The Circle

of murder.
     Mae’s wrist was flashing with dozens of messages of concern. With help from the campus
     SeeChange cameras, watchers were noticing her standing, stock-still, her face contorted
     into some raging, wretched mask.
    She needed to do something. She went back to CE, waved to Jared and the rest, and
     logged herself into the chute.
    In minutes she had helped with a query from a small jewelry maker in Prague, had checked
     out the maker’s website, had found the work intriguing and wonderful and had said
     so, aloud and in a zing, which produced an astronomical Conversion Rate and a Retail
     Raw, in ten minutes, of 52,098 euros. She helped a sustainably sourced furniture wholesaler
     in North Carolina, Design for Life, and after answering their query, they wanted her
     to fill out a customer survey, which was especially important given her age and income
     bracket—they needed more information about the preferences of customers in her demographic.
     She did that, and also commented on a series of photos her contact at Design for Life,
     Sherilee Fronteau, had sent her of her son at his first T-ball practice. When Mae
     commented on those photos, she received a message from Sherilee thanking Mae, and
     insisting that she come to Chapel Hill sometime, to see Tyler in person and eat some
     genuine barbecue. Mae agreed she would, feeling very good to have this new friend
     on the opposite coast, and moved on to her second message, from a client, Jerry Ulrich,
     in Grand Rapids, Michigan, who ran a refrigerated truck company. He wanted Mae to
     forward a message to everyone on her list about the company’s services, that they
     were trying very hard to increase their presence in California, and any help would
     be appreciated. Mae zinged him that she would tell everyone she knew, starting with
     the 14,611,002 followers she had, and he sent word back that he was thrilled to have
     been so introduced, and that he welcomed business or comments from all 14,611,002
     people—1,556 of whom instantly greeted Jerry and said they, too, would spread the
     word. Then, as he was enjoying the flood of messages, he asked Mae how his niece,
     who was graduating from Eastern Michigan University in the spring, might go about
     getting a job atthe Circle; it was her dream to work there, and should she move out west to be closer,
     or should she hope to get an interview based on her résumé alone? Mae directed him
     to the HR department, and gave him some hints of her own. She added the niece to her
     contact list, and made a note to keep track of her progress, if she indeed applied
     for work there. One customer, Hector Casilla of Orlando, Florida, told Mae about his
     interest in birding, sent her some of his photos, which Mae praised and added to her
     own photo cloud. Hector asked her to rate them, for this might get him noticed in
     the photo-sharing group he was trying to join. She did so, and he was ecstatic. Within
     minutes, Hector said, someone in his photo-sharing group had been deeply impressed
     that an actual Circler was aware of his work, so Hector thanked Mae again. He sent
     her an invitation to a group exhibition he was part of that winter, in Miami Beach,
     and Mae said if she found herself down that way in January, she would certainly attend,
     and Hector, perhaps misconstruing the level of her interest, connected her with his
     cousin, Natalia, who owned a bed and breakfast only forty minutes from Miami, and
     who could absolutely get Mae a deal if she chose to come out—her friends, too, were
     welcome. Natalia then sent a message, with the B&B’s rates, which, she noted, were
     flexible if she wanted to stay during the week. Natalia followed up a moment later
     with a long message, full of links to articles and images of the Miami area, elucidating
     the many activities possible in winter—sport fishing, jet-skiing, dancing. Mae worked
     on, feeling the familiar tear, the growing blackness, but working through it, killing
     it, until she finally noticed the time: 10:32.
    She’d been in CE for over four hours. She walked to the dorms, feeling far better,
     feeling calm, and found Francis in bed, workingon his tablet, pasting his face into his favorite movies. “Check this out,” he said,
     and showed her a sequence from an action movie where, instead of Bruce Willis, the
     protagonist now seemed to be Francis Garaventa. The software was near-perfect, Francis
     said, and could be operated by any