There was no Jim suit to be found. Lori hadn't bought a wristwatch for her new body, but a very institutional-looking clock on a concrete wall of the skinsuit warehouse showed that it was nearly 11:30, which seemed about right. There were corridors leading away from the warehouse, and windowed doors in its walls, and Lori began to explore.
She looked at room after room of strange equipment, mostly big boxy things painted with glossy gray enamel, and usually provided with laminated plastic instruction cards, as if meant to be used by visitors who had never used it before and didn't necessarily expect to use it again. Machines to make skinsuits based on photographs, DNA samples, custom designs (one of the ordinary touches was a conventional computer with a big screen and body-design software, with cables running from it to one of the odd suit-making machines). And, eventually, just the machine Lori would need if she wanted to stay Lori and couldn't find a Jim skinsuit.
Fri Aug 07 11:27:33 2009