Hwa shrugged. “The beginning, I guess.”
Mrs. Gardener smiled. “Whitechapel, then. Oh, before I forget.” She dashed behind the help desk and came back with a towel. “Tuck this into your collar, would you? The booth is just so tough to clean. There’s a special cleanser and everything, and it’s unbelievably expensive. I tried vinegar and water once, and the damn thing reported me to the company!”
Hwa plucked at the towel. “Um … Why exactly do I need a towel?”
“For when you throw up, of course!” Mrs. Gardener shut the doors to the booth. She started programming something into a panel only she could see. “Good luck!”
Hwa waited until Mrs. Gardener was gone, then she untucked the towel and left it in a heap on the floor. She reached for the helmet and wiggled it down across her head. It smelled terrible: bad breath and cheap pomade. Her skin would probably break out tomorrow. As if standing in a glass booth talking to yourself in front of the whole library weren’t embarrassing enough.
PLEASE FOCUS, she read in large white letters on a black ground.
Hwa focused.
LOOK LEFT.
She looked left.
LOOK RIGHT.
She looked right.
LOOK UP.
She looked up.
LOOK DOWN.
And as she looked down, Helmut the Assistant Librarian walked up to her and introduced himself. He was a tall white guy in grey trousers with a black turtleneck sweater. He seemed excited to see her. He held out his hand. Hwa shook it.
“Welcome back, Hwa! It’s been a while!”
“Three years,” Hwa said.
“Wow! Time flies! So, you want to go to Whitechapel?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, can you just sign this waiver, for me? The manufacturer needs to know that you don’t hold us responsible for any adverse effects you might experience.”
“Sure,” Hwa said.
Instantly, her eyes filled with boilerplate. She sped to the end, and signed her name with one finger. When she’d finished, the boilerplate dissipated into fog. The fog was grey and dim, lit only by spots of orange glow that might have been flame. Hwa heard horses and something rattling. She looked around—a big team of black horses was about to run her over. She jumped out of the way and straight into a puddle. The horses pulled a carriage full of laughing women in corsets and tiny hats. When it pulled away, a man stood across the street and looked at Hwa. He hadn’t been there before. He had an impressive brownish beard streaked with white, and his top hat perched above a head of the same. He brandished a cane, and it tapped on the wet cobbles of the street as he crossed it to meet her. When he ascended the sidewalk, he held out one elbow. There was an awkward moment where they both stared at his protruding joint, and then at each other. Maybe these people didn’t believe in shaking hands. Hwa stuck out her own elbow, and touched it to his.
“You’re supposed to take it in your hand, and let me lead you,” he said in a very deep, rough voice.
“I don’t really like being led,” Hwa said.
He nodded. “As you wish.”
“Who are you?” Hwa asked.
“You may call me Mr. Moore,” he said. “Welcome to Whitechapel.”
*
“Could I put this data into an immersion unit?” Hwa asked Sandro, once her time in Whitechapel was over.
“Sure,” he said. “What, you want an AI to work on it? ’Cause I’ve got one here. Not, you know, top of the line or anything, but not bad. Fan-crafted. Kind of a DIY thing.”
“That’s cool,” Hwa said. “But I’ve got some elsewhere.”
“Your call,” Sandro said. “What’s in the bag?”
“’Nother sample.” Hwa tossed it to him.
He peeled it open. “Your shirt? Your blood?”
“My money. My questions.”
Sandro shrugged. He plucked the shirt out with a pair of long chopsticks, then threw it into the scanner. He pressed the green button with one big toe. He chewed his thumbnail as it ran. Then he pressed another button with his toe and leaned back in his chair.
“Got cold tea, if you want,” he said. “In the cooler.”
Hwa pulled two bottles free from a brick of foam, and tossed one to him. She watched him drink, decided it was safe, and took a long pull from her own bottle.
“How’s she gettin’ on?” Sandro asked.
“I’m on nish ice with this job.”
Sandro’s lips twitched. He nodded to himself. He leaned forward in his chair, and spun to face her. “I’ve been getting me hands dirty with the other sample you showed me. Wicked stuff. Evil. I don’t want it, no more. I want it gone, whatever it is.”
“And what is that?”
Sandro stood. He stretched. He gestured for her to stand, too. “Come on, then. Let’s have a peek.”
He made a pulling motion in the air, and a frosty pane of glass slid aside, exposing another room. They strode through. Inside the new room was a set of five terrariums.