Dead Lines

The bell toned again. He peered back through the now-contrasty and dark spaces of the living room. Then he remembered. He had left the box of Trans on the table by the French doors. He had also carried one with him into Sandaji’s house in Pasadena.

He opened the door, stepped out across the brick pavers to the upright oil drum closet, and fished out his coat. The unit was still in the coat pocket. He opened it and the display lit up at his touch.

‘Hello?’ he said into the tiny grill.

‘Peter, it’s Michelle. Seven rings. Hope I didn’t wake you.’ ‘Just getting cleaned up.’

‘Good. Weinstein left a map. It led me to ten more phones in a box hidden behind the couch. Is that cute, or what?’

‘Pretty cute,’ Peter said.

‘So I have fourteen phones now. I was trying to remember which one you put in your pocket. Did I dial the right number?’

‘You probably didn’t dial anything,’ Peter said, looking at the circle of shaded graphic lozenges on the touch screen, numbered from zero to twelve.

‘Yeah, right. Smartass. Well, I’m standing outside the house, on the drive. It seems to work out here.’

‘Great,’ Peter said, longing for coffee.

‘Joseph’s curious to hear what that woman told you.’

‘I could come over now,’ Peter said, hoping his sincerity sounded thin.

‘He’s taking hydrotherapy. How about noon? He’ll be ready by then and relaxed, and besides, you know that noon is the best time of his day.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Peter said, and stifled a small urge to say, I’s a-comin’, with bells on.

‘Are you glad to hear the phone works?’

‘Trans,’ Peter corrected. ‘Delighted. I’ll tell what’s-his-name.’

‘Weinstein. No, I’ll tell him, once I convince Joseph. And I’ll tell him you convinced me.’

Peter was picking the other units out of their box, just to give his hands something to do. Each was a different color: opalescent black, dark blue, red, a trendy metallic auburn, and the one he held, dark metallic green. They looked like props in a science fiction film. Something from the parts catalog in This Island Earth.

‘It’s our little conspiracy,’ Michelle said. ‘Besides, it won’t hurt you or me to help Joseph make another pot of money.’

What few telecom stocks Peter had owned had gone south long ago, leaving his retirement scheme in a shambles. ‘Never mind,’ Peter said. ‘I’ll talk to Weinstein when the time comes.’

‘If you insist. Noon, then. How do you end a call with this thing?’

‘Shut the cover,’ Peter suggested.

‘Right.’

A click, then silence. Peter pulled the unit away, then raised it to his ear again. The quiet in the room seemed to deepen. He tried the other ear. Same thing.

Actually, he was impressed. He had never heard voices so clearly on a phone. Michelle could have been right there in the house.

Maybe Weinstein was on the up-and-up.

As he drank coffee and ate a bowl of Trix, Peter opened up the green Trans on the counter and punched the single button marked ‘Help’ below the circle of numbers.

Welcome to Trans, the display said. The message scrolled across, then shrank to fill the touch screen, with arrows pointing left and right at the bottom.

Trans has voice recognition. Ask a simple question or say a key word.

‘Dial,’ Peter said in a monotone. He had worked with computers enough to know the drill: talk like a robot and the unit might understand.

Would you like to dial a number?

‘How do I dial?’ Peter asked.

Trans works with a base-12 number system: 10, 11, and 12 are treated as integers. Every Trans unit has an individual identification number seven integers long. There are no area codes or country codes. To communicate with another user, dial the ID number of the unit you wish to connect to. Remember, a hyphen before 10, 11, or 12 means you should push one of those buttons rather than entering the component numbers (1 or 0 or 2) on separate buttons. Trans is base-12!

Peter made a hmph face and wondered if anyone other than computer geeks would ever catch on to that. ‘What’s my number?’ he asked.

The number of your Trans unit is -10-1-0-7-12-3-4. Your unit has been used once to receive one call. You have not yet made any outgoing calls. Please use Trans as often as you wish to place a call anywhere on Earth. Don’t be shy! There are no extra charges with Trans.

‘My own personal Interociter,’ Peter murmured, lifting the unit and looking at it from above and below. There were no holes for a recharging plug or an earphone. Except for the top of the case, the unit was seamless.

The Soleri bells gonged loudly outside the front door. Still in his robe, Peter marched across the slate floor to the door and peeked through a clear section of glass. Hank Wuorinos – thirty-one, buff, his close-cut gelled hair standing up like a patch of bleached Astroturf – stood on the patio. He reached out one tattooed hand to play with a drooping branch of jasmine. Peter undid the locks and opened the doors.

‘Hey!’ Wuorinos greeted. ‘I’m on a flick, a Jack Bishop film. I’m off to Prague. Wish me luck.’

‘Congratulations,’ Peter said, and stood back to let him in. Hank had gotten a start as a teenager handling lighting for some of Peter’s more decorous and ornate model shoots. The girls had nicknamed him Worny, which he had hated but tolerated, from them. Now he was a full-bore professional, IATSE card and all.

‘Got some coffee?’ Hank asked.

‘Half a cup. I can make more.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Hank followed Peter into the kitchen. He poured himself what was left from the French press and filled it to the brim with milk, then slugged most of it down with one gulp. ‘I’ve never been to Europe. Any advice?’

‘I’ve never been to Prague,’ Peter said.

‘I hear it’s fatal sensuous. Beautiful women eager to get the hell out of Eastern Europe.’

‘Look out for yourself,’ Peter advised with some envy.

Hank waggled his extended pinky and thumb. ‘No worse than your average day at Peter Russell’s house.’

‘Did Lydia tell you about Phil?’

Hank’s smile faded. ‘No … what?’

‘He died yesterday.’

Hank was too young to know what to say, to feel, or to actually believe. ‘Jesus. How?’