Psychedelic Trace: The Prime Trace Series, Book Four

By Dennis E. Smirl

For decades, the Minoans of Prime Trace thought they knew the geometry of the myriad of alternate realities that surrounded their existence. They believed themselves utterly superior to the inhabitants of all other worlds, masters of technology and arbiters of justice and morality.

When a team of Minoan researchers are given the freedom to explore the true depths of reality, they discover a different geometry and open up what may prove to be an infinite number of alternate worlds.

Deciding to send Jate Goldmet and a team of Portal Adepts under his command into one of the newly-discovered alternate worlds seems at first, a prudent, and perhaps profitable act. When the reality of that alternate world turns out to be very different from what the Minoans expected, Goldmet and his team find themselves in a chaotic world that tricks all their five senses and leaves them weaponless and besieged by well-armed opponents. Faced with almost certain extinction, Jate and his team are forced to depend on their wits and team spirit as they fight to escape a fate none of them deserve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis E. Smirl
• Release date: Mar 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310271915

Dennis E. Smirl

Dennis E. Smirl has been an Air Force officer, a salesman for a Fortune 500 company, a school psychologist, a computer science instructor at several colleges and universities, and a business owner. Married to his college sweetheart for more than half a century, he has spent time in Mexico, Japan, and South Vietnam, but prefers to take family vacations in the USA and Canada. A writer for as long as he can remember—he attempted a first novel at age ten—his first taste of national publication was a race report written and published in 1965. A science fiction fan for almost the same length of time, Mr. Smirl joined the Science Fiction Book Club when member numbers were much shorter. Beyond his interest in Science Fiction, he has had a lifetime interest in horseback riding, auto racing (as a driver), golf, photography, computers and information processing, and mystery novels. He has written thirteen novels and more than seventy short stories and novellas.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Trace Minus 22, Prairie City, Madison, U. S. of A.

Mid-evening, 22 Unia 3193

How far to the portal? I asked.

Six kilometers, Kyra Ken-Duarte answered. And it opens in seventeen minutes.

With the snow and mud, we’re never going to get this car that close.

The road gets us to within two hundred meters. After that, I guess we carry her, she said, nodding in the direction of our slumbering passenger. And your nanocomps really aren’t working very well, are they?

Better no info than bad info.

Which means—

It’s from a saying favored by Prussian mercenaries two or three centuries ago. They said, ‘Better no officer than a bad officer.’ If a unit got stuck with a bad officer, he didn’t survive the first volley. Then the unit would make their own decisions regarding how they would fight—and hopefully survive—the encounter.

So you’re saying that if you can’t trust the information your nanocomps give you, then you… kill them?

"No, just ignore them. That’s why I’m not listening to them and asking you questions. Because the old saying also implies that there are good officers, and that you can follow their lead."

Then I hope mine are working.

So did I. The people we were dealing with shot first and asked questions later. If they got between the portal and us, surrender might not be an option. More likely, it would be the two of us getting shot from behind as we ran.

How far now?

Three kilometers. Don’t start slowing down yet.

I checked the view behind. With the vehicle’s rear glass having been shot out of its frame, the image in the rear-view mirror was perfectly sharp and clear. I think there’s someone way back there—but I’m not sure they’re following us.

Turn off the headlights.

Say what?

"There’s enough moonlight to see where we’re going. Turn off the lights."

I fumbled with the unfamiliar controls until I found the switch. Then I did as she said. Outside the car, the night sky was cloudless with a bright quarter-moon shining down on the snow-covered fields. I could see where I was driving.

Now, this thing must have a parking brake, or an emergency brake, Kyra said.

I tried to remember all the levers and pedals I’d seen inside the car when we’d enjoyed the advantage of daylight. Yes. At least, I think it does. I felt around with my right hand until I was fairly sure I’d found it.

Use it to slow us down, instead of the regular brakes. There’s a chance it won’t cause the brake lights to illuminate.

It’s worth a try, I said, amazed at how she knew so much about a vehicle she’d never seen or driven before that day. What’s the distance, now?

About nine hundred meters. Again, I checked behind. No headlights. If people were following us, they’d either lost contact when I turned off our headlights, or they were playing the same game as us. Keep a watch behind. See if you see anything moving without lights.

I glanced her way. You think they’ve turned off their lights, too?

She nodded. Maybe. It would let them get a lot closer without us doing what we did to the last car that chased us. We know they have to be scared, and that they’re angry because they think we’re killing their brother cops. That means they’re going to fight all the harder. She paused for a breath. Remember. Use the parking brake. Start slowing down now.

I slowed the car.

Stop.

I pulled the brake handle to the end of its travel, and the rear wheels locked up. When the car stopped moving, I asked, Where’s the portal?

Don’t open the door. She hammered the light in the roof of the passenger compartment with the butt of her stunner. I heard a tinkle as she crushed the bulb. Now, it’s okay.

I got out, opened the back door, pulled our passenger out of the car, and again, draped her left arm over my shoulder. "Where’s the portal?" I asked a second time, but with a little more urgency in my voice.

Follow me, she said as she broke trail to the spot where the portal would open.

But when? I asked my nanocomps.

<Four minutes>

Two hundred meters.

Fifty meters per minute through snow and mud with a large, unconscious woman draped over my neck.

Help me with this moose, I begged. She weighs a ton.

Kyra helped, and as she did, I wondered, how did Mama Goldmet’s only boychild get in such a mess?

&&&&

It started when my bonephone chimed in the space just behind my right ear. <Jate Goldmet here> I subvocalized.

<My office. Ten minutes>

<Right>

No ‘Hello’ or ‘Jate, this is Matthew’ or any other opening comment that might waste a second. That was Matthew Samaras’ way. He was always straight to the point. The fact that the two of us weren’t the best of friends might also have had something to do with the terse nature of the call. The fact that Matthew was my boss meant that I would be in his office in ten minutes or less.

I pushed aside my plate, the meal I’d been enjoying now half-finished in terms of quantity, entirely finished in quality. Nodding at a nearby servocart, I ordered, Clear the table.

Outside, the sun had set. Night came quickly during the winter months in Prime Trace’s iteration of the Mediterranean basin—cool air didn’t. I was wearing the company uniform—tan shirt, shorts and knee-high socks, brown plastic shoes that were inexplicably uncomfortable, the crazy, four-cornered beret dyed the color of dried blood—and sweating like a pig. The temperature was hovering in the thirty-five degree Centigrade range, and that was down four degrees from the afternoon high. The world—in this alternate universe—was fighting an ongoing war with global warming, and I saw no evidence it was winning.

Matthew’s office was all the way across the compound—at least half a kilometer distant—had there been a sidewalk between the dining hall and his building. As no such strip of pavement existed, I took the long way, which added another two hundred meters. I arrived at his office exactly on time, sweaty and slightly out of breath because I’d jogged the last quarter of the trip. Stepping inside the air-conditioned building, I wiped my brow, and knocked as I stopped outside his office door.

He didn’t keep me waiting. Jate. Get in here.

I entered. He sat behind his desk. Shorter than me by six or seven centimeters and more than a dozen kilograms lighter, he was dark-haired and handsome—except for a slightly oversized nose which looked as though it had been broken sometime in the past. He was tailored, cultured, and from his facial appearance, somewhere in his early to mid-thirties. I knew he was older than that and wondered how he managed to look so young. Maybe it was the great set of teeth.

On the other hand, I was not so fortunate. ‘Nondescript’ is a term friends and acquaintances use to describe my appearance when they’re being particularly generous—’potato face’ when they’re not. I knew I would never be thought of as handsome, or, considering my vocation and barbarous nature, even be described as ‘civilized’.

He pointed at an empty chair. Have a seat. We have a mission to plan.

I sat. Kyra Ken-Duarte was already sitting in a chair beside me. She looked great—tanned, fit, almost as tall as Matthew, with big blue eyes, dark hair cut short, a killer profile—and even though I’d known her for quite some time, still exotic, mysterious, and desirable.

What’s up? I asked.

He scribbled something on a notepad built into the surface of his desk before he answered, The seers have found a potential portal-adept. You and Kyra are going after her.

Going after her? I’m not sure I understand.

Looking at me as though I was the village idiot, he asked, "Jate, how did you get to Prime Trace?"

"I was abducted by two thugs with stunners." It was a sore point and he knew it. He also paid no attention to it.

″Are you sure they were thugs?" His quirky grin indicated that he thought knew something I didn’t.

″No. I guess—no."

"Well, it wasn’t, as you put it, ‘two thugs’. You were recruited by two of the best—Georgio Capaletti and Selah Grant."

I knew them both. I had worked with Capaletti—saved his life when the sonofabitch was—now I knew what I owed him, and that I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead—if he was dead. And as for Selah Grant… "I was abducted. I held up a hand to stem the rising tide of contention. But I’m not complaining about it anymore. I’ve gotten used to what I do. And the pay is good."

How nice for you, he replied. But that isn’t what we’re here to talk about and I don’t know why you’re always able to get things sidetracked.

I think of it as a rare and precious talent. I said that with a smile, even though I knew it would piss him off.

He glared. Stop talking, Jate, and pay attention.

Kyra Ken-Duarte sat there, suppressing a giggle. She knew how my babble irritated Matthew and enjoyed seeing him suffer.  At the same time, a random thought flickered across my consciousness: She laughs at my craziness. Maybe there’s a chance…

The individual you are to recruit is a native of Trace -22. We have determined that she is in her early- to mid-twenties, unmarried, childless, and, we believe, drifting through an unsatisfactory and unproductive experience with higher education.

Just your typical college student, I offered.

She isn’t typical, nor do they call institutions of higher learning ‘colleges’ in her Trace. Neither do they call them ‘universities’. ‘Upper Form’ is as close a translation as we could manage.

What’s she studying? Kyra asked.

We believe she’s studying medicine. But it may be more like nursing.

As in, ‘we don’t know for sure’, I said.

The seers have been working night and day since they first observed her, but she has a very weak aura. Be thankful for what we do know.

"Okay, so she’s studying medicine or nursing. But maybe her Trace needs medical personnel. And if we recruit her, then potentially—"

Matthew shook his head. "Potentially, nothing. The seers have been able to tell us she’s not succeeding in her studies and that she has little chance of finishing her program, so we’re convinced there’s no conflict of ethics or morality. She belongs here, with us. Besides, at last check, you weren’t in a position to make those kinds of moral—or executive—decisions."

I shrugged his comment away. So what’s the plan?

I was getting to that, if you’d ever stop interrupting, he answered, his ire barely in check if his complexion was any indicator. You and Kyra are to cross over to Trace -22, reconnoiter, and if possible, effect the recruitment.

What are you not telling us about this Trace? Kyra asked.

I’ve given you everything you need to know for now.

We can study up on the similarities and differences in mission planning, I interjected, trying to defuse Kyra’s healthy paranoia. But I’m not sure about sending only two of us on a mission like this. Call me overly cautious, but I’ve spent some time on a university campus or three. There are always people wandering around. College students never seem to sleep and they’re constantly nosing around where they shouldn’t be. I wonder how successful we’ll be at avoiding being seen at some place we don’t belong.

Is that a problem? Kyra asked.

It can be. Where I went to school, the campus police carried guns and they were particularly sensitive to crimes such as kidnapping.

"Recruitment, Matthew insisted. What we do isn’t criminal."

Tell that to the folks in Trace -22. We could get shot at if anything goes wrong.

Hold up a minute, Kyra said. We were talking about a simple recruitment and all of a sudden we’re talking about getting shot? Did I miss a transition?

It happens, I said. And it’s mainly my fault. Sorry.

Not a problem, she replied, smiling slightly. So, Matthew, are we planning something dangerous?

"It isn’t intended to be dangerous. He looked darkly in my direction. But considering how things always get confused when Jate’s around, let’s concentrate on planning a simple and safe recruitment."

Okay, I said. But back to what I was saying about campus police. If this Trace is anything like my Trace, they will be armed and alert to strangers in their midst. The question is, do they get upset when they see strangers?

We don’t think so, but any updated knowledge about the Trace will be covered in final briefings. In any event, you’ll be carrying a new type of stunner. It’s smaller and therefore more concealable without having less power, he assured us. If the situation does deteriorate into violence, you will have the resources necessary to complete the operation.

But if we get into a dust-up during the recon, the guys on the other side will know something’s up. Once they do, what chance will we have of a successful recruitment? Kyra asked.

Matthew rubbed his temples with both hands. "Let’s go back to the first circle. You are to plan an operation in which you are to find a young woman we have identified as a potential portal-adept, observe her comings and goings, and, if possible, recruit her. If that is not possible, plan a place and time when you can recruit her. In that event, you will return to Prime Trace, tell me what you’ve planned, and if all appears to be feasible, I will send you back to execute that plan. What is so difficult about that?"

Smiling broadly, I said, Sounds like a piece of cake to me.

He blinked. What on all the earths are you talking about? And how can cake make noise?

He didn’t understand the cliché. I wasn’t going to explain it to him. We can do this without making a fuss.  Don’t worry.

Of course, I’ll worry. Look who I’m sending on this mission. He dismissed the two of us with a wave, and we left his office.

In the hall, which was also mercifully air-conditioned, I asked, Aren’t you senior to me?

Kyra held up to talk with me. By six months.

So why aren’t you team leader?

She shook her head. The jasmine aroma of her hair made me giddy. It’s a long story. What’s your boredom threshold?

I couldn’t get her scent out of my sinuses. High. Extremely high.

She took me by the arm and walked with me toward the planning section, all the while explaining how she had screwed up an operation so badly that it would be a long time before she was ever considered for team leader.

I listened intently. I really liked the way she smelled.

CHAPTER 2

Prime Trace, Infinity Compound

Early evening, 21 Unia 3193

Three days after our meeting with Matthew, the briefers had provided us with all the background available. In addition, the seers had provided us with new information, we had walked through at least a dozen simulations of what could be expected on the other side, and everyone thought we were ready to go. The person we were to attempt to recruit was a student attending a school of medicine—or nursing—in what, in my Trace, was known as the state of Kansas. In Trace -22, a similar piece of real estate—by the way of boundaries—had been named Madison, in honor of the first president of their United States. It seemed that their General Washington had caught a lead ball from a Brown Bess very late in his war, and hadn’t survived the encounter.

I wondered how much that had changed things in Trace -22.

We flew from Kyra-Thera in the eastern Mediterranean to the middle of the North American continent—a piece of real estate known in Prime Trace as Upper Caesarea. After a short ride from what passed for an airport in that part of the world, we arrived at the portal encampment. There we met the portal chief; an old friend named Pityr VanHeerst, and checked the final details before stepping through the portal.

You will be through the portal going at after sunset two hours, Pityr said. Remember, cold it will be there, so the moment through suffering from the portal symptoms you are, into your parkas you should get.

How cold? I asked, already concerned about the fact that portal cloth offered almost nothing in the way of insulation.

Where you are going, snow is on the ground very deep. The temperature is the point of freezing for water well below. If a wind there is, the factor of chill will below the freeze point be many degrees.

I hyperventilate when I go through. It may take me a couple of minutes to get over that.

So goot an idea that is not. More quickly you must move than that. Otherwise, Pityr said, glancing at a spot a few centimeters below my belt, you might something freeze off you don’t want to be without.

Smart ass. I’d always enjoyed Pityr’s ribald sense of humor. I also knew he wasn’t joking. Chill factors aren’t something to play around with, not even for a couple of minutes. The problem was getting through the portal. Anything worn over portal cloth would burst into flame the moment it passed through. If an adept tries to wear anything under the portal cloth, it leaves air spaces, points not in immediate contact with portal cloth, and the skin bursts into flame. So we were dressed head to toe in portal cloth, and carrying bags of portal cloth stuffed with items we thought we might need in Trace -22—things like extra clothes, parkas, boots, mittens, a complete portal cloth outfit for our potential recruit—and the new concealable stunners.

Ready? Pityr asked.

I nodded. Kyra did, too.

Pityr signaled to one of the technicians and the frame of the portal device filled with a hyperelectronic transfer effect that looked like ripples of blue lightning. Keep track of the time. In exactly twenty-four hours will the portal open, he reminded us.

And after that? I asked.

Forty-eight, ninety-six and then one hundred and forty-four hours. If not then— He shrugged eloquently.  —maybe coming back you aren’t.

We’ll be there, I promised, and stepped through.

&&&&

For me, passing through a portal is like stepping into an electric light socket and staying in it for a while—because the transition from one Trace to another isn’t instantaneous. Actually, it feels much like passing through a narrow body of electrified water and fighting the drag of the liquid as I make my way from the entrance to the exit.

Once I was through, I fell to my knees and hyperventilated. Kyra came through right behind me and started puking. I had a portal cloth bag stuffed into a pocket on my right pants leg and managed to take it out and begin breathing into it. The rapid buildup of carbon dioxide eased the symptoms and I started thinking about ways to stay warm.

I was cold—way-down-to-the-bone cold. I looked back at where the portal had been and saw two equipment bags lying on the snow. The techs had shoved the bags through behind us, and even in my addled state, I knew their contents were all that stood between frostbite and me. But my hands didn’t want to work. I didn’t know whether it was from the cold or from the lingering effects of the portal—or a combination of both—but I couldn’t get the bags open. I cursed my lack of coordination and at the same time, noticed that Kyra was trying to stand up, and failing in the attempt. She fell face-forward into the snow and started crawling in the wrong direction.

Newly motivated, I forced my clumsy hands into the first bag and pulled out two parkas. I put the larger one on, and then went to help Kyra. I got her to her feet and into the parka, making sure that the hood was protecting her head and face.

Jate, she groaned.  I’m going to be sick again.

I grabbed her shoulders and spun her around, making sure that whatever was left in her stomach didn’t get splattered onto the front of my parka. When she was through with the spasms, I said, Don’t wander away. I’m going to get the trousers and the boots.

The rest of it took less than a minute, although it felt like an hour. Then, dressed warmly, complete with mittens and ski masks, I asked Kyra how she was doing.

I think I’m in the wrong business, she groaned.

Why so?

I’m always the last one to get over portal symptoms.

We’ve worked together before and I don’t remember it that way. 

Always trying to be Mr. Nice, aren’t you? Don't try to make me feel better, Jate. I’m—

I really don’t remember it that way, I snapped. Now, why don’t we stop arguing and find someplace where we can get warm.

She nodded. You’re right. So which way do we go?

I checked my nanocomps. They told me that the edge of town was three kilometers to the north—sort of. That way, I said, pointing and hoping. Let’s find a convenience store where they’re serving hot coffee.

Her posture told me she was confused. What’s a convenience store? And how does anyone sell convenience? Or why would they?

Never mind. You’ll understand when we get there.

I led, Kyra followed, and forty-five minutes later we were out of our ski masks and inside a store that called itself ‘QuikeeMart’—if my nanocomps had translated the message on the sign correctly—stomping snow off our boots and drinking hot coffee purchased with currency Pityr had given us.

I’d hoped it was good counterfeit, but worried that it wasn’t, that we’d get caught trying to pass funny money and have to fight our way back to the portal, thus prematurely ending the mission on an inauspicious note. Luckily, that didn’t happen.

Once I was warm enough that my teeth stopped chattering, I asked the lad working the counter, How far to the nearest motel?

He masticated a large wad of gum for a while, evidently thinking. A whut?

A motel. A place where travelers can spend the night.

Oh. You mus’ mean a traveler’s rest.

Nodding, I replied, Yes. That’s what I meant.

Then why din’t you say so in the first place?

I shrugged. I should have.

He looked us both up and down—slowly. You fum around here?

What? It took my nanocomps a while to make sense of the question.

Are you fum around here? I mean, where you fum?

Here, I answered, irritated by the temerity of the question. The good ol’ USA. But back east, I added, over by the coast.

His laugh sounded like a dying man gasping for breath. That must be why you talk so funny.

I’m just a laugh a minute, I said, wanting to tear his throat out and spit down the hole I made. So could you tell me where I might find a nearby mo—I mean, traveler’s rest?

Two blocks that way, he said, pointing. But where’s your wheels?

It took me another second to decode his message. Five miles—that way, I said finally, pointing in the opposite direction as I continued to extemporize. I think something inside the engine broke.

Bad time fer somethin’ like that, what with the snow and the cold. He chewed his gum some more. I don’t know if they’ll rent you a room at the motel without you’re havin’ a set a’ wheels.

Something important the briefers didn’t tell us about? Really? And how did you hear about something like that?

Didn’t hear about it. Tried it once. Me and ma’ girlfriend, we walked up and told ’em we wanted a room. They asked me where my wheels was, and when I couldn’t point to a set that was mine, they wouldn’t rent us a room.

How long ago was that?

He shrugged. Year, or so. Don’t know, exactly. He looked sixteen. I figured him for eighteen or he probably wouldn’t have had the job. But a year or so earlier, he would have looked like a middle-schooler. And he wanted to rent a motel room with his girlfriend in tow?

Well, maybe things have changed. Thanks for the info, anyway.

He looked at me as though he didn’t understand the words. Sure. Whatever.

I nodded at Kyra and we got out of there before we were exposed to whatever the kid had. Then again, can one catch the stupids? Not being sure either way, we walked the two blocks to the… traveler’s rest—at least he’d been right about the distance—and rented a pair of adjoining rooms. I walked Kyra to her room and told her goodnight. Then I entered my room, took a long, hot shower, and crashed.

&&&&

The following morning, Kyra was up before me. I deduced that because I was in bed and she was outside, pounding on my door.

Give me a minute, I said. I needed to find some clothes because I hadn’t bothered to do anything after the shower that didn’t involve a towel or a sheet. I pawed through the bag I’d brought into the room, found some clothing that both Matthew and Pityr had assured me would be appropriate for the Trace we were in, and dressed in record time.

I opened the door. Kyra looked great. I figured she was either a natural beauty or she’d been up for a while, assisting nature. I’m hungry, she said. Evidently you’d rather sleep than eat.

I need to put shoes and socks on. I need to use the bathroom. I need to get my parka. Then we can go get something to eat.

I’ll wait, she said, inviting herself into the room. She looked at the unmade bed, the garments strewn around the floor. Jate, you live like a pig.

I flashed my most ingratiating grin at her. In the proper hands, I could be trained to do better.

Don’t even hope, bucko.

&&&&

Breakfast was available down the street, the desk clerk told us, or we could enjoy the complimentary breakfast provided by the management. I took a look at what was on the side table and figured that stale rolls, reconstituted orange or grapefruit juice, and coffee strong enough to peel the paint off a limo do not a good breakfast make. Kyra didn’t disagree. We walked about three blocks and found a restaurant that stated in large letters that it served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. I wondered whether that was to be taken as a good sign or bad, but it was cold and we were hungry.

Inside, the odors of cooking were somehow distant, and if held back by some great hand—or maybe it was just good exhaust fans. A young woman in a black dress and white apron led us to a booth and flopped two menus onto the tabletop.

You wan’ coffee?

I nodded, as did Kyra. As the young woman disappeared with that portion of our order, Kyra said, A real pleasure to make your acquaintance, just under her breath.

Probably working her way through college, I ventured, majoring in Marketing or Communications.

Kyra grinned. And getting good grades, I’ll bet.

I doubted it. Still, the waitress returned—far more quickly than I expected—with a plastic urn of hot coffee and two clean cups. What can I get fer ya’?

Eggs, scrambled. A stack of hotcakes. A slice of ham.

She put her right hand on her hip as though addressing an imbecile. We gotta special like that. It’s called a double-whammer.

I smiled. Barely. Good. That’s what I’ll have.

She scribbled the order on her pad. Now, what’ll you have, lady?

Kyra looked up, her expression indicating her lack of pleasure with the waitress’s choice of terms. I’ll have what he’s having.

Jeez. You guys must be hungry. She scribbled Kyra’s order on her pad and made another disappearance.

First, I’m a lady, then I’m a guy, and then I eat too much, Kyra observed. I wonder if she has a problem with gender differentiation or is she just completely tactless and clueless?

I didn’t know you knew such big words.

She bared her teeth. Tactless, I understand.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to go there. So how do we find this student of the healing arts?

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, Didn’t someone tell me you were team leader?

I am. But I was wondering if you picked anything up from the briefings that I might have missed... As in how we find our potential agent-adept.

"The briefings were a bit skimpy, weren’t they?"

I’d use that word, if you hadn’t already. I paused a moment to shift gears. The seers tell us she’s a student in their school of medicine or nursing. They think they know what she looks like. They think her last name might be Tobamero, or Tobastivo, or Tomastivo and they have no idea as to her first name. They don’t know where she lives or where she works. And what I don’t think we should do is walk up to the Registrars of either of the two schools and ask if they have a student who goes by one of those names.

Why not? If they do, they just might tell us where she is.

I don’t think so. What little the briefers told us indicates that this is a very suspicious—even paranoid—culture. That was putting it mildly. According to what we had been told about the iteration we were working, armed forces of those United States had come out a very costly second best in three successive expeditionary actions. Politicians had placed the blame for those losses everywhere but where it belonged and ordinary folks were generally only a few steps ahead of poverty, missing draft-age relatives who’d died a long way from home, and angry about almost everything. I figured if the woman they were seeking actually knew she could get out of such a Trace, she might jump at the offer.

We could use the tracker we brought with us, Kyra offered.

I started to reply, but our meals arrived, and conversation stopped for a while. The food was hot, tasty, plentiful, and if I understood anything about the currency we were using, very inexpensive.

Sated, we both sat back and sipped our coffees. A tracker isn’t that accurate, I said, referring to a piece of equipment that was supposed to identify potential agent-adepts by their ‘auras’. We’d be lucky to get within five hundred meters of her, even assuming the damned thing could see her ‘aura’ outside the glare of ours.

We’re supposed to try. She looked across the room and then pointed to a windowed box that looked like it might be a phone booth. How about using that?

I’ll check. I weaved my way through tables and diners, and found the booth empty. Inside, there were components I thought I could identify as a phone system, but no phone book. I looked at a plaque that instructed people in the use of the device. I stared, and then waited for the nanocomps to kick in so that I could read what was there. When they did, I scanned down the lines of unfamiliar text. I didn’t see anything that told me how to get ‘information’.

Hey, mister, asked a tenor voice from behind. You gonna use the phone or jus’ stare at it all day?

I turned and smiled. A young man about three-quarters my size was giving me an impatient look.

I thought about harming him and then dismissed the thought immediately.

Sort of.

Sorry. But could you help me for a moment? I have a... cousin here, and I know her last name but I don’t know her number. I ‘m having a bit of a problem finding it.

You’re not from around here, are you? the fellow asked, looking suspicious.

It was the second time I’d fielded the question in as many days. No, I’m from back east, near the coast.

His eyes narrowed. What state would that be?

Didn’t I just tell Kyra that these people weren’t a trusting lot? The Carolinas. But I travel around a lot, so I don’t really call any place home.

So are your phones that different… back in the Carolinas?

I nodded politely. I guess they are, because this one sure is different.

Dial information, he said, as though speaking to the retarded. It’s oh-oh-one-oh. It’s a free service.

Thank you, I said, stepping away from the phone. Now that I wasn’t crouched inside the booth, I towered over the young man. I moved very close to him. Why don’t you make your call and then I’ll ‘dial information’ later.

He shrank back.  You don’t mind?

"Not at all. You seem like such a nice young man." I patted his shoulder with just enough force to make him flinch and then grinned without letting the expression reach my eyes. He scuttled around me as though he feared I might break him into small pieces. I walked away, struggling to keep from laughing.

What happened over there? Kyra asked as I returned to the booth.

Just guy stuff. I tasted my coffee. It was cold and the urn was empty. No phone book, but they have an information service. Dial oh-oh-one-oh, the fellow over there told me.

And do what?

Ask for our objective’s phone number.

Will that help?

It will, if information works the way it does in my home Trace. They’ll give us a phone number, and then if we ask for it, an address.

And what if it doesn’t work that way?

Then they won’t comply with our request because addresses are considered confidential information.

So the phone system may not help us.

I don’t know. In my home Trace, addresses were printed in the phone book, unless you specifically requested they not be. Then, of course, her number could always be unlisted.

Unlisted? What’s that?

The customer buys service from the telephone company but pays extra not to have their name, address, or number listed in the phone book.

She tilted her head slightly to the right. "You have to pay extra not to be in the phone book in your Trace?"

I nodded. Yup.

Very strange. She got up while I paid the check and added a tip. "Was there a phone book in your motel room