Free Slant by Greg Bear

not a bigot. I just don't approve of a lot of things happening today. But you've been through the r, rncdnr I never have. What we're going to see is hard enough to look at,
    / SLANT 47
    They get off on a residential level, looking out over a vast view of Eastside, the Corridor's extended sprawl, the Cascades and even into Eastern Washington. A huge curved wall of fortified glass blocks the high cold winds, and unseen heaters keep the air springtime warm. The stepped-back roof of the level accommodates the graceful curve of glass: more daring than anything Mary has seen in a tower or comb elsewhere.
    A street mocking black asphalt and paving brick stretches from the edge of a small grassy park through a residential block. Large single family frame-style houses are fronted by grass yards and real trees. The style is John Buchan, high nineteen-eighties and nineties, what some call the Sour Decades, replicated at extraordinary expense. It mocks a suburban neighborhood of the time,
    but the view of these old-fashioned sprawl homes is high-altitude, surreal. "Ever hear of Disneyland?" Nussbaum asks.
    "I grew up about fifteen miles from where it used to be."
    "This is rich folks' Disneyland, right?"
    Mary nods. She has never liked ostentation, never felt at ease in high comb culture, and she's pretty sure Nussbaum isn't comfortable, either.
    "You know, we give Southcoast hell for bad taste," Nussbaum says. "But sometimes we really take the cake."
    Mary sees no pedestrians, observes no delivery or arbeiter traffic on the road nor on the side streets that push back to the load-bearing wall of the tower behind this glassed-in suburban gallery. A hundred yards away, however, she observes two city property arbeiters and a man and woman in PD gray, standing before a three-story house whose mansard roof nearly reaches the arching curve of glass.
    Mary looks at the windows of the houses they pass, curtained and lighted but spookily uninhabited. "They're all empty," she says.
    "Lottery homes for corp execs," Nussbaum says. "Finance's finest deserve their rewards."
    "So when's the lottery?"
    "Metro vice shut the game down after some low managers confessed to a rig. They were paid half a million by each of the lottery winners. Fifty million total. The whole neighborhood's in dispute now. You must not access metro vids."
    "I've been concentrating on qualifying," Mary says.
    "It's all old black dust," Nussbaum says. "We actually don't see that sort of thing much up here. How about in LA?"
    "Not for a long time," Mary says. "Fresh dust is Southcoast's specialty."
    "Yeah," Nussbaum says. "They're trendsetters." They approach the PD officers and arbeiters.
    "Good afternoon, First Nussbaum," the female defender says. She nods to Mary. The defenders' faces are grim. Mary feels a creeping shiver along her back and shoulders. She does not like this outlandish place.
    48 GREG BEAR
    I've seen. We've had it tombed and we have one man in custody. Apparently the block caretaker let them use this house." Nussbaum shakes his head. "I thought therapy was supposed to clean us." He looks steadily, appraisingly, at Mary, and asks, "Ready?" Mary lowers her head, glances at the woman. Her name is Francey Loach and she is a full Second, coming up on forty years of age. For Mary's eyes only, Loach curls her lip and lifts her brows, warning Mary about what waits inside. The man is Stanley Broom. He is twitchy and unhappy. Loach and Broom. There's really nothing inside. They're going to laugh at me back at division. But Mary knows this is no'joke. To get a domicile tombed, serious black dust has to be involved. "Let's suit up," Nussbaum says. Within the large house's brick entry alcove, a portable black and silver flap-tent has been erected. Nussbaum pushes through the flap and Mary follows. Even with the front door closed, guarded by a small PD arbeiter, she can feel the deep cold within. They don loose silver suits, cinch the seams and joints, and Nussbaum palms the