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Perhaps because of these memories, Charlie’s face betrays no surprise, fear, or anger when she realizes the lights are flashing for her. She is not aware of any law she is breaking, but it is appropriate, nevertheless, that she is suspected.
The officer wears the logo of her bank. Not a government enforcer, then, but one of the supplemental officers provided by the bank to augment the debt-laden state force. No one can help but notice that the bank officers are easy to look at. This one has the firm jaw and the clean shave of a young man who has always seen a future and applied himself toward it. He does not smile; nor is his expression unfriendly. He is, or will, make a fine father.
He asks for her license and dilates her eyes. She reads the badge on his chest and tells herself to remember the name. “What’s the trouble, Officer Fairfax?”
He taps the Retina Pen against his palm and reads it again, then puts it away. “Fumes, ma’am. Is this a petrol vehicle?”
“Diesel, but it runs clean. I promise.”
“That’s not what my instruments say, I’m afraid.” He has one hand on the roof over her head so she must look up into the expanse of his blue-fronted chest. He speaks down to her without reproach, only the assurance of a man driven by data.
“I’ve had it checked, officer. I maintain it. This car is quite clean.”
“Nevertheless, ma’am, your tailpipe is emitting twenty-five parts per thousand of –”
“No, no, twenty-five parts is out of the question. This engine runs between nine and eleven, never more.”
“They’ve tightened restrictions, ma’am. Your eleven parts is near the current limits. Are you aware –”
“Very much so, and it’s really closer to eight than nine. Eleven is only on cold mornings before I’ve driven ten blocks.”
“I see. You’re aware they’re beginning to phase out these old polluters?”
“I’m aware, but they haven’t phased them out yet, I think, and I’m under the limits.”
“Not according to my instruments, ma’am.”
“May I see your instruments?”
“No, you may not. Are you certain your mechanic’s readers are correct?”
“He has an excellent reputation.”
The officer, producing a smartpad and stylus, smiles politely to hear about the sterling reputation possessed by a mechanic of internal combustion engines. “I have a list here of mechanics specializing in old cars. Would you take a look at it and point out yours to me?”
Charlie looks away. She has pulled over at the top of a short off-ramp which splits and re-splits in four different directions. Heat waves rise off the blacktop, blending into the local smog ofRedmondbelow. “He won’t be there. It was a friend.”
“I see. May I have your friend’s name?”
Charlie’s father observed to her, long ago, that while prices on land, goods, and food skyrocketed, the price of booze remained about the same. “That means it’s getting cheaper, in real dollars,” he lectured.
“What’re real dollars?” she had asked.
“Adjusted for inflation.”
“If I went to school, would I understand you?”
Dad had laughed, rumpling her hair, “Probably not, kiddo.”
About Robert Woolridge
