The Ware Tetralogy, Rudy Rucker [inspirational books TXT] 📗

sticky adhesive to catch the dust from their feet. Following Neeraj’s example, Randy sat down on a bench and pulled some disposable blue covers over his shoes.

“Ram-ram, Neeraj,” said a leathery brown woman sitting behind a counter. “Is this our new Mr. Tucker?”

“Indeed. Randy, this is Roopah. Roopah, this is Randy.”

“Here are your building suit, your shoes, and your ID badge,” said Roopah, setting what looked like tight-cuffed blue pajamas and white bowling shoes on the counter. “Press your thumb on this pad, Randy, so that your locker can recognize you. Your locker number is 239.”

In the locker room, they stashed their street clothes and put on the blue building suits and the white plastic shoes. Beyond the locker room lay a medium clean zone—with a mere ten thousand particles per cubic meter. Here the air already felt purer than any that Randy had ever breathed; the odorless air flowed effortlessly into his lungs.

Then they went into a second locker room: the gowning room proper. They put on latex gloves. They put on white hoods and overalls. Randy had hoped the suits might be live imipolex, but they were just brainless plastic.

“We call these bunny suits,” said Neeraj, cheerfully pulling his hands up under his chin and making a chewing face like a rabbit. “And the floppy white galoshes are fab booties.”

They pulled the fab booties over their white bowling shoes. Neeraj gave Randy a face mask equipped with a small fan that drew in new air and pumped Randy’s exhalations through a filter. This was starting to feel a teensy bit… obsessive. But Randy liked being obsessive.

Now Neeraj led Randy through a tile corridor lined with nozzles blasting out air. “This is the air shower,” said Neeraj.

Slowly moving through the air shower, with his filthy invisible human particles being sucked out through the floor grate, Randy thought of a Bible phrase: “I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord.”

Beyond the air shower lay the temple of moldie creation. The lights were bright and yellow; they gave the fab a strange underworld feeling. The rushing air streamed down past Randy from ceiling to floor. White-garbed figures moved about; all of them were dressed exactly the same. Everyone’s labors revolved around glowing cylindrical slugs of imipolex, the slugs ranging in size from breakfast sausages on up to giant bolognas four feet long.

The fab was perhaps the size of a football field, and it had high fifteen foot ceilings to accommodate an overhead monorail system that carried the partially processed slugs of imipolex from station to station.

The crude imipolex itself was manufactured in a series of vats, vacuum chambers, and distillation columns fed by slurries of chemicals piped up from somewhere below the floor.

As Randy and his boss moved down the main corridor on their tour, people kept recognizing Neeraj and coming over to pat him on the back or on the arm or on the stomach—they were like worker ants exchanging greetings while tending their larvae.

The only human contamination Randy could sense was the meaty smell of his own breath bouncing around inside his face mask. He wished he could tear off the mask and inhale the clean pure air of the fab. But then he would exhale, and the fab wouldn’t like that—detectors would notice the increased number of particles per cubic meter, and lights would flash.

Later they went downstairs to the sub fab, the floor below the fab. Like the break area, the sub fab was only kept at ten thousand particles per cubic meter, and you didn’t have to wear a face mask.

The sub fab was a techno dream, the ultimate mad scientist’s lab. It held all the devices needed to support the machines of the fab. The electrical generators were here, the plumbing, the tanks of acids, the filtering systems, the vacuum lines, the particle monitoring equipment—miles of wires and pipes and cables in an immaculately painted concrete room. This was where Randy was to begin work, maintaining and upgrading the sub fab’s plumbing.

The apartment the Heritagists had found for Randy was in a sterile high-rise right next to the Bangalore airport. Most of the people living in it were non-Indian workers and scientists imported by the various high-tech industries of Bangalore. After a tense, alienated week there, Randy decided to move into town, into the real India, into a dim room in an ancient stone building on the side of a hill between the orchid-filled Lalbagh Gardens and the bustling Gandhi Bazaar.

The sheer diversity of India soothed Randy: in uptight Louisville, everyone was good or bad, rich or poor, black or white—but in the streets of Bangalore there were endless shadings on every scale, and life’s daily workings were all the more richly woven.

The building with Randy’s room was called Tipu Bharat; Tipu being the name of a former Indian prince and Bharat being the Indian word for India. The walls of Tipu Bharat were worked with carved designs like necklaces and set with arched, pillared niches holding miniature bright imipolex statues of gods, animated icons that waved their tiny arms and seemed to watch the passersby. There was an open terrace on the roof where the Tipu Bharat roomers could sit and stare out toward the Eastern or the Western Ghats, the distant mountain ranges that enclosed the high plateau of Bangalore.

Near the Gandhi Bazaar was a street of the naked holy men called sadhus; day and night the sadhus sat in streetside booths, each with a small incense burner, a blanket, a fly whisk, and a tacked-up collection of shimmering religious art, much of it made of imipolex. Sometimes one of the sadhus would put on a show: hammer a sharpened stick into his head, build a fire in the street and walk on its coals, suck blood from the neck of a live chicken, or do something even more fantastic and disgusting. Randy often walked down to watch them in the evenings.

“The moldie you are always fabulating with outside the fab,” said Neeraj on the morning of Randy’s first monthly payday, a Saturday. “Is she calling herself Parvati?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Randy. “Do you know her?”

“No no, I only recognize the shape she is wearing—Parvati is the goddess who is the wife of the god Shiva. In the Hindu religion, Shiva’s wife is extremely important; she has many different names and many different forms. One form is Parvati the beautiful, but another of her forms is the black Kali who rides a lion, brandishes a knife, and wears a necklace of chopped-off human heads. The risk in becoming very intimate with a moldie Parvati is that she may unexpectedly become a Kali and take your head. Like all women, my own wife is both a Parvati and a Kali, not to mention an Uma and Durga, but my wife is human and I do not need to worry so much about her really and truly taking my head. You are planning to buy Parvati a slug of imipolex from the company store today and to have a heavy date with her, are you not?”

Randy blushed. “Not that it’s really any of your-all’s goddamn business, Neeraj.”

“I do not disapprove, Randy, but I am saying this: Keep your head. Some moldies play the game of sticking a tendril up a man’s nose and implanting a control unit in his brain. This is called a thinking cap. You have never heard of this practice?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“If you are going to spend time with moldies and perhaps to be sexually intimate with them, it is a good practice, first of all, to be wearing a protective barrier in the back of your nose. There is a self-installing titaniplast device of this nature available in the company store. Come along, I’ll walk over there with you and make sure that my rumbustious young horn-doggie is equipped with the proper protection.”

One whole end of the employee’s store was filled with bins of lusciously glowing imipolex sausages. The setup reminded Randy of the fireworks stands in Indiana; rank upon rank of magical cylinders lying there, arranged by size and waiting for ignition. The colorful patterns on the imipolex were alive and constantly changing, albeit in calm and rhythmic ways. The slugs came in a range of standard sizes that ranged from a hundred grams up to two kilograms.

Randy picked out a five-hundred-gram sausage, which was nearly at the limit of what he could comfortably afford. Neeraj showed him where the nose blockers were and also made sure that Randy bought one of the small imipolex patches that Neeraj called leech-DIMs.

“Leech-DIMs are making a moldie very confused,” said Neeraj. “But we are not fully understanding why. Leech-DIMs were invented only last year by Sri Ramanujan, one of Emperor Staghorn’s finest limpware engineers. As long as you have a leech-DIM handy, you can instantly bollox up a threatening moldie. You are very fortunate to be able to buy one; at this point in time they are available solely through the Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae company store.”

The leech-DIMs were small ragged patches of plastic, no bigger than the joint of your thumb, no two of them looking quite similar. They were so diverse as to resemble organically grown objects—like some tropical tree’s aerial seeds, perhaps, or like by-the-wind-sailor jellyfish collected from a lonely windward beach.

The leech-DIMs were shockingly expensive, with one leech-DIM costing nearly the equivalent of three months’ pay: a quarter of a year’s earnings! Randy tried hard to get out of buying one, but Neeraj was adamant; he and Randy argued so loudly that soon a clerk came over to inform Randy that Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae employees were, in fact, required to use appropriate cautions with moldies, and that, yes, he could buy on credit.

So Randy equipped himself and took Parvati to his room in the Tipu Bharat and presented her with his five-hundred-gram slug of imipolex. The slug was two inches in diameter and nearly a foot long. It was circled by colorful stripes that smoothly undulated through a repeating standing-wave pattern that bounced from one end of the sausage to the other.

“Oh, Randy,” exclaimed Parvati, exhaling a heady cloud of spores. She took the gift  sausage in both hands. “My darling! It’s beautiful. Five hundred grams! I’ll incorporate it right away.”

She pressed the imipolex against her breasts, and the sausage’s stripes began to twist and flow like cream in coffee. The sausage deformed itself into the shape of a nonlinear dumbbell, and concentric circles appeared in the two ends. The ends domed themselves up and merged with Parvati’s flesh: now her enlarged breasts were covered with what looked like shiny gold-and-copper filigree, very arabesque and fractal. Parvati held her arms up high and twirled around. “Do you like it, Randy?”

“You’re beautiful, Parvati. What do you say we have some fun now?”

The nose blocker deadened the sound of Randy’s voice in his own ears. Parvati sashayed forward, undid Randy’s pants, then drew him down onto his bed. Randy’s youth and lust were such that he was able to reach three climaxes in twenty minutes—three deep, aching ejaculations.

And then he lay there, spent and happy, staring out at the darkening sky. A single bright evening star appeared in the top of the window: Venus. Parvati’s soft form was all around him, partly under him and partly over him. She ran a caressing hand across his face, poked softly at his nose, and slipped a thin finger into his nostril.

“Now don’t you be a-tryin’ to give me no thinkin’ cap,” cried Randy jerking upright in sudden terror. He snatched