"Special Dimensions Agency. Sally Holt speaking; How may I help you?"

The voice on the phone is all honey and up-beat. "Is Mic there?"

A pause, then, a little less honeyed, "You mean, our Mobile, Independently Cognate, Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory? Our circuit Nanobot? Is this business related? I can give you his netlink."

I kick myself. Should have done that first. Running around in a Waldo all the time got me thinking of it as a person. "He, it was holding on to something of mine. Just, can you tell me if he is in the shop right now?"

"No. If you leave a name, I can take a note, it was released from duty earlier today. You can try the network access if you like, the MICAIN unit is usually very responsive, Mr...?".

"Thanks I'll try that. Goodbye." I disconnect, slamming the phone down in irritation. So Mic didn't return to my office, like I asked, or to work either. Turning to the net, I find mail from Mic. A video and a note. The Video, a waist level view of a big room. Davis! The researcher is lying on a tissue knitter's bed, which is at work on his head. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Whatever's going on, I hope it hurts. I recognize something on a table nearby, back up the video and freeze it. Looks like the cube, all broken up. Some white-coat walks in front of the table, blocking the view, and starts off toward the camera. I curse, and quickly bring up the message. An address. The note reads:

Hey Richie. I found where the knitters were going. I'm in a little trouble though, so if you have the time, maybe come get me?

Mic.

I don't know if a nanobot itself can be disassembled, or even seen without a microscope, so I call back Special Dimensions in a hurry.

Same honeyed voice. "Special Dimensions, how may I help you?"

"I just called. Your...your machine is in trouble. I just now got a video, looks like someone is about to disassemble its Waldo, or something. You want to retrieve it?"

A gasp breathes over the connection. "Mic's in trouble? Serious trouble? Oh dear! Where is it?"

I fill in the address line for her, warning to wait for the cops. Then, pulling Semperton's card, I get back on the phone.

A gravelly voice answers my call. "You got the girl's address?"

"Yeah, and some other news, too." I rattle off an address Becky gave me. "You know that Davis was bugging your building? The police broke up a snooper station on the docks across from your place, where he was picking up a bunch of tissue knitters." Silence deafened me for a few seconds.

"That's good work, Mr. Wander. More than I hired you for. I owe you. Any idea where those machines went?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. My associate's in a jam there, from finding out. I'm on my way over now. Any chance of your people going my way?"

"That would be a good guess on your part, Mr Wander. Want I should send a car for you?"

"Sure. I'll take them right there."

"You do understand, Mr. Wander, that my crew will have...their own interests, once they arrive. I take it your business with Miss Randall is concluded?"

"Think so. Her father's death is wrapped up. She won't get enough evidence to convict at trial, though. If there had been physical evidence at her Dad's office, the police investigation would have nailed it. But motive, opportunity, and intent seems pretty clear to me. I think she may have to be satisfied with that, unless a confession is possible."

"Justice may yet be done, Mr. Wander. A car is on the way. By the way, I shouldn't bother the police with this matter, were I you, Mr. Wander."

Semperton still thinks he is after paperwork. My spiel to Becky was guesswork, to get the truth out of her. Way I see it, he doesn't care a fig about the girl, just the research. The tissue machines nail it for Semperton, that Davis is his man. All I need to do, is see that the chip gets permanently lost, and my client is home free.

A limo pulls up in a few minutes, and I cram sardine-like into the unusually wide back seat with three suits what look like wrestlers on the way to a wedding. Later, we all pile out in the driveway of a nondescript factory off Corporation drive.

The following car is crammed with with goons too. It continues up the service lane to the factory rear. I tag along with the suits into the stark front lobby. Just a couple of folding chairs flanking a rectangle of glass cut into a wall. There's a beige steel door between the lobby and whatever is beyond it. One of Semperton's business associates grabs the slider glass between us and the reception desk on the other side of the wall, shoves it open, pulling a startled guy out through it like a wet rag. Another reaches through the window and the office door unlocks with a buzz. We pile inside. A few Smith and Wessons appear like magic from under jackets. Feeling under-dressed, I pull my Kosh out. Things are getting a little noisy now, as a couple stevedores dash around a bend in the corridor--look like some of the ones I saw on the docks. These are not as well dressed as my new friends, and a lot more mouthy. The conversations are short though. I don't like repartee of this type, and as it happens, I don't get close enough in the narrow hallway to join the labor dispute.

Semperton's negotiators are all pro, and we are through and onto the factory floor quickly. Things are more interesting here. One of Semperton's staff is stationed at the backdoor with a shotgun. Two others mix it up on the factory floor with three more dockworker types, while four lab-coated and clearly outclassed techs cower near the front. I'm giving this scant notice, as my three negotiators all trot off to enjoy the percussive floor party. My immediate interest is in scouting for Micain and Davis. Davis is still nailed to a tissue knitter bed, whose control box is a smoking ruin, hanging on by a couple of loose cables above it. He is struggling, held down by the surgical collar of the machine, but none of the techs look like they are interested in tending to him currently. Surprisingly, Micain is up and about, apparently none the worse for wear, stirring through plastic scraps of the shattered Rubik cube tabled nearby. The back of his Waldo's headpiece is hanging open though. The additional dancing partners quickly end the floor scuffle. The loading bay door opens, and a panel truck I hadn't noticed on the ride here is disgorging more of Semperton's finest. Approaching Micain nets me a few scowls from the crew. "Just after my mech, like in the deal. The rest, is your business." One of the suits, busy rousting subdued dock worker towards the van gives me a nod.

Mic makes noises at me, without moving his lips--well, without moving the Waldo's lips.

"Chip. Table."

Tin-man seems a little wobbly, maybe not as OK as I thought. There's a small plastic bag next to a mess of colored plastic shards, other remnants of the cube. I palm the bag while helping Mic steady his feet. As the Bot staggers, I back into the table, knocking it over. Plastic flies everywhere, but given the state of the shop right now, this attracts no particular attention. Semperton's goons are busy packing up anything not nailed down. Micain seems to get his feet beneath him, and we limp back out to the front office.

Micain's head is sparking, but he seems mobile enough. There's a white hover-car idling in the driveway, with some skinny lady behind the wheel. One of my erstwhile chauffeurs is getting out of his black sedan making for the new arrival. I wave him off. He nods, returning to the limo. The backdoor of the white arrival opens, and the portly kid I first saw Mic with, gets out, hauling an over size lunch box. I throw a worried glance toward the back of the factory, but Semperton's crew is still busy cleaning up.

Round boy wheezes, "Oh jeeze! That doesn't look good. Mic, you alright? We was waiting for the cops, like you said, Mr. Wander."

Mic staggers a little. I reach out and steady his shoulder. Some scratchy static comes generally from the Waldo's mouth. Then, "Motor controller. Earpiece, put it in your ear, not your rear, please."

Paul looks abashed, then digs through his back pockets and pokes something into his ear mumbling, "Not as bad as he looks, I guess."

There's some quiet head nodding, then Paul puts down his case and starts to fumble tools out of it. I shoot a quick look towards the building frontage.

"I think you'd better do this in the car. The police didn't make it, and we need to be some-wheres else. Fast."

The young lady behind the wheel looks startled, then mad in succession. My intuition tells me she likes Mic, but that this isn't the first time he's been caught with a finger firmly thrust into a light socket, either. She glares at Mic, then snarls at Paul, "Get that Tin Sherlock into the car." Then to me, "I guess you are the one that called us. Special Dimensions thanks you, Mr...."

"Wander. Call me Richie. You'd' be?..."

"Oh, sorry. I'm Sally Holt. We spoke on the phone."

I look anxiously back at the building. "If it's no trouble, could you drop me off midtown? We need to be out of here, Sally. Mic was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as are we all, about now."

"Why am I not surprised. Sure. Get in. Paul, you set?"

"Ready, Miss Holt."

The dame backs out of the drive and onto the parkway. I'm wondering how long it will take until Semperton realizes he's been screwed. Paul has some syringe-like gadget poked in the opened head-plate of the Waldo. After a while it blinks green, and he switches to aim it into a lunchbox sized case on the backseat next to him. Blinks yellow. A scratchy noise pipes up from the box.

"Whew. Thanks, Richie. I couldn't get the phone service connection to work. I didn't think leaving a message on the police's secured system would be very bright, even if they checked it. You were my best chance, mon patrone."

I get a little hot. "Thanks? You were supposed to be checking paper, not gumshoeing around. I guess your brain really is infinity small, like they say in the digests."

"Hey cool, you get the technical digests? I can get you a discount..."

"Shut up. I read it free at the Dentist's office. This ain't over yet. I had to bring in Semperton to save your ass. Pretty soon he's going to know, only you and me were around when the chip disappeared. Guess who his pros are going after next?"

Weakly, a response squeaks from the box. "Semperton? As in Boss Alexi Semperton? How's he figure in this? You know about the chip?"

"If you had done your job and reported, I could have filled you in. Now..."

"Eh sorry, chief. It was just...right there, you know?"

Sally's face screws up into a rage. "A little moonlighting, is it, Mic? Putting your nose into the wrong people's business? Why can't you stick to your own work? I swear, if you weren't such an expensive tech..."

"Aw, hey, just doing my part to..."

She's shouting now. "What part is that? The part where you jeopardize everyone's life, you little ..."

I'm not camping happy either, but the car is small, and my ears are getting pink. "I think I can get this sorted out quickly enough, Miss Holt. Just not the way I planned. Mic will be safe enough, and none of the rest of you are involved. I just need to do a little more leg work. Need to be getting on it, though. Can you drop me off at this address?" I hand her Marcia's street address. "Mic will be safer stashed there too, if that's OK. Really. He's better off out of sight right now."

Sally shoots me a vile expression and shrills at Paul. "Paul?"

The chubby tech is cowering in his seat, but pipes up glumly. "He's okay, Miss Holt. The Waldo' not going anywhere though. Its motor controllers are fried here and there. I can fix it at the shop."

Sally narrows her eyes at me. "That means he stays in his portage case, Mr. Wander. Until he gets back to Special Dimensions. In his travel case. Paul, make sure to take the injector out of the portable. I don't want the little bugger scampering around, by some mischance. And you," she directs a glare at Mic's case, "you are grounded. You hang in the portable. You keep off-net except to call in, and your detective days are over. Get that?"

"OK,OK. Sheesh."

"This is all coming off your benefit time, buddy."

Marcia's home is a little more uptown than my current digs. Sally pulls to the curb out front. Waits while I scoot out after the kid, who hands me Mic's case. I feel a little scared. Don't know what I'll say when I see Marcia.

The place hasn't changed much. Every piece of it hits me like a sucker punch of Deja-vu. White stucco front. Two arched Spanish windows flank the low porch behind a modest stretch of green lawn. A pot of posies poke yellow and red blooms out of a mess of dark leaves there. That's new. I hang on to the sight of that plant. Because it is not familiar, it doesn't hit at me, like everything else. Sally waits until I ring the doorbell before she motors off.