I may have felt a little like a prisoner, but I’d certainly been given compensations. I had a spacious suite in the west wing of Friedlander Bey’s great house, on the second floor near Papa’s own private quarters. My closet was filled with many suits of clothes in different styles and fashions — Western, Arab, casual, formal. Papa gave me a lot of sophisticated high-tech hardware, from a new Chhindwara constrained-AI data deck to an Esmeraldas holo system with Libertad screens and a Ruy Challenger argon solipsizer. I never worried about money. Once a week, one of the Stones That Speak left a fat envelope stuffed with cash on my desk.

All in all, my life had changed so much that my days of poverty and insecurity seemed like a thirty-year nightmare. Today I’m well fed, well dressed, and well liked by the right people, and all it’s cost me is what you’d expect, my self-respect and the approval of most of my friends. Kmuzu let me know that breakfast was ready. “Bis-millah,” I murmured as I sat down: in the name of God. I ate some eggs and bread fried in butter, and swallowed a cup of strong coffee.

“Would you like anything more, yaa Sidi?” asked Kmuzu.

“No, thank you.” I was staring at the far wall, thinking about freedom. I wondered if there was some way I could buy my way out of the police-liaison job. Not with money, anyway, I was sure of that. I don’t think it’s possible to bribe Papa with money: Still, if I paid very close attention, I just might find some other means of leverage. Inshallah.

“Then shall I go downstairs and bring the car around?” Kmuzu asked. I blinked and realized that I had to get going. I didn’t have Friedlander Bey’s long black limousine at my disposal, but he’d given me a comfortable new electric automobile to use. After all, I was his official representative among the guardians of justice.

Kmuzu, of course, would be my driver now. It occurred to me that I’d have to be very clever to go anywhere without him. “Yes, I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.

I ran a hand through my hair, which was getting long again. Before I left the house, I put a rack of moddies and daddies in my briefcase. It was impossible to predict what sort of personality I’d need to have when I got to work, or which particular talents and abilities. It was best just to take everything I had and be prepared.

I stood on the marble stairs and waited for Kmuzu. It was the month of Rabi al-Awwal, and a warm drizzle was falling from a gray sky. Although Papa’s estate was carved out of a crowded neighborhood in the heart of the city, I could almost pretend that I was in some quiet garden oasis, far from urban grime and noise. I was surrounded by a green lushness that had been coaxed into existence solely to soothe the spirit of one weary old man. I heard the quiet, peaceful trickling of cool fountains, and some energetic birds warbled nearby from the carefully tended fruit trees. On the still air drifted a heavy, sweet perfume of exotic flowers. I pretended that none of this could seduce me.

Then I got into the cream-colored Westphalian sedan and rode out through the guarded gate. Beyond the wall I was thrown suddenly into the bustle and clamor of the city, and with a shock I realized how sorry I was to leave the serenity of Papa’s house. It occurred to me that in time I could come to be like him.

Kmuzu let me out of the car on Walid al-Akbar Street, at the station house that oversaw the affairs of the Budayeen. He told me that he’d be back to drive me home promptly at four-thirty. I had a feeling that he was one of those people who was never late. I stood on the sidewalk and watched as he drove away.

There was always a crowd of young children outside the station house. I don’t know if they were hoping to see some shackled criminal dragged in, or waiting for their own parents to be released from custody, or just loitering in the hopes of begging loose change. I’d been one of them myself not so very long ago in Algiers, and it didn’t hurt me any to throw a few kiam into the air and watch them scramble for it. I reached into my pocket and grabbed a clutch of coins. The older, bigger kids caught the easy money, and the smaller ones clung to my legs and wailed “Baksheeshf” Every day it was a challenge to shake my young passengers loose before I got to the revolving door.

I had a desk in a small cubicle on the third floor of the station house. My cubicle was separated from its neighbors by pale green plasterboard walls only a little taller than I was. There was always a sour smell in the air, a mixture of stale sweat, tobacco smoke, and disinfectant. Above my desk was a shelf that held plastic boxes filled with dated files on cobalt-alloy cell-memories. On the floor was a big cardboard box crammed with bound printouts. I had a grimy Annamese data deck on my desk that gave me trouble-free operation on two out of every three jobs. Of course, my work wasn’t very important, not according to Lieutenant Hajjar. We both knew I was there just to keep an eye on things for Friedlander Bey. It amounted to Papa having his own private police precinct devoted to protecting his interests in the Budayeen.

Hajjar came into my cubicle and dropped another heavy box on my desk. He was a Jordanian who’d had a lengthy arrest record of his own before he came to the city. I suppose he’d been an athlete ten years ago, but he hadn’t stayed in shape. He had thinning brown hair and lately he’d tried to grow a beard. It looked terrible, like the skin of a kiwi fruit. He looked like a mother’s bad dream of a drug dealer, which is what he was when he wasn’t administering the affairs of the nearby walled quarter.

“How you doin’, Audran?” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “What’s all this?”

“Found something useful for you to do.” Hajjar was about two years younger than me, and it gave him a kick to boss me around.

I looked in the box. There were a couple of hundred blue cobalt-alloy plates. It looked like another really tedious job. “You want me to sort these?”

“I want you to log ’em all into the daily record.”

I swore under my breath. Every cop carries an electronic log book to make notes on the day’s tour: where he went, what he saw, what he said, what he did. At the end of the day, he turns in the book’s cell-memory plate to his sergeant. Now Hajjar wanted me to collate all the plates from the station’s roster. “This isn’t the kind of work Papa had in mind for me,” I said.

“What the hell. You got any complaints, take ’em to Friedlander Bey. In the meantime, do what I tell you.”

“Yeah, you right,” I said. I glared at Hajjar’s back as he walked out.

“By the way,” he said, turning toward me again, “I got someone for you to meet later. It may be a nice surprise.”

I doubted that. “Uh huh,” I said.

“Yeah, well, get movin’ on those plates. I want ’em finished by lunchtime.”

I turned back to my desk, shaking my head. Hajjar annoyed the hell out of me. What was worse, he knew it. I didn’t like giving him the satisfaction of seeing me irked.

The funny thing was that Hajjar was in Friedlander Bey’s pocket too, but he liked to pretend he was still his own man. Since he’d been promoted and given command, though, Hajjar had gone through some startling changes. He’d begun to take his work seriously, and he’d cut back on his intrigues and profiteering schemes. It wasn’t that he’d suddenly discovered a sense of honor; he just realized he’d have to work his tail off to keep from getting fired as a crook and an incompetent.

I selected a productivity moddy from my rack and chipped it onto my posterior plug. The rear implant functions the same as everybody else’s. It lets me chip in a moddy and six daddies. The anterior plug, however, is my own little claim to fame. This is the one that taps into my hypothalamus and lets me chip in my special daddies. As far as I know, no one else has ever been given a second implant. I’m glad I hadn’t known that Friedlander Bey told my doctors to try something experimental and insanely dangerous. I guess he didn’t want me to worry. Now that the frightening part is over, though, I’m glad I went through it. It’s made me a more productive member of society and all that.