>From: erikred@locusts.Berkeley.EDU (Erik Nielsen)
Subject: Malled in the Prime of Life
Date: 4 Oct 91 08:25:09 GMT


	An hour later, I'm moving through a market 900 square city-blocks
big.  They call it the Bazaar, and it's Egypt's answer to the Sprawl.  "When
you're at the dealing table, always look for the sucker-- and make sure it
isn't you."  This is one of three proverbs that govern the Bazaar:  either
you're a player, or you're a sucker.
	That's why I'm carrying these three chips:  Pricemaster, an
up-to-date fair price list; Mathman, an adding-machine chip; and Crazy
Abdul, Allah's Own Camel Dealer.  The last is keyed into the window on my
cyber-eye and keeps printing comments on the various merchandise.  "Can you
believe the lack of quality?  If Abdul Karim were still around, he'd set
these thieves straight. . . and make a profit on the side."  Etc.  As for
the language, Arabic serves as the trade tongue of the Bazaar, and I speak
it fluently.  One of the few things for which I can thank my parents.
	"Start walking," says the second rule of the Bazaar, "and eventually
you'll find what you need-- even if it's not what you want."  So I'm walking
and I'm looking.  And finally I'm finding.  The first things on my list
resemble small, obsidian marbles with streams of white floating through them
like smoke.  They're illegal in most civilised countries. . . so naturally
they're sitting in plain view here.  The dealer notices my interest.
	"Ah, a customer of peculiar tastes.  How may Humble Hakim help you,
o shaykh?"
	Crazy Abdul and the cyber-eye make it as easy as reading a script.
"O merchant, know that I am distraught.  My niece has fallen in with. . .
disreputable people.  I seek to liberate her, but I find myself at a loss
for the means."  "Let him think you're a sucker, then play him like a fish,"
says Crazy Abdul, loving every minute of this.  I've always wondered why a
Camel Dealer would know how to fish. . . .
	"Ah, I see.  Then Hakim certainly can help you.  Your eyes have
alighted on my best.  Do you like these baubles?"  His eyes gleam.  I try to
look curious.  "One of these, well used, would blind a man for a day.
Perfect for distracting that stray guard, eh?  As for the price, well. . . ."
	He quotes a price five times the going rate.  Crazy Abdul screams
digital pain, like a camel with a broken leg.  I nearly go blind in the
cyber-eye with the amount of red that scrolls by.  ". . . and after you cut
off his head," continues Abdul at a pace I can finally follow, "hang his
remains as a warning to other thieves!"
	"I'll take five, my brother," I answer, closing my cyber-eye in
anticipation of another outburst.  Crazy Abdul doesn't disappoint me.
	"V- very good, o shaykh," stammers Hakim, the numbers rolling behind
his eyes as he calculates his profits.  "And how do you propose to pay for
these?"
	I calmly reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my plastic.  My
delivery's like something out of a commercial:  "Do you accept Orbital
Express?"
	The third rule of the Bazaar is this:  "The odds of one departing
the Bazaar in one piece is inversely proportional to the amount of money one
is flaunting."
	"Excuse me," says the Samoan one-man wall behind me as Hakim's eyes
fairly pop from their sockets, "but I'm afraid there's been a tragic
accident involving one very close to you.  Please, come this way."
	The hydraulic grip on my shoulder persuades me more than his words,
so I shrug (or try to, anyway) and follow.  We weave our way through the
Bazaar, turning very often, and throwing my directional sense into absolute
turmoil.  Just as I'm becomin convinced that we've covered every inch of
this place three times over, we run into another Samoan wall, who waves us
through a small door.
	The room is dark and smells of spices and wonder.  A lithe form
reclines on some couches in the shadows, hidden from scrutiny.
	"Tell me Damien," speaks a husky voice in English, neither male nor
female, "do you truly seek Allah's company so desperately?  Please, tell me
you are more intelligent than to expect honor among thieves."
	"To tell the truth, o shaykh," I reply as humbly as I can manage, "I
knew your eyes were following me from the moment I entered your domain.  I
needed to speak with you, and this seemed the quickest way.  Please, forgive
my impudence."
	"You take a risk, Damien, playing with my attentions so.  Perhaps
next time I'll let you hang by your own petard.  Enough pleasantries.  What
urgent business brings you to my kingdom?"
	The Spider King has ruled the Bazaar for many years.  Rumour has it
that he sold weapons during the Revolution. . . but no one seems to know
which side he sold them to.  Regardless, his web reaches into very high
places in the current administration, and he could suck me dry without
batting an eye.  By the way, I use the pronoun "he," but no one seems to
know for sure.
	"I need that which you supply best, o shaykh;  I need information."
	The shadow sighs.  "What sort of information do you seek, favored
son of the President?"
	That's a cruel barb.  Since I have ties to the President, someone
every so often links me with him by blood.  To be honest, I'm from Chicago,
and my parents live there still.  Also, as much as the President is useful
and cunning, he's a pretty cruel bastard who delights in a bit of whoring
now and then.  The products of his carousings have no claim, of course. . .
except that every bastard son in Cairo is laughingly called "favored son of
the President."
	I force a smile; if I don't I'll never walk out of here alive.  "I
need information on an Arasaka exec by the name of Ikeji.  His last known
whereabouts were in Boston."
	The shadow snaps its fingers, and a flunky runs from the shadows to
get the information.  "And for what reason might you be needing that
information, Damien?"  Ah, I think, the bargaining is about to begin.
That's what Crazy Abdul is really here for, to give me a bargaining chip, if
you'll pardon the pun.  The shadow continues, "You're not going back to the
States, what with you with a price on your head there and all, are you?"  I
start to reply, but he cuts me off.  "Of course, if you were travelling to
Boston, perhaps you could deliver something for me there. . . ."
	My stomach churns.  This I was not prepared for.  Drug dealer to the
powerful.  That's all I need.  "Really, o shaykh, are you sure you wish to
trust me with this parcel?  I have been known to be careless from time to
time.  Besides, I'm not going to be in Boston for more than--"
	"Tsk, tsk, Damien.  Perhaps you don't recognize the situation you're
in.  First, you are in my territory without protection.  Second, I have
vital information which you need.  Third, you're an ideal courier because if
you fuck up, I'll turn you over to the US authorities.  Any questions?"
	Not a one.  He's got me by the balls.  I smile my bravest smile.
"Of course, o shaykh, if you really need the favor, it would be my honor to
deliver the goods for you."  Until I figure a way out of this.
	I can almost smell the smugness.  "I knew you'd see it my way."  The
flunky walks back in at that point, folder in hand.  "Here is your
information.  I will have my favor delivered to you at the Cairo Hilton,
room 504, where you are staying.  It should arrive during the hour of your
usual afternoon nap.  Good day, Damien.  Do not disappoint me."
	"Never, o shaykh.  Allah's blessing."  His vast array of knowledge
continually blows me away.
	The flunky hands me the dossier, and the Samoan wall leads me
through the Bazaar once more.  I eventually find myself outside the main
entrance, and I mumble silent gratitude to the powers that be that I escaped
with a life at all, no matter how screwed up it may be at the moment.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright 1991, Erik Nielsen

--
     "All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain."
			Roy, _Blade Runner_
Erik Nielsen					erikred@ocf.berkeley.edu