Glasshouse - Charles Stross [77]
That evening, I lock up and go home with my heart in my mouth, sweat gluing my blouse to the small of my back. It’s silly of me, I know. By doing this, I risk rapid exposure. But if I don’t do it, what will happen in the longer term is worse than anything that can happen to me if they catch me with a library book from the reference-only collection and a distorted bar of soap. It won’t be just me who goes down screaming. Janis knew about Curious Yellow and was afraid of surveillance. I don’t know why, or where from, but it’s an ominous sign. Who is she?
Back home, I head for the garage before I go indoors. It’s time to power up the bug zapper in anger for the first time. The bug zapper is the cheap microwave oven I bought a few weeks ago. I’ve had the lid off, and I’ve done some creative things with its wiring. A microwave oven is basically a Faraday cage with a powerful microwave emitter. It’s tuned to emit electromagnetic energy at a wavelength that is strongly absorbed by the water in whatever food you put inside. Well, that’s no good for me, but with some creative jiggery-pokery, I’ve succeeded in buggering up the magnetron very effectively. It now emits a noisy range of wavelengths, and while it won’t cook your dinner very well, it’ll make a real mess of any electronic circuits you put in it. I open the door and shake my copper-lined bag’s contents into it, then reach through the fabric to retrieve the bar of soap. I really don’t want to fry that—Fiore might get suspicious if he got the shits every time he went to the library while I was on duty.
I drop the oven door shut and zap the book for fifteen seconds. Then I push a button on the breadboard I’ve taped to the side of the oven. No lights come on. There’s nothing talking in the death cell, so it looks like I’ve effectively crisped any critters riding the book’s spine. Well, we’ll see when I take it back to the library, won’t we? If Fiore singles me out in Church the day after tomorrow, I’ll know I was wrong, but sneaking a dirty book out of the library for an evening isn’t in the same league as stealing the keys to—
The plaster of paris! Mentally, I kick myself. I nearly forgot it. I tip the right amount into an empty yoghurt pot with shaky hands, then measure in a beaker of water and stir the mass with a teaspoon until it begins to get so hot that I have to juggle it from hand to hand.
Ten minutes pass, and I line a baking tray with moist whitish goop (gypsum, hydrated calcium sulphate). Hoping that it has cooled enough, I press both sides of the soap bar into it a couple of times. I have a tense moment worrying about the soap’s softening and melting, and I make the first impression too early, while the plaster’s so soft and damp that it sticks to the soap, but in the end I think I’ve probably got enough to work with. So I cover the tray with a piece of cheesecloth and go inside. It’s nearly ten o’clock, I’m hungry and exhausted, tomorrow is my day off, and I am going to have to go in to work anyway to visit Janis and make sure she’s all right. But next time Fiore visits the repository, I’m going to be ready to sneak in right after he’s left. And then we’ll see what he’s hiding down there . . .
10
State
SUNDAY dawns, cool and mellow. I groan and try not to pull the bedclothes over my head. By one of those quirks of scheduling, yesterday was a workday for me, tomorrow is another, and I’m feeling hammered by the prospect of two eleven-hour days. I’m not looking forward to spending half my day off in forced proximity to score whores like Jen and Angel, but I manage to force myself out of bed and rescue my Sunday outfit from the pile growing on the chair at the end of the room. (I need to take a trip to the dry-cleaners soon, and spend some time down in the basement washing the stuff I can do at home. More drudgery on my day off. Does it ever stop?)
Downstairs, I find Sam laboriously spooning cornflakes into a bowl of milk. He looks preoccupied. My stomach is tight