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33

Sharp-eyed readers will be wondering about the actual Sam Loyd. Where is he in all of this? Presumably he's long since dead, since his grandson could hardly be a day under 31, at the very least, and Loyd was already quite famous in 1916, publishing puzzles with his son.

"Sure," Jackie said. "I'd like to see the Sharp-Eyed Readers."

"Great!" said H.

Jackie and H. had run into each other while doing errands in downtown Sloan. "Come to the club around nine."

"Who's opening?" Jackie asked.

"Autoclave."

"God!" cried Jackie. "There's just too much music! I've heard their name around for years but I've never listened to them"

"Yeah I know," H said. "Well, Napster's good for stuff like that."

"Or it was, when there was still a Napster."

"Well," H. said, "You can still - um, well anyway, you'll get your chance to see them hopefully."

H. handed Jackie a small flier.

"'Six bands! Six bucks!'" Jackie read off the page. "'The Sharp-Eyed Readers. The Respectful Whistles. Quayside. The Shorn Heads. Autoclave. The Mononyms.'"

"It sounds like fun," he said. "The Shorn Heads, I hope they aren't like, racist skinheads or something."

H. laughed. "No, they're okay. I know them. Well, actually I just know Trey."

Jackie nodded. "Autoclave! I love how it sounds, too."

"Autoclave?"

"Yeah, just the word, the way the word sounds. I mean, what is an autoclave exactly? Like an automatic cleaver?" He laughed. "Or something for chin clefts? A cleaning rag that automatically cleans your chin cleft?"

"Or cleans your cleavage," H said.

"Whew!" Jackie gave a respectful whistle.

"It's getting a little, uh", he fanned himself as a joke and H. laughed.

They looked at each other for a second.

Jackie looked at the red hand on the crosswalk light.

"So um," Jackie said," What are you doing right now? Have you eaten?"

H. smiled and shook her head while Jackie was still talking.

"I can't," she said. "I'm supposed to be down quayside in about an hour and a half

"Quayside?"

"Mm hmm. I'm trying out for the lighthouse job."

"Oh, so you're trying to find a job, huh? Me too."

"Yeah. I was working for the president of Norway but that ended."

"Huh? President of Norway?"

"Yeah, her name's Gro Harlem Brundtland, but she found somebody else." The phrase came out of H.'s mouth with a sad syrupiness, and Jackie could tell by her body language that she was unhappy.

"What were you doing for her?"

"Carrying bags, keeping track of appointments. Running errands."

"Oh. In Norway?"

"Yeah."

"But wait, haven't you been living over here the whole time? Didn't you go to college in Sloan City?"

H. nodded.

"Yeah. It's a long story. Look, I'm sorry but I need to go home and change before I go out there. I want to try to get there early. You know, I don't want to, like, disqualify myself."

"Yeah," Jackie nodded. "Okay, see you later. See you Saturday?"

"Yeah," H. said.

That is one nice girl, Jackie thought.

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