Free Book 2 - Starfishers by Glen Cook Page A

Luna Command they handed him
a pink plastic card identical in all other respects to the white
one he had received at Decontamination. They also gave him an
envelope containing leave papers, money, bankbooks, and such
written persona as a man needed to exist in an electronic universe.
Included was an address.
    An unsmiling amazon opened a door and set him free.
    He stepped into the public tunnels of Luna Command. Back from
beyond the looking glass. He caught a bus just like any spacer on
leave.
    The room was exactly as he had left it—except that they
had moved it a thousand kilometers from its former location. He
tumbled into his bed. He did not get out again for nearly two
days.
    Cornelius Perchevski was a lonely man. He had few friends. The
nature of his profession did not permit making many.
    For another five days he remained isolated in his room, adapting
to the books, collections, and little memorabilia that could be
accounted the time-spoor of the real him. Like some protean beast
his personality slowly reshaped itself to its natural mold. He
began taking interest in the few things that made a unified field
of his present and past.
    He took down his typewriter and notebooks and pecked away for a
few hours. A tiny brat of agony wrested itself from the torn womb
of his soul. He punched his agent’s number, added his client
code, and fed the sheets to the fax transmitter.
    In a year or two, if he was lucky, a few credits might
materialize in one of his accounts.
    He lay back and stared at the ceiling. After a time he concluded
that he had been alone enough. He had begun to heal. He could face
his own kind again. He rose and went to a mirror, examined his
face.
    The deplastification process was complete. It always took less
time than did his internal mendings. The wounds within never seemed
to heal all the way.
    He selected civilian clothing from his closet, dressed.
    He returned to public life by taking a trip to the little shop.
The bus was crowded. He began to feel the pressure of all those
personalities, pushing and pulling his
own . . . Had he come out too early? Each
recovery seemed to take a little longer, to be a little less
effective.
    “Walter Clark!” the lady shopkeeper declared.
“Where the hell have you been? You haven’t been in here
for six months. And you look like you’ve been through
hell.”
    “How’s it going, Max?” A self-conscious grin
ripped his face open. Christ, it felt good to have somebody be glad
to see him. “Just got out of the hospital.”
    “Hospital? Again? Why didn’t you call me? What
happened? Some Stone Age First Expansioner stick a spear in you
again?”
    “No. It was a bug this time. Acted almost like leukemia.
And they don’t even know where I picked it up. You have
anything new for me?”
    “Sit your ass down, Walter. You bet I have. I tried to
call you when it came in, but your box kept saying you
weren’t available. You ought to get a relay put on that
thing. Here, let me get you some coffee.”
    “Max, I ought to marry you.”
    “No way. I’m having too much fun being single.
Anyway, why ruin a perfectly good friendship?” She set coffee
before him.
    “Oh. This’s the real thing. I love you.”
    “It’s Kenyan.”
    “Having Old Earth next door is good for something,
then.”
    “Coffee and comic opera. Here’s the collection. The
best stuff is gone already. You know how it is. I didn’t know
when you’d show up. I couldn’t hold it
forever.”
    Perchevski sipped coffee. He closed his eyes and allowed the
molecules of his homeworld to slide back across his taste buds.
“I understand. I don’t expect you to hang on to
anything if you’ve got another customer.” He opened the
ancient stamp album.
    “You weren’t out to the March of Ulant, were you,
Walter?”
    “Ulant? No. The other direction. Why?”
    “Because of the rumors, I was curious. You know how Luna
Command is. They say Ulant has been rearming. The Senators are
kicking up a fuss.