Metro City Motel
Metro Motel is a three-story structure in a fifty-story world, cubic humanity storage modules neatly stacked like a row of ammunition cases. Stolidly resisting verticalization, it nestles humbly at the feet of its glittering glass and steel brothers. A stubborn rebel against the vast layers of concrete parking structures, its flat blacktop lot is sufficient to store the conveyances of its itinerant guests in an aging matrix of flaked yellow paint.
In a small room on the top floor, Mr. Zelimir plays Go with a man twenty-thousand miles away. This is a business transaction, the game a mere front to ease the social realities. All the same, Mr. Zelimir plays with great satisfaction.
He sits perfectly still in the center of the worn brown carpet, legs crossed like a Buddhist. He is not, of course, Buddhist; he simply finds great practicality in the simplicity of certain Asian customs. His head is perfectly bald, gleaming faintly in the brown light of Metro Motel's low-budget lighting. He does not, as some artificially bald people do, have the habit of running a nervous hand over his scalp to check the length of his stubble. This scalp does not grow stubble.
From time to time he drinks green tea from a fine china cup held lightly in his left hand. It is a superb tea - barely sweet, with a hint of jasmine. Fingers elegantly separated, his right hand places a white stone on the board with atomic precision, directly on the required intersection. The stone vibrates slightly as his fingers leave it. It is unquestioningly real and valuable, crafted from shell, one of thousands like it, yet unique to itself.
The ghostly image of his opponent smiles, reaches holographic fingers into its own bowl of stones and returns, the hazy bit of slate suspended carelessly between index and middle fingers. This is Mr. Zelimir's friend, known only as Saburo. It is a mark of Mr. Zelimir's esteem for Saburo that he has attired himself in his silk dragon kimono for this occasion. Mr. Zelimir rarely appears before others wearing anything but his jet-black business suit.
They could, of course, meet on VirtuNet and conduct their games in fully realized digital environments. But Saburo prefers this method, as does Mr. Zelimir. It is more... correct.
As the game progresses, so does their business.
"I have prearranged your fee, as always," Mr. Zelimir comments in a conversational tone. "I thank you for your information, also as always."
"And I thank you for your business," Saburo replies. "I understand your requirements, and I think you will find her skills beyond question." He pauses. "However, I do not think you will like her."
Mr. Zelimir smiles. "That is not a requirement."
In a small room on the top floor, Mr. Zelimir plays Go with a man twenty-thousand miles away. This is a business transaction, the game a mere front to ease the social realities. All the same, Mr. Zelimir plays with great satisfaction.
He sits perfectly still in the center of the worn brown carpet, legs crossed like a Buddhist. He is not, of course, Buddhist; he simply finds great practicality in the simplicity of certain Asian customs. His head is perfectly bald, gleaming faintly in the brown light of Metro Motel's low-budget lighting. He does not, as some artificially bald people do, have the habit of running a nervous hand over his scalp to check the length of his stubble. This scalp does not grow stubble.
From time to time he drinks green tea from a fine china cup held lightly in his left hand. It is a superb tea - barely sweet, with a hint of jasmine. Fingers elegantly separated, his right hand places a white stone on the board with atomic precision, directly on the required intersection. The stone vibrates slightly as his fingers leave it. It is unquestioningly real and valuable, crafted from shell, one of thousands like it, yet unique to itself.
The ghostly image of his opponent smiles, reaches holographic fingers into its own bowl of stones and returns, the hazy bit of slate suspended carelessly between index and middle fingers. This is Mr. Zelimir's friend, known only as Saburo. It is a mark of Mr. Zelimir's esteem for Saburo that he has attired himself in his silk dragon kimono for this occasion. Mr. Zelimir rarely appears before others wearing anything but his jet-black business suit.
They could, of course, meet on VirtuNet and conduct their games in fully realized digital environments. But Saburo prefers this method, as does Mr. Zelimir. It is more... correct.
As the game progresses, so does their business.
"I have prearranged your fee, as always," Mr. Zelimir comments in a conversational tone. "I thank you for your information, also as always."
"And I thank you for your business," Saburo replies. "I understand your requirements, and I think you will find her skills beyond question." He pauses. "However, I do not think you will like her."
Mr. Zelimir smiles. "That is not a requirement."
posted by Paganini at 11:27 PM
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