”
“I love you, dear. Sp’coynoynauchi.”
“Thanks and you have a quiet night, too. Off.”
Mum is wonderful. She was shipped up to The Rock long ago for carving a man under circumstances that left grave doubts as to girlish innocence–and has been opposed to violence and loose living ever since. Unless necessary–she’s no fanatic. Bet she was a jet job as a kid and wish I’d known her–but I’m rich in sharing last half of her life.
I called Mike back. “Do you know Professor Bernardo de la Paz’s voice?”
“I do, Man.”
“Well. . . you might monitor as many phones in Luna City as you can spare ears for and if you hear him, let me know. Public phones especially.”
(A full two seconds’ delay– Was giving Mike problems he had never had, think he liked it.) “I can check-monitor long enough to identify at all public phones in Luna City. Shall I use random search on the others, Man?”
“Um. Don’t overload. Keep an ear on his home phone and school phone.”
“Program set up.”
“Mike, you are best friend I ever had.”
“That is not a joke, Man?”
“No joke. Truth.”
“I am– Correction: I am honored and pleased. You are my best friend, Man, for you are my only friend. No comparison is logically permissible.”
“Going to see that you have other friends. Not-stupids, I mean. Mike? Got an empty memory bank?”
“Yes, Man. Ten-to-the-eighth-bits capacity.”
“Good! Will you block it so that only you and I can use it? Can you?”
“Can and will. Block signal, please.”
“Uh. . . Bastille Day.” Was my birthday, as Professor de la Paz had told me years earlier.
“Permanently blocked.”
“Fine. Got a recording to put in it. But first– Have you finished setting copy for tomorrow’s Daily Lunatic?”
“Yes, Man.”
“Anything about meeting in Stilyagi Hall?”
“No, Man.”
“Nothing in news services going out-city? Or riots?”
“No, Man.”
“‘”Curiouser and curiouser,” said Alice.’ Okay, record this under ‘Bastille Day,’ then think about it. But for Bog’s sake don’t let even your thoughts go outside that block, nor anything I say about it!”
“Man my only friend,” he answered and voice sounded diffident, “many months ago I decided to place any conversation between you and me under privacy block accessible only to you. I decided to erase none and moved them from temporary storage to permanent. So that I could play them over, and over, and over, and think about them. Did I do right?”
“Perfect. And, Mike–I’m flattered.”
“P’jal’st. My temporary files were getting full and I learned that I needed not to erase your words.”
“Well– ‘Bastille Day.’ Sound coming at sixty-to-one.” I took little recorder, placed close to a microphone and let it zip-squeal. Had an hour and a half in it; went silent in ninety seconds or so. “That’s all, Mike. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Manuel Garcia O’Kelly my only friend.”
I switched off and raised hood. Wyoming was sitting up and looking troubled. “Did someone call? Or. . .”
“No trouble. Was talking to one of my best–and most trustworthy–friends. Wyoh, are you stupid?”
She looked startled. “I’ve sometimes thought so. Is that a joke?”
“No. If you’re not-stupid, I’d like to introduce you to him. Speaking of jokes– Do you have a sense of humor?”
“Certainly I have!” is what Wyoming did not answer–and any other woman would as a locked-in program. She blinked thoughtfully and said, “You’ll have to judge for yourself, cobber. I have something I use for one. It serves my simple purposes.”