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circulation on the other side of the barrier. Garbage money, that's what it was. The others had already pocketed theirs, business as usual apparently. “Why do they pay us now?” he whispered. She said, “We just find our way out at the end, when the patch runs out, so this way they don't have to deal with us again,” and he said, “What if we just took off with the money?” “You could I guess, but I've never seen anyone do it since you'd never get to come back and anyway the patch makes you really want to Advertise, you'll see.” Her voice was reassuring, like she really wanted him not to worry and he felt rotten not telling her about his investigation, his agenda. He put the envelope into his satchel with tape and socks. The elevator sealed and whooshed them down through the building, into the Undermall, then the doors opened and they unpacked from the elevator, spewed out into a gigantic lobby, all glass and polished steel with music playing softly and escalators going down and up in every direction, escalators with steps of burnished wood that looked good enough to eat, looked like roast chicken. He was still so hungry. Margaret took his hand again. “Let's go,” she said. As the others dispersed she led him toward one of the escalators and they descended. The corridor below branched to shops with recessed entrances, windows dark and smoky, quiet pulsing music fading from each door, also food smells here and there causing his saliva to flow, and holographic signs angling into view as they passed: FERN SLAW, ROETHKE AND SONS, HOLLOW APPEAL, BROKEN SMUDGED ALPHABET, BURGER KING, PLASTIC DEVILS, OSTRICH LAKE, SMARTINGALE ' S, RED HARVEST, CATCH OF THE DAY, MUTUAL OF FOMALHAUT, THNEEDS, etcetera. She led him on, confidently, obviously at home. Why not, this was what she did with her days. Then without warning, a couple appeared from around a corner, and he felt himself begin to Advertise. “How do you do today?” he said, sidling up to the gentleman of the couple, even as he saw Margaret begin to do the same thing to the lady. The gentleman nodded at him, walked on. But met his eye. He was tangible, he could be heard. It was a shock. “Thirsty?” he heard himself say. “How long's it been since you had a nice refreshing beer?” “Don't like beer,” said the gentleman. “Can't say why, just never have.” “Then you've obviously never tried a Very Old Money Lager,” he heard himself say, still astonished. The barrier was pierced and he was conversing, he was perceptible. He'd be able to conduct interrogations, be able to search out clues. Meanwhile he heard Margaret saying, “Don't demean your signature with a second-rate writing implement. Once you've tried the Eiger fountain pen you'll never want to go back to those henlike scratchings and scrawlings,” and the woman seemed interested and so Margaret went on “our Empyrean Sterling Silver Collection features one-of-a-kind hand-etched casings—” In fact the man seemed captivated too. He turned ignoring the beer pitch and gave Margaret his attention. “Our brewers handpick the hops and malt,” he was unable to stop though he'd obviously lost his mark, “and every single batch of fire-brewed Very Old Money Lager is individually tasted—” Following the couple through the corridor they bumped into another Advertising woman who'd been on the hovercraft, and she began singing, “Vis-it the
moon
, it's nev-er too
soon
,” dancing sinuously and batting her eyes, distracting them all from fountain pens and beer for the moment and then the five of them swept into the larger space of the Undermall and suddenly there were dozens of people who needed to be told about the beer. “Thirsty? Hello, hi there, thirsty? Excuse me, thirsty? Yes? Craving satisfaction, sparkle, bite? No? Yes? Have you tried Very Old Money? What makes it different, you ask—oh, hello, thirsty?” and also dozens of people working as Advertising, a gabble of pitches—stern,