（外文电子版资料）Charles Stross and Cory Doctorow - Jury Service.pdf

Jury Service by Charles Stross and Cory Doctorow For a change, Huws head hurts more than his bladder. Hes lying head-down, on his back, in a bathtub. He scrabbles for a handhold and pulls himself upright. A tub is a terrible place to spend a night—or a morning, come to think of it—he blinks and sees that its midafternoon. The light slanting in through a high window limns the strange bathrooms treacly Victorian fixtures with a roseate glow. That was quite a party. He vaguely remembers the gathering dawn, its red glow staining the wall outside the kitchen window as he discussed environmental politics with a tall, shaven-headed woman with a blue forelock and a black leather mini-dress straight out of the twentieth century. (He has an equally vague memory of her defending a hardcore transhumanist line: score nil-nil to both sides.) A brief glance tells him that this room wasnt a bathroom when he went to sleep in it: bits of the bidet are still crawling into position and theres a strong smell of VOCs in the air. His head hurts. Leaning over the sink, Huw twiddles the taps until they begin to dribble cold water. He splashes his face and runs his hand through his thinning hair, glances up at the mirror, and yells Shit! Theres a spindly black biohazard trefoil tattooed on his forehead. It wasnt there yesterday. Behind him, the door opens. Having a good morning? asks Sandra Lal, whose mutable attic this must therefore be. Shes holding a three-kilo minisledge in one hand, tossing it into the air and catching it like a baton-twirler, her grotesquely muscled forearm bulging with hyperpressured blood and hormones at each catch. I wish, he groans. Sandras parties tend to be wild. Am I too late for the dead dog? Youre never too late. Sandra smiles broadly, camping it up. Coffees on in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor today. Bonnie gave me a subscription to House of the Week and todays my new edition—dont worry if you cant remember where everything is, ju