Ambient Read Free Page B

compartment and bennies from his
drawer, he washed them down with absinthe. A few snots and
sniffs from the kane and he sat sufficed. Not until a year agoafter his mother died-had Mister Dryden much to do with the
reckers so successfully imported into the country by his organization. Now he was always on the fly. Drug's shrouds swathed
him so closely that it was as if, having been hurt and seeking
protection, he chose to wrap himself so tightly in bandages that
he might suffocate long before he healed.
    We drove to his office, at Rockefeller Center, in the Dryco
building. Army troops passed us, marching down Fifth in hap hazard formation, the smirkers on their helmets bobbing as they
huffed along.

    "Yellowjackets," Jimmy sneered, nodding at their sunflower
flakjacks. "Think they sting like fire."
    Avalon donned her conference outfit, hooking up her armor, a
heavy steel corselet daubed with orange trim. Daggers rose from
each breastplate like exomissiles. She slid on her spiked leather
bracelets, her kneepads, her elbowpads, her thick wool leggies,
and her leather G-string. Finally she pulled on her tight leather
mitts and her roller skates.
    "You're pillowing?" asked Mister Dryden, frowning.
    "Yeah," she said, oiling the wheels with a can of 3-in-1.
    We parked out front, in the small street by the plaza, in front
of the building. I brushed soot from my eyes as we stepped from
the car; my hands were filthy from being in the air. Sirens whined
in the distance. Several jets passed east, overhead, toward Long
Island.
    "We'll afternoon it down, Jimmy," said Mister Dryden.
    "Right," said Jimmy, standing at ease beside the car. He wore
a dark blue Navy bridge coat that must have weighed thirty pounds;
too warm for the weather, I thought, but he wore it always. For
aesthetics he'd sewn skull-and-crossbones patches on the shoulders, and a patch of the Lion of Judah on the back. His hair,
knotted into thick ropes, tumbled past his neck. He wore razor
knucks strapped to his left hand. Standing next to him was unsettling. I'm big, but Jimmy was magnificent; I came up to his chin.
It was good to know that in theory Jimmy worked with us and
not against-still, you could be certain only of yourself. Every
worm can turn and strike, and it always seemed to me that Jimmy
was only waiting for the moment he could keen to strike deep.
    At the building's entrance, Mister Dryden shouted to a gentleman arriving, an unfamiliar face; someone's replacement. He had
a compact bodyguard; they wore gray suits. This signified that he
was but a boozhie midman and so could be easily replaced as the day demanded. Only owners and their immediate lessers wore
corporate blue; it wasn't forbidden that others should, but to do
so would be considered unmannerly at best.

    "Tom,'' said Mister Dryden. "Well-going, son?"
    "Fine, sir."
    Tom looked to be thirty years older than Mister Dryden.
    " Conference-ready?"
    "Yes, sir."
    We entered the lobby, Avalon rolling on ahead, zazzing around
the planters and the display cases containing Dryco-made products: electronic gear, sports equipment, art supplies, cassettes,
phone systems, Army weapons, farm tools, fiberoptic line, auto
parts, laserlights, robots, and plastic statues of E. Dryco-di-
rectly or indirectly, it didn't matter-controlled about 40 percent
of American production and could if desired lay claim to another
30 percent.
    A silk banner hung from the ceiling in the lobby, wafting gently
in the AC. On it was printed the Dryconian ethic:
    WORRY NOT, WONDER NOT.
    We newstanded a moment. The proprietor, an old man Iegbent
and wobbly with rickets, leafed through El Newsweek. I picked
up the two dailies-the New York Times and USA People-and
dropped the two cents in his hand. In a guarded nook was Mister
Dryden's elevator. "Open," he said, pressing his hand against
the printcode monitor; the door opened. We entered and began
rising to the sixty-fifth floor. Most elevators had