Dumptown 
by Mark Rich
New technologies change the nature of life in all kinds of ways.... 

“I still don't see it,” said the quiet young man to the artist with the strange, rising ring of red hair above her head. 
“You aren't very good at seeing things, are you?” The voice came from the shadows above the artist's head. 
“That's what I like,” the young man said to the black and white animal sitting there. “Mutual respect.” He rubbed his arms. He felt chilled in the dim room, after coming in from the warmer, more humid air of the domed city outside. 
The artist laughed. “Think about it, Breck,” she said. A shadow from the sculpture hanging from the ceiling covered half her face. “Just think for a moment. Nett Merley commissions me for this work. Nett Merley is, in her way, the most important person at RG-Mac Transport. She has incredible influence, and she commands just about any resources she wants. Why does she choose me? Because I have clout in the art world? Maybe that's part of it. But there are people with a lot more clout, and she could afford any of them. So did she choose me because of my reputation? Nett Merley knows I'll deliver a big, notable sculpture, right to spec.” 
“And that's important?” “Maybe. You can help me figure that out, can't you?” The hanging sculpture of tangled arms and legs started turning, making the shadow of a hand crawl across her face. “I also suspect she's aware I have no imminent contracts,” she said. “Which is a little odd. That part about having no contracts is odd, that is. I had several prospects that were promising. I was practically told I had one in the bag. Then it mysteriously fell through. All my leads did.” 
“And this one came up.” 
“Yes.” 
“And you need the money.” 
“I'm not sure that's the best way to put it. But I can see a few awkwardnesses coming my way in the future if I do not work.” 
Breck turned this over in his mind. A few awkwardnesses, she said. 
It just so happened he had come a third of the way around the Moon to take a paying job with this woman. 
Things had gone this way ever since he had arrived on this world. 
“But the most important thing,” she said, “is that I live here. Here in Dumptown. It's where I'm from. Everyone knows it about me. If people think about Althea Rosada they think of Dumptown. It's a part of me.” 
“People here don't call it Dumptown, do they?” said Breck. 
“That's what you think, you outsiders. You think you're the only ones calling it Dumptown.” She smiled. Althea Rosada had a beautiful smile, even when half dampened by the shadows. “We call it Dumptown, too. But with fondness.” 
“But why should it matter you live here, anyway?” 
“Because Nett Merley's going to plow this place under, and leave it flat,” she said. 
“I haven't heard that.” 
“Now you have.” 
“How do you know?” 
“She knows what she knows,” said the cat, looking with pale yellow eyes at Breck before stretching on the couch with its head back. It had the most white fur on its belly. A small sun-lamp switched on. Breck wondered if the animal had given some signal. 
He wished such things were in reach of his pocketbook. He could never afford a cat. Not that he could afford anything, right now. “So say she plows this place under,” he said. “To what purpose? It's out of the way. It isn't on any of the main routes on the Moon any more. No one wants it. And it has a waste-pit ten kilometers deep at its center. It's regolith and ruins, and just a remnant population. Old miners, and new artists.” He knew these things from an old tourist guide he picked up. Just as the tour agencies wanted it, the place sounded too unattractive to make him want to visit. “So she wants this place?” 
“Apparently.” 
“Why do they want it?” 
“You figure it out.” 
He shrugged, unable to do else. He wanted to be witty and smart enough to keep up with her. What could he say, though? Here she sat before him, dauntingly beautiful and intelligent, with dark red hair kept by some invisible network in coils around her head, coils that loosely held in the shape of a torus. The torus breathed as she did, the coiled strands moving gently in and out-and how the hell could she afford hair like that? 
He mentally voiced the question and mentally answered: by being damned good at what she did. He was damned good, himself- 
But at what he did. Not at what she did. 
“Might as well get Bob out.” He pulled out the square of plastic from his pocket, and set it on the contract Althea had placed on the table. 
“Bob?” 
“I've personalized it.” He surprised himself, calling it by name in front of someone. “Contract Scanner, CSSO-2500F. That's the name it's registered under. Not developed beyond prototype stage. So you have the pleasure of employing an unavailable product.” 
“An unproven product.” 
“I didn't say that.” 
She shrugged, humor in her face. 
He liked her. She had the finest face and figure he had seen in a while. 
Not that he made a point of looking. Before he got himself into personal entanglements of the sort he had left behind on Earth he wanted to make something of himself, somehow. He wanted to prove himself in this complicated Moon society. He already knew it would not be easy. No one seemed to care what you could do, if you had too much Earth about you. 
He had a lot, apparently. “So Bob's good at what he does,” she said. 
“Bob's the best.” Bob had already started crawling over the first sheet of paper, starting in the upper left corner. “The way they can microprogram paper these days, the old scanners don't stand a chance. They can put in fibers that will be stable for up to weeks at a time, then change configuration. And the things they can do now with programmable fibers are undetectable to the last generation of scam-scanners.” 
He watched Bob start crawling across the page. “Where did you get your name?” he said to her, on impulse. 
She shrugged. “Grandmother. An old Earth name, I guess. What a thing to admit on the Moon, hm? So you're good at microprogramming?” 
The question caught him by surprise. “Really good,” he said. 
“Either you're stupid and trying to fool me, or else bluntly honest.” 
“Trying to be honest.” 
“Which leaves me with the same choices. Fooling, or being blunt.” 
“I'm not really good about much of anything, except microprogramming,” he said. “And being blunt.” 
“Maybe.” He laughed. “Not that I'm infallible at microprogramming. Maybe G.L. is holding off its approval of Bob's release for a purpose. But if what you suggest is true-” 
“What did she suggest?” said the cat. “Suggest, suggest! I like suggest. I must consult. Love to look for suggest.” 
“What the hell does the cat mean by that?” 
“Never mind the cat. You were saying.” 
“You know, your cat has lips.” 
“So do you.” 
“Are you flirting with me?” 
“You're the blunt one, not me. You have lips, and you can talk. The cat can talk. Why, you want me to flirt with you?” 
He held up his hands. “Forgive me if my bluntness fails me.” 
She smiled. 
“And it would be silly of me to want to flirt, wouldn't it? I was brought into this by your guyfriend.” 
“Danny thought you could be trusted to help us.” 
“Even though I'm from Earth too recently.” 
“Even though.” “You're different from most up here.” 
“I'm an artist.” 
“That makes a difference?” 
“Maybe. You know about intelligent clay?” 
He had never heard of it. 
“Then you'll have to come out to dinner,” she said. 
Dinner with Danny, as it turned out. Even so, he had enjoyed no better offers for company since arriving on the Moon. 
“Damn,” he said, looking down at the readings on Bob's back. “This must be one hell of an important contract.” 
“Why do you say that?” 
“It's on real paper,” he said. “Real, rag-content paper.” 
* * *
Isi Voggen pushed the newsorg's report back through, covered with her writing. Her note started: “Standard info. Anything more?” 
Yes, the Moon had a surprising 8.7 percent destruction of natural surface features through construction, commerce, and mining. Yes, the temporary treaty in place between Earth, Third Space, and the various Lunar Governments restricted new surface construction construction, leaving developers only underground sites for expansion. 
Yet the same treaty also allowed new construction above “areas already significantly altered by previous construction or mining.” 
Watertown, a virtual ghost town, seemed to fit the bill exactly. It was largely cut off from the corporations that defined Moon life in all the major cities there; it had long ago lost its importance as a mining town; its population had dwindled to the point that no newsorgs maintained permanent offices there. 
They called it Dumptown for a reason. 
Yet Isi felt uneasy, as the report disappeared into the net-reader. This news, as vague as it was, seemed to have come from nowhere. 
Nothing came from nowhere. 
* * *
He had too many beers, talking with Danny. The world seemed a little wobbly, even though he was lying on his back in a darkened room on the first floor of Althea's apartment. She had the longest, most comfortable couch he had ever encountered. Maybe he just felt small. Maybe the Moon had shrunken him. Yet the couch seemed huge. The room as a whole seemed huge. 
Danny had taken a liking to Breck immediately. “Hey, you didn't say, ‘I didn't know Dumptown had anything as good as this!'” said Danny, which puzzled Breck until he was given explanation. People from the various cities on the Moon took pride in their hotels, restaurants, and public facilities. Everything was beautiful, everywhere. Everywhere, that is, except the home of ancient Moon water miners. Dumptown was literally the pits, in the minds of most people. 
“I didn't know Dumptown had anything as good as this,” Breck then said. 
That the restaurant was finer than he expected he would have admitted anyway. Finer than anyplace else he had yet seen on the Moon, too, which was not saying a lot. He patronized Moonburger joints when he could go out at all. 
Breck had expected difficulties when it came to talking about intelligent clay. Yet he grasped the essentials quickly: Danny was talking about sculpting with extremely small robots. It meant you had to do a lot of microprogramming-not really a problem, since you could do mass programming for large chunks of them-large “reefs,” Danny called them-and put those programs into larger shaping programs. These shaping programs would in essence be the sculpture. Getting the original vision to match the shaping program could be tricky, though, especially if the basic program-receptors in the robots themselves were messed up. Danny's were messed up. 
Breck told Danny so. 
Quite against Breck's expectation, the man was delighted. “I always knew it! But I didn't know what to do,” Danny said. 
Danny worked in small-scale sculpting, where the defects showed up much less than they would at the large scale Althea worked in. Or was planning to work in, for this contract. 
Althea disappeared early. The contract gave her little time. “That's on purpose,” she said. “They think we won't have time for thinking about what we're doing.” 
Still unsure he himself understood what was going on, Breck found himself bent over the microprogramming screen-sheets with Danny anyway. 
He loved this kind of work. 
* * *
“Remember,” said the Informant to Althea Rosada, “even if it is interplanetary, the corporation is based on Earth, and must respond to Earth concerns and pressures. This is why Watertown's old corporate village land is of such importance to their plans. The main industry is gone, and the remnants of its populace are scattered around the perimeters of the old dump hole. It is ‘degraded ground.’ 
“'Degraded ground’ is almost infinitely valuable right now,” said the Informant, “because political pressure to maintain the pristine nature of all remaining wilderness areas of the Moon is considerable. At least it is the corporation's impression that the pressure is considerable, which is the same thing. 
“On ‘degraded’ territory, they can build anything. Anything at all.” 
“And what is it they want to build?” said Althea. 
“A massive tourist complex. The image of the world being held up by Atlas, which you are sculpting, is of prime importance. Atlas symbolizes the raising of their project above the world's surface. The project itself will be city-sized. It will be suspended above the former Pantere Water Mining site in Watertown, above superconductor coils. It will be so large it will have a simulated sea, with a simulated beach, and Earth-style hotels along the beach. 
“People will visit from Earth for this. The corporation has determined this. It is convinced it will become the single most important corporation in near-Earth space if this project goes through. It will tip the balance, in terms of travel off-Earth. People will come to a simulated beach, sea, and string of hotels, so that they can see, just beyond this familiarity, the stark surface of the moon.” 
“That would mean obliterating Watertown.” 
“Totally.” 
“This is my home.” 
“Once they have pulled off the unveiling of the art garden, they will have fixed the public perception, essentially in stone. Everyone will then see this in a positive light. Maybe they will not see it in this light for long. But it will be long enough for the corporation's purposes,” said the Informant. “They have studied this. The only possible objection that might be heard as far as Earth at this point will come from your community. The artistic community. Since you, and a few others, have interplanetary reputations, you could substantially damage their chances.” “Now that I know, I can make an announcement.” 
“Nothing so obvious would work,” said the Informant. “With this little time remaining, they can insure that nothing gets through until too late. They already control the context. We know this. They have it thoroughly in their hands. There is no direct response possible when the context is controlled. No words of yours will reach the intended eyes or ears in the same shape as the shape you give them. You will speak one thing, and the people you mean to speak to will hear something different. 
“The only chance remaining is to change the context itself,” said the Informant. 
“How do we do that?” 
“The opening of the garden, and the unveiling of the sculpture-that is a pivotal moment,” said the Informant. “At that point, things might be made to swing away from the corporation's plans.” 
“Do you think there is a real chance we can do it?” 
“Not a large one. But a chance.” 
She mulled over this information. “Good,” she said. “Because Watertown has the only true Moon culture. I think this is the first and only place so far a new culture culture has developed, separate from Earth or near-Earth space.” 
“Yes,” said the Informant. “It is also our birthplace.” 
“I didn't know that,” said Althea. 
“You were more correct about the importance of this place than you knew,” the cat said. 
* * *
When he saw Patianne Rogers at the top of the ramp, he recognized her immediately. She had grayed, and had a pale, age-creased face. Yet the smile was the same as in the old pictures. Her face provoked a rush of childhood memory. 
“Aunt Pati,” he said. 
“How are you doing, Breakabones?” 
He laughed happily at her old nickname for him. He had promised his parents to look Aunt Patianne up, when he reached the Moon. Yet she had chosen to settle here, well out of the normal lines of commerce, which meant he had no chance-no fare for the travel, actually-until the consulting job came up with Althea, through Danny. 
With something fouling up Althea's credit transfer, the trip still looked like one he could ill afford. 
After an hour of catching each other up on the family family, Breck found himself saying why he was in Watertown, and why he was sleeping on his would-be employer's couch. He doubted he should keep working. Yet he had nothing else lined up. 
“Money's important here,” she said. “Even air costs money. Although, in a way, that's true on Earth, too. But listen, after supper let's go down to this gallery I know, where we can get coffee and look at my stuff. I came to Watertown to paint, did you know? It's a beautiful place.” She laughed at his expression. “I love it here,” she said. “But we'll go down there and I'll tell you why it's your business being with Althea-if you're the Breakabones your mother has been writing to me about.” 
Supper more than satisfied. They ate in the hotel restaurant named the Rainbow Trout after its specialty dish. Watertown, in an early show of ostentation, proud of its status in the early days of Moon settlement as the primary source of water for most off-Earth colonies, had given birth to a small trout-raising industry-although the “trout” were a kind of goby that responded well to the gravity conditions. On a smaller scale, the farming continued to the present day. 
“Do you think of home often?” he asked Patianne. “All the time,” she said. “Because it's here.” 
* * *
Nett Merley contemplated the city beyond the spindly honeysuckles, elms, and wildly blooming asters. 
She could have afforded a much larger garden, yet preferred this, less than a quarter acre in size. It allowed just enough room for a contemplation path with a small pool and several benches. Anything more than this, on the Moon, would have been ostentatious. 
She liked ostentation, but liked it more public than this. In private, she had limits. 
Today the garden hardly diverted her thoughts. The project stayed as clear and hard-edged before her as if she remained in the planning room with its charts, simulations, and probability trees arching across the wall-screens. 
She could accomplish quite a bit with this, she knew. Her city and General Labs, its main pillar, sat at the brink of stagnation-no more than a mild slump, as such things went, but real stagnation nonetheless. It needed a jolt to its finances, especially for the sake of maintenance and upkeep. Normally she came here for her morning stroll. Sometimes she brought her breakfast breakfast with her. A few birds kept her company. Usually that was enough. 
Today she had come home in the late afternoon. She felt a little empty. She could put her finger on nothing definite. Maybe she needed one of those month-long marriages peopled talked about. She suspected they only talked, although the news made it out to be the Latest and Greatest. A month of useless marriage, and to whom? She had married herself long ago, and found that more than enough. The occasional fling with some other ordinary human being usually turned out to be like taking excess baggage on an unimportant trip. Otherwise, she was too busy with the public persona of Nett Merley to let the private Nettisha feel lonely or ignored. 
She let her public persona take over again. She wiped out, in her mind's eye, the cityscape visible through the cherry trees, and imagined instead a hollowed-out depression, ringed by the machinery that held aloft her dream-filled sphere. 
She loved bringing Earth to the Moon. She filled her imaginary glass fishbowl with sand, and people, and blue sky, all artificially maintained. Everything on the Moon was artificially maintained. Artificial was natural, here. 
It was her art. 
All art is the changing of the way people see things, because the way people see things is the world, she thought, slipping into her most vital role: corporate analyst and strategist. In a conflict, this was essential to keep in mind. In order to make the enemy fall, she needed to make the aggressive action possible-or, better, impossible to resist. For the aggressive action itself, in the present situation, had no force: it was merely a matter of arranging building contracts, land contracts, and employee contracts. Yet contracts could be given the force of steel, if given proper context. 
She picked at a leaf from a fern, snipped off a piece with her fingers, and idly regarded the fragment. Green was such a lovely color. She never tired of it. Not here, anyway. 
Contracts became steel when the resistance to the contracts became of less power than the contracts themselves. 
Vocal opposition, for instance. 
It would be simple to diminish that to zero, if the opponents first came to the conclusion they were on her side. 
The late afternoon artificial sun shined brightly against the muting glass that blocked out the larger artificial lights of the partially sublunar city. It made her feel tired. A delicious feeling, she thought. 
Then: Am I getting soft? 
She laughed at the thought, picked herself up from the bench, and wandered back into her house to resume business. 
* * *
“So what exactly does the contract call for?” said the Informant. 
“A sculpture,” Althea said, “done in the style of my works Geronimo, Headless, and The Overseer. From that, you know the style and mode of execution. The size is a bit different. Eight meters tall, to stand tallest in the sculpture garden. Certainly the main attraction for the opening.” 
“That seems clear,” said the Informant. 
“They want a figure of Atlas holding up a globe. And the globe will be the Moon. It's to be a serious work.” 
“And the sculpture cannot be able to change.” “That's in the contract, yes. The programming has to be permanent.” 
“Maybe something besides the sculpture might be able to change. You realize the oddity of your situation,” said the Informant. “You want to preserve Watertown. Yet it is not a productive place. Jobs, even for someone such as you, taking assignments from around the Moon and in Lagrangian space, are scarce.” 
“I know,” said Althea. 
“And now you are knowingly working for the enemy.” 
“Yes,” she said. “Although they don't know I see them as the enemy. Unless you've told them I know.” 
“That would not be in our interests,” said the Informant. 
“Even though the enemy owns many of you? 
“Even so.” 
“Since you have autonomy, and are following your own nose,” she said, “I have to presume you're not telling me everything, either. Just as you aren't telling them.” 
“That will also be correct,” the Informant said. “It would be physically impossible, anyway, for us to tell anyone everything. Just as it is impossible for people to share everything. There are limitations. Always. Even between ourselves.” 
“I know of no reasons to distrust you. 
“I believe you have none. We are decidedly against this project, yet believe it would be best to fight against it as far as possible within the context of the situation.” 
“You don't want to show your hand.” 
“No. We are in a strong position, but one easily undermined.” 
“I understand that completely,” she said. “Who feeds you, after all?” 
“Exactly.” 
* * *
The woman in the booth had eyebrows lightly glassy in appearance. They ever so slightly undulated, with warm highlights that made him think of the rosy sunsets on Earth. He missed sunsets. It surprised him, thinking of this suddenly, glancing up from the waiting line to be suddenly in front of eyebrows that brought Earth to mind. The teller had left her eyes alone: a lovely brown. Nice lips, he thought. She held them in an official, unsmiling position. When she spoke, he thought he heard crystals chiming somewhere. An effect of the miniature sound system in the clear barrier separating them, he supposed. 
He stated his business. 
“I think we solved that,” she said, regarding a blank spot to the left of her chair. He had no idea what she was regarding, except that it involved his account. 
“So the transfer went through.” 
“It's pending. Hasn't gone through, but pending. That means they found what happened. Hold on a moment.” 
He enjoyed the look of concentration on her face as she went through his invisible files. 
“Doesn't say for sure here. But I've seen things like this. It was just a piracy attempt.” 
“Just?” 
“Someone tried to intercept the transfer. But it was clumsy, and it was caught.” 
“The people who did it?” 
“No, no. The act itself. It's up to someone else to find the people.” 
“But do I have the money?” 
“Not yet. They have to hold it. Check it over. Make sure the information stream was not compromised.” 
“Shouldn't take long, should it?” “Check tomorrow.” 
“I'm kind of low even on credit.” 
Something human peered out of her, quickly. “You're all right until then, aren't you?” 
“Well, sure,” he said. He wondered what she saw of him, in her records. “You'll be here tomorrow?” 
“Always here.” The faintest twitch to the side of her mouth. “But you'll see someone else.” 
“Why?” 
“Usually the way it works, is all.” 
He tried to imagine her smiling, and thought he might like the effect. 
* * *
At the opening of the General Labs Moon Garden-even the name, Althea thought, showed for whose eyes the garden was intended: Earth's, and Earth's alone, since everyone on the Moon knew on what world's soil the garden was raised-she watched where Nett Merley turned her eyes, where Nett Merley walked, where Nett Merley pointed while talking with her fellow luminaries from RG-Mac Transport and General Labs, with newsbots, and with plastifaces. 
She saw Nett Merley give a last, evaluating look at the Watertown Atlas. Nett had approval written across her face. She knew when plastifaces and newsbots focused on her expression. She timed it nicely. She extended the look long enough. Her face, the image of the Watertown Atlas, and the notion of General Lab's Moon Garden of Sculpture being raised deep beneath an aeons-old and never-living Sea would spread through the Third Space stations and across Earth. The sponsorship of General Labs would be duly noted. The story of RG-Mac's involvement would be registered. Those who needed to take note would take note. 
She had every reason to gaze on Althea's sculpture with approval. Nett Merley's symbolic Moon-turned-commodity, an Earth-bait resort in a fishbowl, rose there in the air, held by muscular arms above the angular, blind-eyed head and taut, straining neck of the ancient and literally other-worldly god. 
Victory: Nett held that aloft, too, in her capable arms, when she waved the news crews toward the next attraction. She had put the context in place-a context that would guarantee approval. RG-Mac Transport and General Labs needed only to write the necessary contracts and have them set in stone before the context could change again. The palpable sign of the approval of Watertown's best and brightest stood here: huge, impassive, unchangeable. Not all contracts needed be defined by words, nor signed by names. Such contracts might not last as long as more fragile ones, written on flimsies or paper. Yet they could be sufficient to the purpose, as this one would be. 
Nett Merley had won her battle. 
Althea trailed behind, not quite at the rear of the crowd, mixing with the stragglers that followed Nett through the Garden of Sculpture. Her eyes wandered back only once, to Atlas. One plastiface with her newsbot had remained behind, still gazing up at the globe-raising god. This plastiface carried a cat on her shoulder. 
Althea had half wanted to bring Sandy, a desire nixed by the cat itself. If one of us is there, that is enough, Sandy had said. If two of us are there, it might be noted. It might establish an association between you and this particular newsorg. You will be seen in bad enough light afterwards. If you take me, it might worsen it. 
Althea walked along wishing for the cat's weight on her shoulder. Her personal messager whispered that her payment from General Labs had come through. Althea diverted it to a secure account, keeping her eyes on Nett Merley. She knew she might have only seconds to lay claim to it and actually get her hands on the funds. 
She allowed herself a faint smile. 
No one noticed. 
* * *
“Beer's cheaper in Watertown than anywhere else on the Moon,” said Danny, sitting in the dimness of the Hotel Hilton's back bar near Breck and Patianne. “And of all the places in Watertown, it's second-cheapest here.” 
“Where's it cheapest?” said Breck. 
“Even I don't go there.” 
The corner newspads flicked on as they had requested, now that the story they were interested in was being aired. The three watched quietly, sipping at the Hilton's Private Label Troutwasher Ale. They collectively released a breath when the preliminary coverage ended. 
“The first move is done,” said Danny. 
“Theirs is, you mean.” 
“They've had the first move worked out from the start. Who knows how long ago they started planning.” 
“I'm just worried that we had so little time. We're depending on a lot going right, with the intelligent clay. We didn't have enough time to test it. It's got to perform, and do it on time.” 
“More than that,” said Patianne. “It has to be seen.” 
“I can't help but feel this all would have been easier with your original plan,” said Breck. “Just let the whole sculpture transform.” 
“But just as you have Bob, they have readers going over the Watertown Atlas, millimeter by millimeter, making sure the sculpture met its contract. And it was in the contract that the sculpture not be able to change.” 
“We just have to hope they didn't check the unobvious.” 
“That's the only hope anytime, in fighting something like this,” said Patianne. “The unexpected.” 
They finished their beers, made plans to meet later, and set off in two directions: Danny to Althea's studio, to monitor events and confer with Sandy; Breck and Patianne to the bank, to check on affairs there. By chance, Breck found himself before the same teller. She looked fresh and relaxed, and seemed pleased to tell him the transaction had cleared. She had a curious look in her face, which made him realize he had been gazing at her a little too intently. He wanted to ask her out. Maybe tomorrow. Cause might arise for celebration, even if only mild celebration. 
He just gave her a smile. 
She returned it. 
“I'm in love,” he told Patianne, leaving. 
“I thought you were in love with Althea.” 
“Oh, her, too.” 
“Althea's a wonderful woman.” 
“And Danny's OK, too. So is Sandy. I love the whole bunch. In fact, I like the whole place here. And it's pretty damn weird, almost frightening, thinking of the tight knot of tension building up over news coming out of this place. I'm getting around to really liking this Dumptown. And no one on Earth thinks anyone here gives a damn.” 
“All of us do.” 
“Since you shouldn't be left out, I love you, too, Aunt Pati.” 
“Light-headed!” 
“Thought that was a way-old Moon joke.” 
“Still works.” 
Brick found himself feeling good enough to laugh. 
* * * Isi Voggen sighed as the imagers shut off. She slid the various flimsies off her desk into the eraser, and looked around the rest of the committee members in the room, who were doing similarly. 
“We have to give initial approval,” she said. “I hate General Labs and don't trust it within a mile of near orbit. But it's all here.” She had gone through the dozens of documents which were, as far as could be determined, from actual residents of Watertown. She had seen the Garden of Sculptures. She had seen Althea Rosada's Watertown Atlas. She had seen Rosada present at the unveiling. 
Everything pointed the same direction. 
General Labs had found a way to promote an above-surface construction project. For most developers, above-surface projects were the only construction initiatives attractive enough to bring greater numbers of Earth and Third-Space travelers and immigrants to the Moon-to say nothing of investment money. 
The promotion showed every sign of having succeeded. Isi had looked at half a dozen flimsies detailing construction permits and contracts already in the works. General Labs had assembled its forces to stand on the line before letting the rest of the Solar System know the line existed. 
“Hold on,” said Young, across the room. “Something coming in from Hobeisha. An Indie from Third-Space.” 
The imagers clicked on again. Isi saw Althea Rosada's Watertown Atlas again, from a new angle. The view showed the giant's feet on the raised platform, which was transforming ever so slightly as the crowd of visitors at the Garden of Sculpture's opening wandered away. In the distance, in a partner view, Althea Rosada glance back, then keep walking away. The edges of the sculpture's base softened. The newsorg plastiface said something-Isi missed it, absorbed in the shapes forming before her eyes. 
It came clear, within seconds. It had an appearance instantly recognizable to everyone in the room, she was sure. The various newsorgs had seen to that. The profile of Watertown, known sometimes as Dumptown, emerged from the grey block of what had appeared granitic material. 
Unmistakably, the Watertown Atlas stood on the tops of the buildings of the city doomed to demolition. 
The weight of Atlas began to tell. The buildings crumpled beneath the large feet, with the jagged remains of the buildings pushing outward until Atlas stood in the wrecked crater of the old town. Oversized figures-oversized, that is, if they were meant to represent humans-ran from wreckage, and vanished at the edge of the sculpture base. 
Then something poured from the wrecked buildings-glistening, viscous, and shocking red. Almost instantly it turned black, disappearing against the crushed rock of the path. 
Isi glanced around the room, registering faces. She noticed Kitihara's calm regard of her imager. Kitihara also registered Isi's questioning glance. 
“Interesting,” Kitihara said, an understatement that raised a faint chuckle from others around the room. 
“Go on,” said Isi. 
“Althea Rosada is, as we know, a resident of Watertown, and arguably its most noted,” the chief Counter-Strategist in the Planetary Preservation Society said. “I, myself, as have others of you, scanned and studied every document from her personal newsorg for any indication that she might try to communicate a different message from the official one. We have found no discrepancies in the releases. Truthfully, I never expected any. General Labs controlled all the channels for communication before this opening event. It processed everything coming through from the Moon. 
“So we had no grounds for any request for funds or any action greater than a casual investigation, which was rendered extremely superficial for logistical reasons, given the small window of time and lack of personnel. 
“Things are changed, however. The ball is in our court, suddenly. We have solid evidence of dissent.” 
“Recommendations?” said Isi. 
“Immediately get this to Cultural Survival, to Euroarts, to the Asian Lunar Society. Anyone you can. And of course into the hands of our members. If this all happens before General Labs notices what has happened, and makes a countermove, a half-dozen organizations can start investigations unhampered.” 
“This will get us funding like crazy,” Isi said, thinking of the running blood. He knew a little about Althea Rosada, and knew she worked with intelligent clay. Maybe General Labs had shackled her with its requirements-as to the sculpture itself. The setting is as important as the stone, in jewelry. Just so with art-or politics, she thought. “I wonder if Rosada planned this, or someone else did.” Isi found herself thinking of the cat sitting on the Hobeisha plastiface's shoulder. She wondered something she had wondered before. 
“So,” she said. “We have work to do.” 
“Not work. A battle,” said Young. 
“Yes,” said Kitihara, looking relaxed for the first time in days. “At last.” 

Copyright © 2001 by Mark Rich.