On the cab ride over, I re-read the file on the JPGers Ball: a covert cell of photographers found out about the mansion somehow--nice trick, that--and then managed to take it over for a night of aggressive expression and enjoyment. They posted security to keep it tight, so not just anybody from the hoi polloi could bother the celebrities. Even then, numerous representatives of several underground niche art movements found their way in: the Recursive Paparazzists made sure people who saw were also seen, while the Silhouetticians did their best to blend in while sticking out. The Linguacamoflaugitors did the same while attempting to confuse the spoken word enough to push attendees to communicate in another manner... visually in this case.

And then the strange chemical enhancements being performed. People were actually getting small, in more ways than one, like that Steve Martin sketch was back in some serious style.

Between the art mobs from the fringe and the dubious biochemistry, I felt just overwhelmed enough to think about calling in outside help, someone like Detective Professor Nathan Adler. But I deleted that thought; if this theft turned out to be an art-crime, the last thing we all needed was to become derivative.

Christi never told me what had gone missing. Oh no, that was my job. This whole notion of something having gone on walkabout was based on the fact that Mr. D had rigged the whole place up to calculate itself, if you can dig that, and the mansion was reporting in as being less massive.

D-Haze was still assigned elsewhere (well, Everywhere), so I'd be getting a new partner for this job. I didn't know who until the cab pulled up at the address in the file. Sunlight glinted off what used to be her head as she reached down to open the door for me. Talk about augmentation, most of her body was metal plating of some sort. Your guess would be as good as mine as to how much was left of the original R.A.H.N.E.E.

"How is your mouth doing?" she asked me, her voice tinny like a Gramophone.

"S'wearung uhf," I attempted in reply.

She paid the driver while I rubbed my cheek. "Very good. I am told this is your first time here at the mansion?"

I nodded and gave the exterior a once-over. It was swanky, pre-Victorian. One of the keystones had A.D. 1896 carved into it. Ten years before the Big One? I wondered how we could afford such a place when we get a lot of our furniture from Ikea. Hell, maybe that's how.

"Let us go inside," said R.A.H.N.E.E., "I shall show you around so you can see what transpired." We walked up to the front door. I felt one of my teeth buzz a bit against my tongue just before something clicked and the door swung open.

(3)