He asked her what she meant. She peeled a mint-flavored toothpick from its wrapper. Eyes he suspected were gray regarded him through mint-tinted contacts.

“Nobody’s really famous anymore, Laney. Have you noticed that?”

“No.”

“I mean reallyfamous. There’s not much fame left, not in the old sense. Not enough to go around.”

“The old sense?”

“We’re the media, Laney. We makethese assholes celebrities. It’s a push-me, pull-you routine. They come to us to be created.” Vibram cleats kicked concisely off the hotdesk. She tucked her boots in, heels against denim haunches, white knees hiding her mouth. Balanced there on the pedestal of the hotdesk’s articulated Swedish chair.

“Well,” Laney said, going back to his screen, “that’s still fame, isn’t it?”

“But is it real?”

He looked back at her.

“We learned to print money off this stuff,” she said. “Coin of our realm. Now we’ve printed too much; even the audience knows. It shows in the ratings.”

Laney nodded, wishing she’d leave him to his work.

“Except,” she said, parting her knees so he could see her say it, “when we decide to destroy one.”

Behind her, past the anodyzed chainlink of the Cage, beyond a framing rectangle of glass that filtered out every tint of pollution, the sky over Burbank was perfectly blank, like a sky-blue paint chip submitted by the contractor of the universe.

The man’s left ear was edged with pink tissue, smooth as wax. Laney wondered why there had been no attempt at reconstruction.

“So I’ll remember,” the man said, reading Laney’s eyes.

“Remember what?”

“Not to forget. Sit down.”

Laney sat on something only vaguely chairlike, an attenuated construction of black alloy rods and laminated Hexcel.