Distraction - Bruce Sterling [140]
The sprawling market campground was dominated by the soaring plastic spines of homemade cellular towers. Dragonfly flocks of tinkertoy aircraft buzzed the terrain. The biggest shelters were enormous polarized circus tents of odd-smelling translucent plastic on tall spindly poles.
Kevin bought four sets of earclips from a blanket vendor. “Here, put these on.”
“Why?” Greta said.
“Trust me, I know my way around a place like this.”
Oscar pinched the clamp onto his left ear. The device emitted a little wordless burbling hum, the sound a contented three-year-old might make. As long as he moved with the crowd, the little murmur simply sat there at his ear, an oddly reassuring presence, like a child’s make-believe friend. However, if he interfered with the crowd flow—if he somehow failed to take a cue—the earcuff grew querulous. Stand in the way long enough, and it would bawl.
Somewhere a system was mapping out the flow of people, and controlling them with these gentle hints. After a few moments Oscar simply forgot about the little murmurs; he was still aware of them, but not consciously. The nonverbal nagging was so childishly insistent that accommodating it became second nature. Soon the four of them were moving to avoid the crowds, well before any approaching crowds could actually appear. Everyone was wearing the earcuffs, so computation was arranging human beings like a breeze blowing butterflies.
The fairground was densely packed with people, but the crowd was unnaturally fluid. All the snack-food stands had short, brisk lines. The toilets were never crowded. Children never got lost.
“I’ll line up someone that we can talk to seriously,” Kevin told them. “When I’ve made the arrangements, I’ll call you.” He turned and limped away.
“I’ll help you,” Oscar said, catching up with him.
Kevin turned on him, his face tight. “Look, am I your security chief, or not?”
“Of course you are.”
“This is a security matter. If you want to help me, go watch your girlfriend. Make sure that nobody steals her this time.”
Oscar was annoyed to find himself persona non grata in Kevin’s private machinations. On the other hand, Kevin’s anxiety made sense—because Oscar was the only man in this crowd of thousands who was wearing a full-scale overclass ensemble of suit, hat, and shoes. Oscar was painfully conspicuous.
He glanced over his shoulder. Greta had already vanished.
He quickly located Pelicanos, and after four increasingly anxious minutes they managed to find Greta. She had somehow wandered into a long campground aisle of tents and tables, which were packed with an astounding plethora of secondhand electronic equipment.
“Why are you wandering off on your own?” he said.
“I didn’t wander! You wandered.” She dipped her fingers through a shallow brass tray full of nonconductive probes.
“We need to stick together, Greta.”
“I guess it’s my little friend here,” she said, touching her earcuff. “I’m not used to it.” She wandered bright eyed down to the next table, which bore brimming boxes of multicolored patch cables, faceplates, mounting boxes, modular adaptors.
Oscar examined a cardboard box crammed with electrical wares. Most were off-white plastic, but others were nomad work. He picked an electrical faceplate out of the box. It had been punched and molded out of mashed grass. The treated cellulose was light yet rigid, with a crunchy texture, like bad high-fiber breakfast cereal.
Greta was fascinated, and Oscar’s interest was caught despite himself. He hadn’t realized that nomad manufacturing had become so sophisticated. He glanced up and down the long aisle. They were entirely surrounded by the detritus of dead American computer and phone industries, impossibly worthless junk brightly labeled with long-dead commercial promos. “Brand-New In the Box: Strata VIe and XIIe!” There were long-dead business programs no sane human being would ever employ. Stacks of bubblejet cartridges for nonexistent printers. Nonergonomic mice and joysticks, guaranteed to slowly