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

the first big payment from Apex Images in hand, Tre let his studies slide. Like why get a degree for a job he already had? That spring he flunked all his courses, and his parents cut off his allowance when he wouldn’t come home to Des Moines. Tre coasted through the summer and into the fall, trying to get the four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry to click, but he kept not being able to get it to happen. It was a hard problem. He was going to have to think about it for a long time. Meanwhile he kept the money coming in from Apex by tweaking uvvy ads when Kasabian asked him to.

By Thanksgiving, 2049, with no other obligations in sight, it suddenly seemed to make sense to go ahead and marry Terri Percesepe. Terri and Tre took over the management of the Clearlight Terrace Court Motel on behalf of Terri’s widowed mother Alice.

After her husband Dom had died, Alice had added the name _Clearlight _to the motel, which had formerly just been the Terrace Court. Clearlight was the name of the current wave of the perennial New Age philosophy of California: a holistic nature-loving libertarian set of beliefs that fit in well with the surf and the sun and the weirdest new drugs and computational systems on Earth.

Not that the Terrace Court was a particularly Clearlight kind of place— sticking Clearlight in front of its name was just wishful thinking. The same old pasty tourists came there anyway. In any case, as managers, Terri and Tre got to live free in the apartment behind the motel office, which solved a serious rent problem that had been on the point of emerging for Tre.

As well as working on floaty new philtres and now and then doing a contracted tweak for Apex, Tre kept busy helping Terri keep up the motel. And Tre and Terri fell more and more in love. Before they knew it, out popped two babies: first a son, Dolf, born September 23, 2049, and then a daughter, Baby Wren, born June 26, 2052.

The one thing that always seemed the same, whether Tre was high or not, were the children. Tre delighted in them. It was fun to follow them around and watch them doing things.

“Clearly a biped,” he would say, watching Wren stomp around their apartment with her stubby little arms pumping. Baby Wren was so short that if Tre put his arm down at his side, the silky top of standing Wren’s head was still an inch or two below his hand. Wren was about as short as a standing-up person could possibly be. Dolf was a clever lad who liked asking his father questions like “Will our house float if there’s a flood?” or “If we couldn’t get any more food, how long would it take to eat everything in the kitchen?” Little Dolf was determined to survive, come what may.

In the spring of 2053, Tre got an uvvy call from Stahn Mooney. Senator Stahn was way lifted and messed up.

“I’m a wee bummed you never got the fuh-four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry together, Tuh-Tre,” jabbered the middle-aged man. “You luh-loser.” He looked twitchy and hostile. “I’ve been asking Kuh-Kuh-Kasabian why I shouldn’t fire you.”

“Kiss my ass,” said Tre and shakily turned off the uvvy. Early the next morning, Mooney called him back sober.

“Sorry about that last call,” said Mooney. “My legendary problems with substance abuse are back; I’m turning into the bad old Sta-Hi Mooney. Of course your work is excellent, Apex wouldn’t dream of letting you go.”

“Glad to hear it. And I am sorry I never delivered on the four-dimensional Poultry design. It turns out John Horton Conway found four-dimensional and five-dimensional aperiodic monotiles sixty years ago, but it’s not too well documented. UCSC Wad finally unearthed a construction in Conway’s e-mail archives. But turning Conway’s tessellations into beautiful three-dimensional projections—so far I can’t do it, even with UCSC’s Wad. I do still think about it from time to time.”

“Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd., is offering some really serious bread, Tre, which is what got me back onto this. It’s a mongo business opportunity. Ramanujan needs four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry right now, and Emperor Staghorn will pay whatever it takes to get them. Ramanujan can’t figure it out himself, and he has this conviction that you’re the man. It’s not just the actual tessellation that counts, you wave, it’s the gnarly Tre Dietz way you tweak it.”

“Well, that’s nice, but—”

“The loonie moldies are interested in this too. My old friend Willy Taze; he moved into the loonie moldies’ Nest a couple of years ago. He’s talking about creating a virtual dial to like set the Perplexing Poultry’s dimensionality to any number N.” Stahn cleared his throat uncertainly. “Like three, four, five, six, seven… N—you wave? Didn’t you say something about a general solution when we hired you?”

“Yes, the Schmitt-Conway biprism works for any N of the form 3 times M. Like for three, six, nine, and so on. And now that we have four and five, we can get all the others as Cartesian cross products. The dimensions sum when you cross the spaces. But you’ve got to understand that Conway’s prisms are ugly. They look like waffles or like factory roofs. Turning them into pleasing visual Poultry is just too—”

“Try harder, Tre. I’ve got something for you to download that might help. It’s a philtre Willy Taze sent me. Bye for now. It’s time for my morning pick-me-up.”

“Wait,” said Tre. “One question. What do Emperor Staghorn Beetle and the loonie moldies want N-dimensional Perplexing Poultry for?”

“They won’t exactly tell me. But supposedly it has something to do with better communications between humans and moldies. And merging is something I’m always for.” Grinning Stahn pulsed himself a big toot from a handheld squeezie and toggled the connection off.

The loonie philtre, which was called TonKnoT, generated silent movies of smooth, brightly colored tubes tying themselves into N-dimensional knots. TonKnoT kept pausing and starting over with a fresh knot. The knot would start as a straight stick with arrows on it, and then all the arrows would move about and the stick would turn, in some indefinable way, into a knot. The pictures seemed so urgent, yet the meaning continued to escape Tre. “Look at this,” TonKnoT seemed to be saying. “This is important. This is one of the hidden secrets of the world.” The knot deformations were almost insultingly slow and precise, yet the gimmick of the shift kept somehow eluding Tre. “Look harder and you will understand.”

And then in July, the jam broke and Tre finally designed his four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry.

Taking care of the kids and the motel had been getting to be too much grunt work, so as soon as Tre got his big advance from Apex for the four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry, he and Terri hired a moldie worker. Up until then, they’d been getting by with the bumbling uncertain labor of the sweet, bright woman named Molly, whom Terri’s mother had passed on to them with the motel. By the ongoing linguistic warpage of euphemism, bright in 2053 had come to mean what special or retarded or _half-witted _might have meant sixty or a hundred years earlier. Tre and Terri took some pains to prevent Molly from buttonholing guests to talk on and on about what kinds of foods she laaaahked—always a favorite topic of Molly’s. She liked oysters but not clams, crabs but not shrimp, squid but not mussels, beef but not ham, spaghetti but not macaroni, and on and on. The weird cryptic idiot savant joke in this was that Molly liked only the foods whose name did not contain the letter m—it was Terri who’d figured that out. They could never decide if Molly herself consciously understood this; if you asked her about it, she just laughed and said she didn’t know how to spell.

Once they had a moldie to do the rooms, Terri and Tre began using Molly as a baby-sitter. She’d worked for the Percesepe family so long that there could be no thought of letting her go. The baby-sitting job worked out fine, as Dolf and Baby Wren loved Molly and hated Monique. Like most children, they instinctively feared moldies, with their odd motions and their alien stench.

When Randy Karl Tucker checked into the Clearlight Terrace Court Motel—the day before he abducted Monique—it was eight-thirty on a clear October evening. Terri and Tre were in the process of giving the kids a bath—always a fun family time, with fat Wren slapping the water and shouting, while Dolf manned the faucets and guided a flotilla of floating things around the dangerous Wren. Terri was kneeling by the tub with a washrag and Tre was sitting on the closed toilet seat with a towel in readiness. Just then there was a chime.

“Uh-oh,” said Tre. “A guest. I better go help Monique.”

“Wren’s done,” said Terri. “Grab her and put her in her sleeper first. I can’t do both the kids alone.”

Tre pulled his uvvy out of his pocket, put it on his neck, and told Monique to stall. It was always good practice to get a face-to-face look at your guests. Not only did it make the customers happier, but it was unwise to trust a moldie’s judgment about who to let into the motel.

Terri handed Wren into Tre’s waiting towel. Moving quickly, Tre diapered Wren, zipped her into her sleeper, and set her down in her crib.

“I’ll be right back, Wren.” Wren wailed to see her father go so quickly, but then shifted her focus to her crib toys.

Out in the office, Monique was behind the counter talking with a lanky young guy with a thin head and colorless eyes. He was dressed in cheap nerd clothes. He had his elbows on the counter and was slouched forward like a drunk at a bar. A small battered leather carry-on bag rested at his feet.

“Here’s one of our managers,” said Monique. “Tre Dietz. Tre, this is Randy Karl Tucker.” The narrow-skulled man looked vaguely familiar. Tre felt like he’d seen Tucker around Santa Cruz recently.

“Hi, guy,” said the man. With his accent it came out sounding like Haaaaah, gaaaaah. “I need a room for a night, maybe two nights. Nice li’l moldie you got yourself here.” He stretched one of his long arms across the counter and gave Monique an appraising pat, intimately running his hand down her shoulder onto her chest. Monique twitched away from him. In her anger, she released a cloud of pungent spores and redolent body gas.

“Haw-haw,” said Tucker. “She gets her dander up. I guess I shore ain’t in Kentucky no more.”

“Nope,” said Tre, moving forward. “Not hardly. What do we have free, Monique?”

“We can give him Room 3D,” said the reeking Monique.

“A nice room,” said Tre. “On the lower terrace. It has an ocean view.”

“Copacetic,” said Tucker. “I’ll charge it.” He leaned down and got an uvvy out of his bag, being careful to immediately snap the clasps on his bag shut.

“Monique can take your code,” said Tre.

“Monique the moldie,” said Tucker and sniffed the air savoringly. “I like it.” He put his uvvy on his neck and chirped Monique his authorization code. He did something internal in his uvvy space and his eyes glazed over, staring blankly at Monique, his eyes squinted up small as two pissholes in a snowbank. Some uvvy conversation got him briefly involved and he started subvocalizing and gesturing. “Fuckin’-aye, Jen,” said Tucker vaguely and took the uvvy off his neck. He favored Tre with a bogus grin. “Is that your hydrogen cycle right outside, Mr. Dietz? With the