"Hey, Justin!" Sean Peters's voice floated over the top of the Superstrings, Ltd., cubicle wall. "It's twenty after six-quitting time and then some. Want a drink or two with me and Garth?"

"Hang on," Justin Kloster answered. "Let me save what I'm working on first." He told his computer to save his work as it stood, generate a backup, and shut itself off. Having grown up in the days when voice-recognition software was imperfectly reliable, he waited to make sure the machine followed orders. It did, of course. Making that software idiotproof had put Superstrings on the map a few years after the turn of the century.

Justin got up, stretched, and looked around. Not much to see: the grayish-tan fuzzy walls of the cubicle and an astringently neat desktop that held the computer, a wedding photo of Megan and him, and a phone/fax. His lips narrowed. The marriage had lasted four years-four and a half, actually. He hadn't come close to finding anybody else since.

Footsteps announced Peters's arrival. He looked like a high school linebacker who'd since let most of his muscle go to flab. Garth O'Connell was right behind him. He was from the same mold, except getting thin on top instead of going gray.

"How's the Iron Curtain sound?" Peters asked.

"Sure," Justin said. "It's close, and you can hear yourself think-most of the time, anyhow."

They went out into the parking lot together, bitching when they stepped from air conditioning to San Fernando Valley August heat. Justin's eyes started watering, too; L.A. smog wasn't so bad as it had been when he was young, but it hadn't disappeared.

An Oasis song was playing when the three software engineers walked into the Iron Curtain, and into air conditioning that was chillier than that at the office. The music took Justin back to the days when he'd been getting together with Megan, though he'd liked Blur better. "Look out," Sean Peters said.