r price. I need another day, maybe, to settle it. So go easy
tomorrow. Give me a little leverage, OK?"

"I don't get it. I thought we had a deal."

"Nothing's final till it's vinyl, you know that. They're balking at the royalty
clause" -- Fede was proposing to sell Perceptronics an exclusive license on the
business-model patent he'd filed for using Art's notes in exchange for jobs, a
lump-sum payment and a royalty on every sub-license that Perceptronics sold to
the world's toll roads -- "and we're renegotiating. They're just playing
hardball, is all. Another day, tops, and I'll have it sorted."

"I'm confused. What do you want me to do?"

"Just, you know, *stall* them. Get there late. Play up your jetlag. Leave early.
Don't get anything, you know, *done*. Use your imagination."

"Is there a deal or isn't there, Fede?"

"There's a deal, there's a deal. I'll do my thing, you'll do your thing, and
we'll both be rich and living in New York before you know it. Do you
understand?"

"Not really."

"OK, that'll have to be good enough for now. Jesus, Art, I'm doing my best here,
all right?"

"Say hi to Linda for me, OK?"

"Don't be pissed at me, Art."

"I'm not pissed. I'll stall them. You do your thing. I'll take it easy, rest up
my back."

"All right. Have a great time, OK?"

"I will, Fede."

Art rang off, feeling exhausted and aggravated. He followed the tunnel signs to
the nearest up-ramp, wanting to get into the sunlight and architecture and warm
himself with both. A miniscule BMW Flea blatted its horn at him when he changed
lanes. Had he cut the car off? He was still looking the wrong way, still
anticipating oncoming traffic on the right. He raised a hand in an apologetic
wave.

It wasn't enough for the Flea's driver. The car ran right up to his bumper, then
zipped into the adjacent lane, accelerated and cut him off, nearly causing a
wreck. As it was, Art had to swerve into the parking lane on Mass Ave -- how did
he get to Mass Ave? God, he was lost already -- to avoid him. The Flea backed
off and switched lanes again, then pulled up alongside of him. The driver rolled
down his window.

"How the fuck do you like it, jackoff? Don't *ever* fucking cut me off!" He was
a middle aged white guy in a suit, driving a car that was worth a year's wages
to Art, purple-faced and pop-eyed.

Art felt something give way inside, and then he was shouting back. "When I want
your opinion, I'll squeeze your fucking head,