RICHARD POWERS (2 page)

You're not a stranger, Ade.
He sounded hurt.
That's what's so perfect about this. You don't have to stop painting. Just come out here and do what you
—

Steve. You have the wrong person. I don't
do ...
I'm not painting anymore.

Silence pinged off the far coast, full duplex.

Did something happen?
he asked.

Tons
happened. Oh, all my parts are still intact, if that's what you mean. It's just that painting's over.
No
great loss, I assure you.

Loss? Adie! How can you say that? What... what are you doing, then?

About what? Oh.
You
mean for work?
I
freelance. Commercial stuff. Fliers and the like. Book jackets.

You'll do a book jacket but you
won't... ?

Wont do original work. I have no problem with designing for a living. Copy and paste. All the pastel coffee mugs and cartoon cars that you want. But Art's done.

Adie. If you can still make
... Do
you see? This would be a chance to do something completely ...

Sounds like you're looking for somebody else, Stevie.
For the greatest illustrator since representation self-destructed.

Well, have it your way.
Something in his voice said: You always did.
But do me a favor, Adie? Just make sure that you see this thing once before you die.

The sentence jumped out at her, from a place she could not make out. The sound of the words, their roll, their order. See this thing once, before you die. The strange familiarity of the invitation caught her ear, if not yet her eyes.

Put it that way,
she heard herself mouth, I
wouldn't mind.

Sure,
he said. He'd never asked for anything but the chance to save her.
Whenever you like. Preferably after 10 p.m.

The hard rose building brick pressed up against the small of her back. From a flight and a half up above night's fire escape where she sat, she watched herself say, How
about a week from next Tuesday, then? On you.

2

He gave her an address: a foothill road, twisting above the suburbs of that boomtown port built to service a forgotten gold rush. In her mind's eye, Adie pictured the Cavern, lying beached like art's ark, perched on a leeward Cascade slope greened by rains that forever returned yesterday's soaked breeze to the Pacific.

Spiegel expressed her the promotional brochures. In them, glossy images traced the Cavern back to the underground grottos of paint's
nativity. In faded watermark beneath the tables of hardware specs, she could make out the faint traces of those Paleolithic herds, stained into stone thirty millennia before art even gave itself a name. Spectral digits, stenciled to the rock
—outlines of the same phantom fingers that applied the rouge—waved at her from out of the world's original apse. And across the folds of the glossy brochure, from three hundred centuries on, 3-D, multiplanar, true-color, walk-around holograms waved back.

Adie arrived that first evening, after six hours trapped in the sealed hold of a 737. Stevie was there at the airport to Virgil her back to the Realization Lab. A dozen years. More. They hugged briefly at the arrival gate, laughed, started to falter over the baggage carousel, and drove straight out to his lair in the silence of small talk.

The RL baffled her. It resembled Stevie's description even less than he resembled the Wisconsin boy she'd gone to college with. It smelled faintly of ammonia and fake chemical lemon, the spoor of the late-night cleaning crew. She lingered in the central atrium, rubbing her hands along the redwood walls, trying to bring her image of the place into line with its real layout. She wanted to see the office he'd been sitting in when he'd called her. Steve gave her an impatient tour of the facility, under the compact fluorescent lights. Then he hurried her down the maze of runways, back into a room that opened onto a stalagmite-strewn pitch-blackness.

She knew black. Her friends in the downtown demimonde never deserted it, save for the sporadic bout of unavoidable nakedness. She did well around black. She understood it: one of the big two, not a true color, yet fraternizing with the deepest maroons, hoping to smuggle itself back over hue's closely guarded border.

But this ebony spooked her: the black of elaborate plans.

Gloom unfolded to her adjusting eyes. Stray, chaotic caches of chrome appeared on all sides of her, evil little Duchamp originals. Banks of lights blinked out of the pitch, like the beady red eyes of robotic rats. Connectors and controllers littered the floor, the metallic droppings of those circuit creatures.

She bobbed in a sea of digital serpents. VCRs on steroids, microwaves pumped up on growth hormone murmured at her. She wanted to hack at
the silicon swarms
—Michael driving off the fallen angels. Who had let these devices into the world? Who could possibly hope to track their various agendas? Adie, whose eidetic eye once re-created the putti, garlands, and cornucopias of a garish Baroque communion rail from memory, could not have sketched these consoles, even as they hissed at her.

If this was the fabled Cavern, then no. Absolutely not. She couldn't work here. Not in this room. No matter what these people hoped to make. No matter what they needed from her.

This is it?
she said.
This is it?

Stevie chuckled.
Almost there.
He pointed toward a luminous opening, a glowing white shoebox, shining like a lit stage set in the general

dark.

That? The Cavern?
No room ever less resembled its name. A hardware guy, Spider Lim, ran the tour for them that first night.
The room's been crashing a lot for the last several days,
Lim apologized.
Remember, it's just a prototype.

Yeah.
Steve smirked at her in the glow of the projectors.
You'll have to use your imagination. You know how to do that, don't you, Ade?

The two men led her through the mess of electronic umbilical cords. Spiegel touched her arm in the darkness. Adie flinched, despite herself, despite years of unlearning. But he only meant to steer her through the nested clutter on to the Cavern's mouth.

They stepped together through the missing rear wall, into the glowing room. Just like that: the audience, walking through an invisible proscenium, onto a floor-level stage. Adie found herself standing in an empty space, six by eight by ten feet, made from five large rectangles of white sandpaper. Even the floor and ceiling were movie screens.

This? You're joking. This is nothing but a glorified walk-in closet. Put these on,
Spider Lim answered. Plastic glasses: lightweight, tinted, wraparound. A high Hollywood fashion statement teetering between fabulously futuristic and ridiculously retro.

But they have wires coming out of them.
She tweezed them at arm's length, between thumb and pinky.

Spider's face crimped. So? Years later, she would sketch him like that: the young Rembrandt scrunching up, incredulous, in the light of the mirror's report.

So I
don
’
t want wires anywhere near my head.

You're kidding me.
Spider laughed.
Get out of my life.

Doesn't
...
don
’
t wires make a magnetic field or something?

Stevie reasoned with her.
You've used a Walkman, haven't you?

I've never let my head anywhere near a Walkman. I don't even like saying the word.

Spider answered with a marvelous sound: a rapid click of the tongue against hard palate. The sound the neighborhood boys' baseball cards made once, rubber-banded to bicycle spokes. The noise of the industrious world engine, impatient for its next run.

She put the glasses on and waited for the view, like a Louisville deb holding tight after her first hit of acid, her virgin sight about to be forever despoiled. Her eyes looked through the tinted lenses, not knowing what to expect. And they saw nothing at all.

Hold it. Hang on.
Spider stood between her and Spiegel, sporting his own set of glasses. He swayed, waving and clicking a thing that looked like a TV remote.
We're snagged on something.

The trio stood staring at a blank wall. Spider Lim made the ratchet noise. Adie had to keep from slugging him with pleasure. Do
that again!

What? Do what? Nothing's started yet.

That thing with your tongue.

Spider, lost to the problem, ignored her. His life's work: already to be someplace else by the time anyone else got there.

He temporized.
We've gone over to a new configuration. Just this week. A separate graphics engine for each wall. It's causing us some sync problems.

The white is pretty,
Adie offered.

Here we are. Here goes.

They gaped at the blank walls. Then the expanse of emptiness cleared. Up from a hidden seam in the whiteness, a stone slab emerged: a chunk of burnished marble chiseled with text, something Herod would have slapped up on an imperial stele to appall the natives, as deep into rebellious Judaea as he could get away with. The plaque twirled about in space before settling back down in midair, to be read.

That spinning stone even cast real shadows. No sooner did Spider land the first slab than he hooked another. The second plaque flopped out of the wall and pirouetted in space in front of Adie. She fought the urge to reach out and pinch it.

More stone tablets materialized from on high. They fell into formation alongside one another, forming the beveled buttons of a menu. A floating finger moved upon this list, a disembodied digit that tracked the waves of Spider's wand.

From the several choices, he selected a slab labeled Crayon World.
Here we go,
he said.
Hold on now.
He clicked, and the floating finger riffled. The marble button receded, as if really pressed. The menu beeped and dissolved. For a moment, the walls went dark. When they lit again, they were no longer walls.

A hailstorm of aquamarines filled Adie's vision, a shower of silver-blue shards, as if the air had just shattered. Then the shards condensed, reassembling into a blue ceiling. The three of them stood in their own bodies, under a blazing sky. Yet they floated above the scene they looked at, canted at an impossible angle. Adie's knees buckled. She pitched forward, compensating for this snub to gravity. When she righted herself, so did the Crayon World below.

Another cloudburst of topazes and Adie began to make out the place where they'd landed. Her gaze zoomed and panned, as dazed as an infant's eyes sifting their first light. No sooner did she right herself than nausea upended her again. She felt as she always had, on those five-thousand-mile childhood flights around the world to yet another new home, airsick for days at a pop. But this was the very opposite of motion sickness: still-illness, frozen in a yawing landscape that bobbed all around her.

Adie, now a cartoon of herself, stood treading on an invisible magic carpet. She, Steve, and Spider walked the plank above a seething grass sea. Only there was no plank, and the grass was no more than scribbles of crayon.

She looked up. The teal tent above them now billowed with cloud. She looked down at her shoes. They skimmed over the tops of trees, trees rooted well beneath the floor that projected them. Each crayon image slid seamlessly over the room's corners, erasing all sense of the
cubicle that they inhabited. A few trillion bits of math, to fool a few billion years of ocular evolution: after a few seconds, Adie stopped noticing the conjuring act and began to believe.

Here,
Spider said.
You drive.
And he thrust the wand into her hands.
Where’
s
the clutch on this thing?
She never could drive a stick. Adie bobbled the wand, jabbing at the buttons with her thumbs. The world's RPMs raced, and a burp rippled through its crayon portrait. The stand of would-be blue spruce they threaded went masts down and keel to heaven. She swung the wand hard to the right. She and the men banked back in the opposite direction.

What's that?
she whispered, afraid the thing might bolt.
That. There. It just moved.

God only knows,
Steve whined.
That's our problem. Millions of dollars of funding, and nobody around this dump can draw worth squat.

His voice seemed to come from just to her left, though Adie would never again trust her sense of distance. As she turned to look at him, the Crayon World wrapped around her, tracking her head. Spiegel's grin leaked out from under his own pair of wraparound glasses. Go
on and follow it, if you like.

Adie squeezed the wand and steered away. In three short bursts, she put half a moraine between herself and where Steve stood. Yet he stayed right next to her, meadow for meadow, bog for bog.

What are those things supposed to be: cattails? bulrushes? What in the world is that Douglas fir doing over there, all by itself?

Stevie threw back his head and snickered.
Some chassis-jockey must have drawn that one. They have all the visual intelligence of a myopic, right-hemisphere-damaged eight-year-old loose with his first sixty-four-color box.

Spider Lim just smiled at the coder's taunt.
Like software knows how to draw any better?