The Duke of Uranium

"And besides, if your purse can have an attitude, it can be your friend, and it won't turn you in if you do something like climb a light shaft."

That poked Jak in a sore spot; his purse had gleefully informed on him as soon as the pokheets had called it, whereas Dujuv's had done its best to hide him. "I just don't like the idea of them being able to backtalk to people," Jak said. "Before you know it they'll start to think that they are people."

"Well, they are smart. And they talk, and they have feelings—"

"Only so they'll have judgment!" "Isn't that supposed to be why evolution gave humans feelings?"

"That's just my point. Humans got feelings from evolution, and we're free and wild and have our feets. Any feelings a purse has, it got from its designer, just to make it useful, and any feets it has are just trouble."

Dujuv stopped, his weight settling as if he might strike. "Aren't you forgetting you're talking to a designed breed?"

Jak had, and he felt like a complete gweetz. He drew a deep breath, asking the calm of the Disciplines to run through his mind. "Why is it," he asked, keeping his voice low and neutral, "that whenever we're both toktru scared and nervous about something, I keep picking a fight by saying stupid things? This makes the second time in less than twenty minutes. And you tolerate it!"

Dujuv smiled, his mouth tight and flattened, his eyes still hard. "Oh, no, I don't just tolerate it, I enjoy it. It helps me relax. I find it soothing to think about breaking your neck."

"I bet. Why do I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot. If you'd treat your purse decently, it would tell you." Jak started to laugh, and Dujuv's shoulders relaxed and his bare scalp smoothed like a tugged sheet. "We need to get to the Old China Cafe. Our food is probably ready by now."

They paid the extra for a closed booth so that they would not be interrupted. The waitron delivered the food almost as soon as they had settled in, so now there was nothing to delay getting their results, except their nerves. They used up another five minutes arguing about who should go first, settling on sending in the request simultaneously. "Let's just go ahead and be childish about it," Jak said. "Set up the request on your purse but don't send it yet. . . I'll set it up on mine. . . okay, on three. One, two, three."

The result popped up instantly and Jak stared at it. Everyone knew what it meant when the message began "We regret to inform you. . ." but Jak read and reread the whole message.

He had missed admission to the PSA by sixty-five points out of ten thousand possible. Assured admission for an unmodified-stock human had been 8529, and his score had been 8464. A few people with lower scores than Jak's had gotten in, but those were people from urgently needed specialty breeds.

"Rat turds," Dujuv said, quietly, looking down at his hand. He looked the way Jak felt. "You too?"

"Missed it by eleven points. 8166 for a panth to get in and I got 8155."

Jak refrained from considering that with his score, Dujuv would have gotten in; if you went in as a panth, they expected things that were physically impossible for Jak. "I missed by sixty-five," he said.

They sighed, together, loudly. "Well," Jak added, "at least neither of us has to do any pretending."

"Yeah." Duj slammed the table with his hand, making their plates bounce alarmingly. "Weehu.