Mona

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Mona ignored the presence she felt blocking the doorway to her office cubicle: a man, judging by the mass registering on her telemetry implant, with a step she didn’t recognize—a stranger, without an appointment.

A calling card clicked into her “incoming” box. The man should have backed off at that point, leaving her to decide whether she wanted anything to do with him. When he didn’t, she reached for the card and stuck it under her scanner. The simulator voice in her ear spoke the words, “Enrique Leon,” with his business and home addresses, phones, FAX, e-mail, and references—the standard stuff. A handwritten message, which she deciphered by touch on the projection pad, said only, “May I speak with you?”

She called up his file. Mr. Leon was on the payroll, all right, and this was a sample of his handwriting. But what did he want in Personnel, when he already worked here? His written message sounded like a pick-up line out of a politically-correct primer, making sure nobody could say he’d forced himself on her. His deliberate coldness and the unmistakable smell of fear on him piqued her interest.

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