FORTY-EIGHT
When he finds out you didn’t call,” Razor said with a shrug to the guard at the checkpoint into Dr. Hugh Swain’s neighborhood, “it’ll be your job to lose.”
Late as it was in the afternoon, it had been no problem getting back inside through the gate at the outer wall. Because of the number of Industrials streaming out of the city, security there, except for a weapons search by body scan, was usually minimal, based on the reliance on tighter screening into individual neighborhoods.
Razor had fully expected this resistance at the checkpoint.
“Stand here,” the guard at the neighborhood gate said. “Try to run, and I’ll Taser you. And if Dr. Swain doesn’t want to see you, I’m calling in Enforcers. You can explain to them why you’ve got no authorization for this neighborhood.”
He was a small man, trying to look larger in his uniform. By the tightened features in his face, he was obviously pleased to have a reason for his tough-guy look combined with holding a Taser in two hands in the ready position. The pleasure diminished as he gingerly removed one hand from the Taser and reached for the keypad with his free hand. It diminished more as he struggled to lock eye contact with Razor while he felt for the keypad entries.
“Keypad it yourself,” the guard finally said, resuming his two-handed grip on the Taser. “95863. And face the camera directly.”
Razor memorized the number as he punched the keypad buttons, using the knuckle of his forefinger to avoid leaving a fingerprint. No doubt there was a surveillance camera recording this, but that didn’t matter to him. Although, by necessity for banking purposes, he was in the facial-recognition database, he was confident it wouldn’t set off any alerts here. This surveillance system was set up to look for faces with criminal records. His didn’t have one. Nor did his facial profile have any other kind of alert on it. And his facial tattoo pattern would scan him as an Industrial.
Within seconds, a voice responded. But the chest-high videoscreen in front of Razor remained dark. The videophone was set on one-way. Images from the gate reached Swain, but no image was returned.
“What is it?” the voice snapped. “I’m not expecting visitors.”
Razor was here to learn as much as possible about Swain. Even this short statement—tone and content—told him something.
“Apologies for disturbing you, Dr. Swain,” the guard said, “but this Industrial says it’s so important, you’ll want to see him. I’ve got him at Taser point, and I’ll disable him if you say so.”
“I’m not expecting visitors.” The voice had an even, low timbre. Entitled authority.
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re expecting the daughter of a old friend,” Razor said. He kept his head down. With tattoos webbed across his face, his role here was that of an Industrial. While Razor wasn’t afraid of Swain, any Industrial would be. Projecting a degree of confidence would ring false.
“I’m not expecting visitors.”
“Name of Jordan Brown,” Razor said, head still down. “His daughter, Caitlyn, sent me to ask you something.”
Silence. It was so long that Razor wondered if he’d gambled incorrectly. If Swain refused and called for Enforcers, Razor would be looking at a far different and far less favorable outcome.
“Give him directions to the rear entrance of my house,” Swain finally told the guard from the anonymity of the speaker.
“No escort?” the guard said.
“You stay there. And don’t sign him in.”
Razor knew all too well that Influentials indulged in tastes that remained unofficial and unrecorded. A nonescort wasn’t that unusual. But if Swain wanted to keep this unrecorded, Razor was fully aware of the situation; because there wouldn’t be a record, Razor would be at his complete mercy. As Razor also knew far too well, Industrials who entered Influentials’ homes without a record sometimes didn’t make it back outside the gates alive.