The towering, frosted-glass inner doors of Delton Corporation snickered shut behind me. It was too late to back out now. For a moment, I paused to take in the enormous room and its many busy occupants and to let their inevitable reaction to my latest disguise run its course. Maybe I also needed a few seconds to get my damn nerves under control; I'm an experienced trouble-shooter but I'd never been involved in a murder investigation before.
The place smelled unnaturally fresh--a hint of mountain and a soupcon of forest. Massive air-cleaners prickly with negative-ion spikes were undoubtedly chugging away behind the scene. And on blue translucent stands scattered throughout the room, thick candles burned brightly enough to suggest that Delton was pumping in some extra oxygen. Productivity: hallowed be thy name....
My nose was claiming I was outdoors, but my other senses disagreed, detecting a large-scale, highly extravagant office built on the "open" style that had started right here in San Francisco a decade ago, back in 2020.
In the center, a sunken, octagonal area lined with soft-looking yellow-leather couches made a nice spot for casual business meetings. Around this cozy octagon, a vast floor of matte-finished curly maple supported not only the blue stands but also the occasional copyfax machine, potted tree, miniature fountain, and stress relieving, glider-style rocking chair. Aside from the subtly warming candlelight, the place was illuminated by full-spectrum incandescent lamps mounted on the high, vaulted ceiling.
Most interesting, from my point of view, was the complete lack of mirrors. Even to someone without my special gear, the absence of reflective surfaces would hint that most or all of the employees here were on ViewNet, subscribers to my company's services (or getting inferior enhancements from one of our competitors such as Larger Than Life or the upstart Imagine Yourself).
A gasp erupted from the receptionist's desk--I'd finally been noticed. That gasp triggered a chorus (with a creaking accompaniment of swiveling chairs). The sound spread in a widening circle, getting louder near the walls because that's where most of the employees were sitting at their so-called "cubicles," curved and two-sided workstations. The gasps coming from the far end of the room lacked, I thought, the sincerity of the originals; but those workers were farther away and couldn't see me clearly. Perhaps only the receptionist, a young man whose enhanced face was his real one but with a better complexion, knew just how brightly my eyes glowed....
I strode over to his desk trying to pretend that four hundred stares weren't focussed on me and bent down to keep the conversation private.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, leaning away from me so far I was surprised he didn't fall over. Maybe I'd made myself a bit too intimidating this time.
"My name is Rig Gullintani."
"Oh. Oh yes. Of course! You're the fellow from Enhancement Incorporated aren't you? That explains the..."
"I believe Ms. Benington is expecting me?" Lisa Benington was Delton's current CEO and also, curiously enough, a world-famous artist who worked in a unique medium.
"Yes, sir, she is expecting you. But you're a soupcon early and Detective Bell is running late. This is about what happened to poor Dr. Frankel isn't it? Sorry. I'm talking out of turn, aren't I? I'll just let Ms. Benington know you're here. I hope you had a--a pleasant flight?"
As he mumbled into the intercom, he kept blinking and rubbing his eyes as if that would make a difference in the way I looked.
At last I took pity on the poor guy and turned to give the room another once-over. A small adjustment of my belt-module activated my pseudo-telescope. At least twenty people had sneaked little mirrors out of purses or pockets (tsk, tsk!) and were trying to get a glimpse of the real me. Not only was such behavior rude, in my case it was pointless. The would-be spies would be wondering what the hell was wrong with their eyes...
"Mr. Gullintani? I'm Lisa Benington," said a sugar-sweet voice and I quickly cancelled the telescope function. A slim, middle-aged-looking woman was moving towards me with the energetic stride of a teenager. She held her hand out--an unusual gesture these days, highly unusual in someone with an exorbitant, class four enhancement.
A bit star-struck, I smiled with my mouth closed and offered my own hand. If she was hoping to guess my true size this way, she too was in for a surprise.
"I'm honored to meet you Ms. Benington, I've admired your ion-sculptures for years. I'm just sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."
Outwardly, she was dealing with my unusual enhancement far better than the receptionist had but I sensed the strain. Our handshake couldn't have helped; my hand felt as big as it looked. She continued bravely enough, "Thank you, sir. Will you please come with me? My office is behind that
glass-brick privacy screen, the one against the west wall."
)
