Zero History

Milgrim nodded, looking around at the pedestrian traffic, which tended to interest him
in Soho.
“They’re waiting,” said Rausch.
Milgrim followed him into Blue Ant, Rausch holding a security badge over a metal
plate to unlock the door, a single sheet of greenish two-inch-thick glass.
The lobby here suggested some combination of extremely expensive private art school
and government defense establishment, though when he thought about it, he’d never been
in either. There was a massive central chandelier, constructed from thousands of pairs of
discarded prescription eyeglasses, that contributed very handsomely to the art school part,
but the Pentagon part (or would it be Whitehall?) was harder to pin down. Half a dozen
large plasma screens constantly showed the latest house product, mostly European and
Japanese automobile commercials with production budgets dwarfing those of many
feature films, while beneath these moved people wearing badges like the one Rausch had
used to open the door. These were worn around the neck, on lanyards in various shades,
some bearing the repeated logos of various brands or projects. There was a smell of
exceptionally good coffee.
Milgrim looked obediently at a large red plus sign, on the wall behind the security
counter, while an automated camera moved lazily behind a small square window, like
something in a very technical reptile house. He was shortly presented with a large square
photograph of himself, very low in resolution, on a hideous chartreuse lanyard minus any
branding. As always, he suspected that this was at least partially intended to serve as a
high-visibility target, should the need arise. He put it on. “Coffee,” he said.
“No,” said Rausch, “they’re waiting,” but Milgrim was already on his way to the lobby’s
cappuccino station, the source of that fine aroma.
“Piccolo, please,” said Milgrim to the blond barista, her hair only slightly longer than
Rausch’s.
“He’s waiting,” said Rausch, beside him, tensely stressing the first syllable of “waiting.”
“He’ll expect me to be able to talk,” said Milgrim, watching the girl expertly draw the
shot. She foamed milk, then poured an elaborate Valentine’s heart into the waiting shot in
Milgrim’s white cup. “Thank you,” he said.
Rausch fumed silently in the elevator to the fourth floor, while Milgrim was mainly
concerned with keeping his cup and saucer level and undisturbed.
The doors slid aside, revealing Pamela Mainwaring. Looking, Milgrim thought, like
some very tasteful pornographer’s idea of “mature,” her blond hair magnificently banged.
“Welcome back,” she said, ignoring Rausch. “How was South Carolina?”
“Fine,” said Milgrim, who held the red cardboard tube in his right hand, the piccolo in
his left. He raised the tube slightly. “Got it.”
“Very good,” she said. “Come in.”
Milgrim followed her into a longish room with a long central table. Bigend was seated
at the table’s far end, a window behind him. He looked like something that had gone