Analog SFF, March 2012 Read Online Free

called from a far corner. A wheelchair shot toward us. A heavy man with long black hair and a thick beard slammed his palms into the wheels, speeding forward. He seized the wheels and skidded to a stop just inches before our shins.
    "How are things, Steven?"
    He held out a hand. I shook. “Things are interesting."
    "Poor bastard. I saw what those venture capitalists did to you."
    "That's on the boards already? Well. So: Daltry Ericson, this is Karen. Karen and I went to grad school together."
    Daltry looked at her frankly, shook her hand, and then turned back to me. “You want something to drink? Cappuccino? While I make it you can tell me the deal."
    Daltry always started right in. He didn't really know how to do small talk. Or maybe didn't care to do it.
    "That'd be great,” I said.
    "Wet or dry?"
    I looked at Karen. When she shrugged I explained: “Lots of milk or not much milk?"
    "Wet,” she said.
    "Three wets. Follow me. Talk."
    We walked quickly, struggling to keep up as he sped across the heavy planks of the old industrial floor and into a corner kitchen. The kitchen was surprising clean for the pad of a bachelor ubergeek. Polished tile stretched into dust-free corners. Bright copper pans hung over a low gas stove. There were flower pots on the windowsill, and they were full of herbs. While Daltry worked a frightening Italian chrome machine, I told him, “We have a device. Unknown provenience. Unique, in every possible sense you can imagine. We want to reverse engineer it in a non-destructive way."
    "A dive inside?"
    "Right. My bots, your suits. Secret location, very tight non-disclosure agreements."
    He sniffed. “Sounds dubious."
    "I can promise you it is not illegal,” Karen said.
    "Well, careful,” I said. With Daltry, it was important to be very precise. He was screwed a few times on contracts, and so he thought now that anyone he caught fudging was secretly a pathological liar. “There is a chance that the government could try to claim the machine from us, or at least complain that we didn't share earlier."
    Daltry nodded. I knew the idea of beating the government to something would appeal to his anarchistic side.
    "I could do it in the Spring,” he said. “Maybe. I'd need to know more."
    "We have to do it now,” Karen said, looking at me. There was a hint of anger in her voice: I had dragged us all the way to Boston for this.
    "She's right,” I said. “It must be now. The day after tomorrow. I'll need tomorrow to gather the robots and the other equipment we'll need. But then we pick you up and we leave."
    "I have such responsibilities that starting anything new the day after tomorrow would cost an insane amount, just to pay off the contractual obligations I have."
    "No,” I said. “Here's the deal. You come with us, bring all the gear you can. Give us a week. I'll pay your expenses."
    "Now you're insulting me,” he said. He started frothing milk. The machine roared. I waited till it quieted down before I finished: “And, and , if you don't say, on the first day—no, if you don't say in the first hour —'Steven this is the most interesting, the most important thing I have ever done in my life,’ then I'll pay you whatever you want."
    "I want a lot."
    "I still own 38 percent of my company. I'll give it to you."
    "I.P.O. date?"
    "June."
    He looked at me, at Karen, back and forth, the metal frothing cup forgotten in his hand. “Man, you must think you got something really interesting."
    "Oh,” Karen said, “you have no idea."
    * * * *
    Daltry wouldn't let me push his wheelchair. When we finally returned to the camp—his van following Karen's Audi—and climbed down from the cars, he shot ahead of us and half-slid down the hill to the tent, wheels churning pine needles.
    "This is it?” he asked dubiously, as I reached for the zipper on the tent flap. “You decided to hide your machine in the woods?” He spun in place, working his arms in contrary directions, crushing pine needles under