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necessary, ref Vatican Internal Investigator comments: "Young, shit for brains.")
    3 ALLOSTASIS
    For Martin Burke, life has become anaspace, all motion but no engagement, no interaction, no sense of progress. And yet he is not unsuccessful.
    He moved from the combs of Southcoast two years ago. He had set himself up as a design consultant for miniature therapy monitors, microscopic implants that roamed freely in the body and brain, regulating balances and adjusting natural neurochemical concentrations. All of the delayed but no less painful publicity about his involvement with the mass-murderer and poet Emanuel Goldsmith had put an end to this new career; no corporation wanted to be associated with him after that, though they still license and manufacture from
    24 GREG BEAR
    Since moving to Seattle, he has worked in special mental therapy, out of the third floor of an old, dignified building off Pioneer Square. Outside it is a rare cloudless winter morning, though at eight o'clock still dark. On the Southcoast of California, at the end of his last career, the sun had seemed inhumanly probing and constant. Martin had yearned for change, weather, clouds to hide under... Now he yearns for sun again. Strangely, away from California, the publicity has actually brought in new clients; but in balance, it also ended the love of his life. He has not seen or heard from Carol in a year, though he keeps in touch with his young daughter, Steplanie. Martin enters the round lobby and pushes open the door to his office, slinging his personal pad and purse onto their hooks on an antique coat rack. He has resisted the expense of installing a dattoo or skin pad, with circuitry and touches routed through mildly electrified skin, preferring instead a more old-fashioned implement, and keeping his body natural and inviolate into his forty-eighth year. His receptionist, Arnold, and assistant, Kim, greet him from their half-glass cubicle at the center of the lobby. Arnold is large and well-trained in both public relations and physical restraint. Kim, small and seemingly shy, is a powerhouse therapeutic psychology student with a minor in business relations. He hopes he can keep them working for him for at least the next year, before their agency fields better offers. Tucked out of sight, a year-old INDA sits quietly on a shelf overlooking the reception area, monitoring all that happens in the office's five rooms. He prepares for the long day with a ten-minute staff meeting. He goes over patient requests for unscheduled visits. "Tell Mrs. Danner I'll see her at noon Friday," he instructs Arnold. "I'm off that day," Arnold says. "She's a five-timer." Martin looks over Mrs. Danner's record. She's a five-time CTR--core therapy reject--with a long criminal record. "Want me to be here?" "She's not violent," Martin says. "Klepto mostly, inclined to hurt herself and not others. Enjoy your day off." Martin has expanded his business by taking referrals from therapists who can't handle their patients. After relieving himself of his own demon, he has a special touch with people who are still ridden. "And Mr. Perkins--?" Arnold asks. Martin makes a wry face. Kim smiles. Mr. Perkins is much less difficult than Mrs. Danner, but less pleasant to deal with. He is unable to establish lasting relations with people and relies on human-shaped arbeiters for company. Three previous therapists have been unsuccessful treating him, even with the most modern nano monitors and neuronal enhancement. "Third request in a week," Martin says. "I suppose he's still having trouble
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    The patient log floats before Arnold's face like a small swarm of green insects. "His wife, he calls her." "He can't bear to deactivate the old personality. That passes for kindness in him, I suppose." Martin smirks. "I'll see him Monday. So who's up for this morning?" "You have Joseph Breedlove at nine and Avril de Johns at ten." Martin wrinkles his forehead in speculation. Neither Breedlove nor