The Sex Sphere by Rudy Rucker Page A

smearing up to Sybil, merry mouths open with excitement.
    “Is the bomb done yet?” Tom wanted to know.
    Just then the phone rang and Spangle picked it up.
    “Hello. Herald Tribune . Spangle speaking.”
    “Yes,” affirmative.
    “Yes,” neutral.
    “Yes,” questioning.
    “Yes,” confirming.
    “Yes,” inquiring.
    “Yes,” listening.
    “Yes,” thinking.
    “Yes,” transitional.
    “Yes,” challenging.
    “Yes,” demanding.
    “Yes,” capitulating.
    “Yes,” concluding.
    “Good-bye, Mr. Membrane.”
    “That was your Vice-Consul Membrane,” she explained, making a notation on a piece of paper.
    “What did he say?” Sybil asked, her heart sinking.
    Spangle looked at Sybil coolly. “Is it true that your husband was quite active in the anti-war movement? That he helped organize a demonstration against US involvement in Latin America?”
    “I don’t see what that has to…”
    “And is it true that he was unable to get the necessary security clearance to work on the Streamford Project? Could this have embittered him so much that…?”
    “You can’t be serious! Don’t you see that Membrane just wants to cover up his blunder?”
    Spangle made a sour little face. “The facts speak for themselves, Mrs. Bitter. Your husband left a note at the Colosseum, a radical manifesto in which he calls himself ‘The Anarchist Archimedes.’ A weapon with his fingerprints was found near the murdered man’s body. Mr. Membrane tells me that…”
    Just then Atti came back in, big and friendly as a beer barrel. “I have talked with Officer Magnani. Green Death exploded a refinery in Mestre and may have stolen a truck with reactor fuel. They are involved in the shooting of former University of Rome physicist Lafcadio Caron, which took place at the Colosseum this morning. The officer would like very much to talk with Signora Bitter. He is on his way here.”
    “Are the Italian papers breaking the story?” Spangle wanted to know.
    “If Magnani’s coming, they’ll be here, too. You know how he loves publicity.”
    Spangle made some quick notes, and gave Sybil an insincere smile. “I do aim to be fair, Mrs. Bitter. Why don’t we organize a little press conference right here?”
    Sybil felt trapped and desperate. She hadn’t yet met anyone who cared what happened to poor Alwin. He was becoming an abstraction, a news item, a jaded world’s daily frisson .
    “I’m going,” she announced. “I’m going back to our hotel. The children need a rest.”
    “But what about Officer Magnani?” Spangle protested. “And our press conference?”
    “I’ll be at my hotel. Hotel Caprice.”
    Before anyone could stop her, Sybil had dragged the kiddies out of the Herald Trib office and down onto the street. She walked a block or two to calm down, and then paused to look around.
    It was a nontourist street parallel to the Tiber. In the mid-distance the hill of the Vatican rose up from behind cheap department stores and dress shops. There was a big Supercortemaggiore parking garage across the street.
    A street-corner vendor was selling green olives and some kind of white beans. Tom and Ida clamored, so she bought them a triangular wet paper bag full of the fresh olives. The vendor was a very old man with piercing eyes. Sybil wished that her father were there, and decided to call him from the hotel.
    The children nibbled at the olives, spitting most of the meat out with the pits. A taxi stopped. They got in, and the lovely buildings slid past, emptily promising romance and adventure. Sybil felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life.
    There was a traffic blockage on the Via Veneto, so they had to get out a block before the hotel. All sorts of cars and trucks were squeezing in. Some men were carrying lights and heavy TV cameras.
    It wasn’t until she stepped into the lobby that Sybil realized that all the people were waiting for her. The manager rushed up to her, oily and excited.
    “Mrs. a-Bitter! Everyone is a-wait