cord right now.
Concussion? Oh, almost certainly. Pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment of life,
missed wages..." She looked up at Art. "You're insured, right?"

Art nodded, miserably, fishing for an argument that would not come.

"Half a mil, easy. Easy! Get the papers going, will you? I'll call you when the
ambulance gets here. Bye. Love you too. Bye. Bye. Bye, Johnny. I got to go.
Bye!" She made a kissy noise and tossed the comm back at Art. He snatched it out
of the air in a panic, closed its cover reverentially and slipped it back in his
jacket pocket.

"C'mere," she said, crooking a finger. He knelt beside her.

"I'm Linda," she said, shaking his hand, then pulling it to her chest.

"Art," Art said.

"Art. Here's the deal, Art. It's no one's fault, OK? It was dark, you were
driving under the limit, I was proceeding with due caution. Just one of those
things. But *you* did hit *me*. Your insurer's gonna have to pay out -- rehab,
pain and suffering, you get it. That's going to be serious kwan. I'll go splits
with you, you play along."

Art looked puzzled.

"Art. Art. Art. Art, here's the thing. Maybe you were distracted. Lost. Not
looking. Not saying you were, but maybe. Maybe you were, and if you were, my
lawyer's going to get that out of you, he's going to nail you, and I'll get a
big, fat check. On the other hand, you could just, you know, cop to it. Play
along. You make this easy, we'll make this easy. Split it down the middle, once
my lawyer gets his piece. Sure, your premiums'll go up, but there'll be enough
to cover both of us. Couldn't you use some ready cash? Lots of zeroes. Couple
hundred grand, maybe more. I'm being nice here -- I could keep it all for me."

"I don't think --"

"Sure you don't. You're an honest man. I understand, Art. Art. Art, I
understand. But what has your insurer done for you, lately? My uncle Ed, he got
caught in a threshing machine, paid his premiums every week for forty years,
what did he get? Nothing. Insurance companies. They're the great satan. No one
likes an insurance company. Come on, Art. Art. You don't have to say anything
now, but think about it, OK, Art?"

She released his hand, and he stood. The porter with the teeth flashed them at
him. "Mad," he said, "just mad. Watch yourself, mate. Get your solicitor on the
line, I were you."

He stepped back as far as the narrow sidewalk would allow and fired up his comm
and tunneled to a pseudonymous relay, bouncing th