"Mary Rosenblum - Search Engine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenblum Mary)

A brief, steady purchase rate of an illegal psychotropic, coupled with an increase in food purchase
volume suggested a lover or live-in friend with an addiction problem, however. The sudden drop-off
suggested a break up. Or a death. The food purchases declined in parallel. On a whim, because he had
time to spare, Aman had his AI correlate the drop off of the drug purchases to the newsmedia database
for Northwestern North America, the region where the drug purchases were made. Bingo. A
twenty-year-old woman had died within eighteen hours of the last drug purchase. His lover? Dead from
an overdose? Aman's eyes narrowed. The cause of death was listed as heart failure, but his AI had
flagged it.

"Continue." He waited out the seconds of his AFs contemplation.

Insufficient data, it murmured in its androgynous voice. Continue? Aman hesitated because searches
like this cost money, and the connection was weak, if there at all. "Continue." No real reason, but he had
learned long ago to follow his hunches.

He was the last one out of the office, as usual. The receptionist said good night to him as he crossed the
plush reception area, her smile as fresh as it had been just after dawn this morning. As the door locked
behind him, she turned off. Real furniture and rugs meant money and position. Real people meant security
risks. The night watchman тАФanother holographic metaphorтАФwished him good night as he crossed the
small lobby. Koi swam in the holographic pond surrounded by blooming orchids. Huge vases of flowers
тАФlilies todayтАФgraced small tables against the wall. The display company had even included scent with
the holos. The fragrance of lilies followed Aman out onto the street. He took a pedal taxi home, grateful
that for once, the small wiry woman on the seat wasn't interested in conversation as she leaned on the
handlebars and pumped them through the evening crush in the streets.

He couldn't get the suit out of his head tonight. Jimi was right. The Gaiists were harmless,
back-to-the-land types. The feds wanted this kid for something other than his politics, although that might
be the media reason. Absently, Aman watched the woman's muscular back as she pumped them past
street vendors hawking food, toys, and legal drugs, awash in a river of strolling, eating, buying people. He
didn't ask "why" much any more. Sweat slicked the driver's tawny skin like oil. Maybe it was because the
runner was the same age as Avi and a Gaiist as well. Aman reached over to tap the bell and before the
silvery chime had died, the driver had swerved to the curb. She flashed him a grin at the tip as he
thumbprinted her reader, then she sped off into the flow of taxis and scooters that clogged the street.

Aman ducked into the little grocery on his block, enjoying the relief of its nearly empty aisles this time of
night. He grabbed a plastic basket from the stack by the door and started down the aisles. You opened
the last orange juice today, the store's major-domo spoke to him in a soft, maternal voice as he strode
past the freezer cases. True. The store's major-domo had scanned his ID chip as he entered, then
uplinked to smartshopper.net, the inventory control company he subscribed to. It had searched his
personal inventory file to see if he needed orange juice and the major-domo had reminded him. He
tossed a pouch of frozen juice into his basket. The price displayed on the basket handle, a running total
that grew slowly as he added a couple of frozen dinners and a packaged salad. The Willamette
Vineyard's Pinot Gris is on sale this week. The major-domo here at the wine aisle used a rich, male
voice. Three dollars off. That was his favorite white. He bought a bottle, and made his way to the
checkout gate to thumbprint the total waiting for him on the screen.

"Don't we make it easy?"

Aman looked to up find Jimi lounging at the end of the checkout kiosks.