Chapter 13
I materialized into BB Star’s office and immediately checked myself out to make certain that everything was where it should be. There are a lot of urban myths about materialization accidents that people like to tell. My favorite is the one about the guy who sneezed during the port and materialized with his face on his lower back (talk about meeting your end). I seemed intact this time and I subconsciously breathed a sigh of relief as I checked out my surroundings.
As I have stated before, I am not one who is easily impressed, but I have to admit that the sight of BB Star’s digs made my jaw drop like a politician’s approval rating at tax time. Larger than most houses (and more than a few football stadiums), the office went beyond plush, way past gaudy and right to the “doesn’t that break the laws of physics?” end of the scale. It was a classic case of big business mindgames: psychological intimidation through ostentation. They show you the beautiful garden path to put you at ease, the paramilitary guard post to put a scare into you, and finally the unbelievably large office to make your jaw drop. The entire place was designed so that by the time you got to BB Star’s desk, whatever strategy or mental agenda you had planned for the meeting was long forgotten, replaced by an overwhelming sense of awe at the sheer majesty of the surroundings. I had to admit, it was a pretty effective scheme.
Without the aid of a telescope, I could just barely see BB Star sitting calmly at her desk on the far side of the prefabricated river that ran through the office (I told you it was big).
Stupid Ape, the thug who had attacked me at my office earlier in the day, rolled up to me in a low-powered hover.
“I’m here to drive you to Ms. Star’s desk,” he said.
I hopped off the telepad and adjusted my sleeves. “No thanks,” I answered, “I never take rides from strangers, thugs who’ve tried to kill me or people with poor personal hygiene. Congratulations, by the way, for being the first person to qualify in all three categories.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Tell Ms. Star that I’ll walk, thank you. How many time zones away is she?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said as I began walking. “Net me when you get that last insult.”
I was a hundred yards away when I heard him say aloud: “What do you mean, poor personal hygiene?”
Good thugs must be seriously hard to find these days.
I walked the roughly half-k distance to the river that separated BB Star from the rest of office. The great lady sat at her desk on the other side, working intently on something and never bothering to look up. Her entire desktop was a full-screen computer with a dozen windows showing everything from today’s stock prices to solar radiation patterns. I wasn’t surprised to see Fuzz Face and Man Mountain standing behind her. If my landlord, tax officer, and date from the senior prom had been there we could have had an official meeting of the I-Tried-to-Kill-Zach Club.
A smaller man in a suit stood behind her as well. This guy worried me a bit. He didn’t seem dangerous or anything; I just have an unnatural fear of small men in suits.
I cleared my throat and BB Star looked up at me from her work.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson,” her smile was devastatingly warm, “how nice of you to come on such short notice. Bridge.”
At her verbal command, a bridge across the river materialized from the air around me.
“I have to admit I was intrigued by your offer,” I said as I crossed.
“Chair,” she ordered.
A chair suddenly popped into existence in front of her desk.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said, motioning to the chair with her incredibly blue eyes.
I sat. “Nice office,” I said, trying to sound complimentary but not overly impressed.
“You think so?” she replied. “A lot of people find it a bit much.”
“I can understand that. Frankly, ‘a bit much’ doesn’t do it justice. I don’t think ‘too much’ would even be appropriate.”
“Well then,” she said “how about ‘far, far too much for any sane person to consider, let alone actually build?’ ”
“That’s a little closer,” I said.
“That is how the editor of Twenty-First Century Architecture described it in his review five years ago. Two months later I purchased his magazine through a dummy corporation, changed the editorial direction to arts and crafts and put that editor in charge of the pot-holder design column.”
I stared at her for a long nano, waiting for her to crack a smile.
She didn’t.
“So, like I said, nice office.”
And she almost smirked.
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Or can I call you Zach?”
“Feel free,” I said.
“Excellent. Then please feel free to call me BB. No other living person does at the nano, so you can be the first. Now can I get you anything? Coffee, tea or would you prefer straight caffeine?”
“A new office door would be nice,” I said.
That earned a smile.
“Yes, of course. That will be taken care of by the time you return to your office. Thank you for your understanding.”
“Then I guess the only other thing I can ask for right now is some information as to what the DOS this is all about.”
She sat back in her chair and spun away from me slowly. When she spoke it was more to the river than to me and I could tell that the words were difficult for her to say.
“I have a problem, Zach, a problem that calls for your unique services.”
“People don’t call me unless they have a problem, Ms. Star, I mean, BB, or unless they want me to cause a problem for someone else.”
“I see.”
“Some people call me thinking that they have a problem when they really don’t. Still other people call me thinking that they don’t have a problem when in fact, they do.”
“Okay.”
“There are also people who call me because they have a problem with a problem that I had previously solved for them and there are a few people who call me about problems they have with my bill.”
“That is very nice, Zach,” BB said.
“I should have stopped after that first part, huh?”
“That would have been best.”
“Well, the bottom line here, BB, is that whenever people call me, a problem usually figures somewhere into the equation.”
“I think we have established that,” BB said.
There was a nano of awkward silence. I could hear the fish splash as they made their way upriver.
“I must admit,” I said, “I’m flattered that somebody with your extensive resources would need me.”
“Yes,” she said, “this particular matter is one which must be handled by an outside source. A well-paid, discreet, outside source. This will not be something for your memoirs or your electronic comic book.”
“For the proper amount of compensation, I can live with that,” I said.
With that, the small man in the suit leaped to his feet, zipped quickly around the big desk and thrust a computer-pad and virtual pen in front of my face.
“Please sign to that,” he squeaked.
“You are a greeting card salesman, I presume?” I said, pushing his hands away.
The guy backed up ever so slightly, a bit of fear on his face. “Why do you ask?” he said meekly.
“Don’t worry,” I said, holding my empty hands up for him to see, “I’m unarmed.”