Unquiet Dreams by K. A. Laity

newly minted doctoral diatribes.
    Zipping his pants, he turned slowly back to face her. On her back now, a slight snore growing, he had a moment of panic wondering whether it was more cowardly to leave or simply more considerate -- wouldn't she, too, wish to be spared the awkwardness of this auroral charade?
    While in uffish thought he stood, however, her eyes blinked open and she smiled up at him. The assurance in her expression flummoxed him for a moment, although it also reminded him why he had come here, wixey or no. "Dr. Lander," she cooed, her whiskeyed voice pleasingly husky. "Phil," she corrected herself, the smile growing to Cheshire proportions. "I'll see you at one o'clock, ne c'est pas? That is, I hope you're still interested in the one year visiting position." Her voice did not suggest this was really a question.
    Phil nodded curtly and offered a strained smile. It was that kind of job market.
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Fluorescence
    This is not the kind of place where these things happen, Margaret thought. It's just not right. The full light of day shone—more than that, the full glare of industrial tubes lit up the seemingly endless rows of cubicles. It was the most normal thing in the world. But something odd was definitely happening.
    Not that anyone else had said anything. No one complained even. And it was only when she added up the numbers—well, she could be wrong, she could be mistaken; after all, as Margaret knew too well, there were those days when you could add a column six ways to Sunday and each time it would come out completely different. Best to just leave it and come back in the morning. But this wasn't like that. This was people.
    And it had been some time. She hadn't noticed right away. She hadn't really realized it until this month's payroll had been done. It was Margaret's job to do payroll for the revolving corps of temps. And the numbers—well, no, it wasn't exactly the numbers. The numbers were all right, the pay slips just right for the hours worked, that is. But the temps, you see, that was the problem. Several were missing.
    It's not as if they had just taken off. Lord knows, they weren't always that reliable, they didn't have to be, that's why they were only temps. People like that can seldom keep a job, Margaret had always thought. You have to want more. There were some, oh sure. Used temping as just a toe-hold, working their way into the corporate structure, clawing up from Job Central here on the sixth floor trying to reach the top of the SIM tower. It could be done, had been done. Many though had fallen, trying to climb too fast, left with their tails tucked between their legs but on the lookout for another mountain to climb.
    The missing ones hadn't been that kind.
    If their eyes were bright, it wasn't from a kind word that might help them get on that ladder up or from a chance to learn some hot new software. The younger ones had parties and concerts and chatted about them to one another when Margaret was not hovering nearby. And the older ones—they always seemed to be awaiting that next visit to grandkids or gambling with cronies in Atlantic City. Simple wishes, simple work; Margaret didn't mind riding herd on them. After all, she wasn't all that ambitious herself. She liked her job, she was good at it, it kept her busy all day, and it paid pretty well. Smooth sailing—busy days, busy seasons, the rush before summer buying—but mostly smooth sailing, nothing she couldn't handle. Until she added up the numbers today and realized just how many temps were missing.
    Margaret had begun to suspect that something was amiss recently but pushed the unwanted thoughts out of her mind. No that wasn't quite true; they lingered in the back of her head, a sort of mental note to check why they were having such a hard time keeping temps, to inquire whether other corporate pools were running shallow recently. It hadn't gone any deeper than that. Nothing so sinister as—
    Well,