Peter suggested.
‘Right.’
A click, then silence. Peter pulled the unit away, then raised it to his ear again. The quiet in the room seemed to deepen. He tried the other ear. Same thing.
Actually, he was impressed. He had never heard voices so clearly on a phone. Michelle could have been right there in the house.
Maybe Weinstein was on the up-and-up.
As he drank coffee and ate a bowl of Trix, Peter opened up the green Trans on the counter and punched the single button marked ‘Help’ below the circle of numbers.
Welcome to Trans, the display said. The message scrolled across, then shrank to fill the touch screen, with arrows pointing left and right at the bottom.
Trans has voice recognition. Ask a simple question or say a key word.
‘Dial,’ Peter said in a monotone. He had worked with computers enough to know the drill: talk like a robot and the unit might understand.
Would you like to dial a number?
‘How do I dial?’ Peter asked.
Trans works with a base-12 number system: 10, 11, and 12 are treated as integers. Every Trans unit has an individual identification number seven integers long. There are no area codes or country codes. To communicate with another user, dial the ID number of the unit you wish to connect to. Remember, a hyphen before 10, 11, or 12 means you should push one of those buttons rather than entering the component numbers (1 or 0 or 2) on separate buttons. Trans is base-12!
Peter made a hmph face and wondered if anyone other than computer geeks would ever catch on to that. ‘What’s my number?’ he asked.
The number of your Trans unit is -10-1-0-7-12-3-4. Your unit has been used once to receive one call. You have not yet made any outgoing calls. Please use Trans as often as you wish to place a call anywhere on Earth. Don’t be shy! There are no extra charges with Trans.
‘My own personal Interociter,’ Peter murmured, lifting the unit and looking at it from above and below. There were no holes for a recharging plug or an earphone. Except for the top of the case, the unit was seamless.
The Soleri bells gonged loudly outside the front door. Still in his robe, Peter marched across the slate floor to the door and peeked through a clear section of glass. Hank Wuorinos – thirty-one, buff, his close-cut gelled hair standing up like a patch of bleached Astroturf – stood on the patio. He reached out one tattooed hand to play with a drooping branch of jasmine. Peter undid the locks and opened the doors.
‘Hey!’ Wuorinos greeted. ‘I’m on a flick, a Jack Bishop film. I’m off to Prague. Wish me luck.’
‘Congratulations,’ Peter said, and stood back to let him in. Hank had gotten a start as a teenager handling lighting for some of Peter’s more decorous and ornate model shoots. The girls had nicknamed him Worny, which he had hated but tolerated, from them. Now he was a full-bore professional, IATSE card and all.
‘Got some coffee?’ Hank asked.
‘Half a cup. I can make more.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Hank followed Peter into the kitchen. He poured himself what was left from the French press and filled it to the brim with milk, then slugged most of it down with one gulp. ‘I’ve never been to Europe. Any advice?’
‘I’ve never been to Prague,’ Peter said.
‘I hear it’s fatal sensuous. Beautiful women eager to get the hell out of Eastern Europe.’
‘Look out for yourself,’ Peter advised with some envy.
Hank waggled his extended pinky and thumb. ‘No worse than your average day at Peter Russell’s house.’
‘Did Lydia tell you about Phil?’
Hank’s smile faded. ‘No … what?’
‘He died yesterday.’
Hank was too young to know what to say, to feel, or to actually believe. ‘Jesus. How?’
‘Heart attack or stroke.’
Death was new to Hank. He tried to find something appropriate, some sentiment, and his face worked through a range of trial emotions for several seconds. ‘You going to the funeral?’
‘I haven’t heard about a funeral yet,’ Peter said.
‘Lydia will want one,’ Hank said with assurance. ‘Or at least a wake. But I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t be able to come … I could …’
Phil had introduced Peter and Hank. Hank had stayed with Phil and Lydia for a few weeks as a teenager. It had been a seminal moment for Hank Wuorinos, young runaway from Ames, Iowa. Lydia had probably shoplifted Hank’s virginity. Phil had never much held it against Hank. Lydia was what she was. A real Hollywood career, after such an introduction to Los Angeles, was a sign of persistence and genuine talent.
‘Go to work,’ Peter said. ‘Phil would understand.’
‘Besides, I couldn’t face Lydia,’ Hank said.
‘She’d want you to stay over and console her,’ Peter said.
‘Shit,’ Hank said, crestfallen. ‘She would. You know she would.’
Peter held up the cardboard box. ‘You’ll need one of these to keep in touch,’ he said. ‘Take your pick.’
Hank peered. ‘What are they, Japanese Easter eggs?’
‘They’re called Trans. They’re like cell phones but they’re free. You’ll love them. They use a base-12 number system.’
‘Wow! They actually work?’
‘I just took a call on one.’
Hank picked the red unit and twisted it with delight in his hands. Hank’s dark emotions were wonderfully transient. He had a job, he was about to see the world, and that easily trumped the death of poor, hapless Phil.
‘No long-distance charges?’
‘Not so far. They’re demos.’
‘Let’s try.’
Peter indulged him. Just being around Hank cheered him. Peter showed him the help button and they took down the numbers of all the phones on two pieces of paper. Then they tried calling the different units from various rooms in the house, like boys with cans on strings. The sound was crystal clear. Hank was thrilled.
‘They are so cool,’ he said. ‘They’re like Interociters.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Peter said.
‘How many can I have?’
Peter overcame an odd twinge of greed. ‘Take two,’ he said. ‘One
