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There are a couple of other MetaCop cars in the lot, and an Enforcer paddybus parked across the back, taking up ten consecutive spaces. This draws much attention from the MetaCops. The Enforcers are to the MetaCops what the Delta Force is to the Peace Corps.

“One to check in,” says the second MetaCop. They are standing in the reception area. The walls are lined with illuminated signs, each one bearing the image of some Old West desperado. Annie Oakley stares down blankly at Y.T., providing a role model. The checkin counter is faux rustic; the employees all wear cowboy hats and five-pointed stars with their names embossed on them. In back is a door made of hokey, old-fashioned iron bars. Once you got through there, it would look like an operating room. A whole line of little cells, curvy and white like prefab shower stalls-in fact, they double as shower stalls, you bathe in the middle of the room. Bright lights that turn themselves off at eleven o’clock. Coin-operated TV. Private phone line. Y.T. can hardly wait.

The cowboy behind the desk aims a scanner at Y.T., zaps her bar code. Hundreds of pages about Y.T.’s personal life zoom up on a graphics screen.

“Huh,” he says. “Female.”

The two MetaCops look at each other like, what a genius-this guy could never be a MetaCop.

“Sorry, boys, we’re full up. No space for females tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“See that bus in back? There was a riot at Snooze ‘n’ Cruise. Some Narcolombians were selling a bad batch of Vertigo. Place went nuts. Enforcers sent in a half dozen squads, brought in about thirty. So we’re full up. Try The Clink, down the street.”

Y.T. does not like the looks of this.

They put her back in the car, turn on the noise cancellation in

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