“This was my lucky shirt,” he said. “Got it when I was doing field-work at the Burgess Shale; I brought it all the way from Earth.” He looked at her. “And you wrecked it.”
The upper hole was merely a rip; the lower one was now badly stained by oil.
Lakshmi took on a desperate tone. “Please, tell me which way to head.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I said. “You won’t get anywhere near the dome before your air runs out. At least if you stay here, we’ll know where your body is, and can come back and give you a decent burial.”
“You bastard,” said Lakshmi.
“I’m just telling you the truth.”
Rory looked around, getting his bearings. “That way,” he said, pointing in a direction somewhat more northerly than what I would have guessed but not so much so that I doubted his word. “Walk that way.”
“Thank you,” she said to Rory. Then, to me: “You’re going to die, too, Lomax. Yes, you’ve got more air than I do—but it’s still nowhere near enough.”
I smiled. “It wouldn’t be if I were going to walk it. But I’m not.”
“You expect a rescue?” She looked relieved. “Then I’m waiting right here with you.”
“Oh, no. I’m heading out, too. But Rory’s going to carry me.”
“I am?” said Pickover.
“You are. Bend over a bit.”
He did so, putting his hands on his knees. I climbed onto his back piggyback style. It was easy for him to take the weight—the combination of low gravity and a transfer’s strength. “And you’re going to run,” I said. I thought about digging in my heels as if they were spurs and yelling, “Giddyap,” but I didn’t think the paleontologist would appreciate that. So instead I simply said, “Let’s go.”
Lakshmi looked furious, but Pickover did indeed start running, leaving her behind. It took Pickover a hundred meters to find the right gait with me on his back, but he finally did. The horizon went up and down as he ran along, his powerful legs sailing from one footfall to the next. Holding on to him wasn’t difficult. The miles and miles of miles and miles shifted one by one from being in front of us to behind us, and soon enough Lakshmi’s cursing faded away as we moved out of radio range.
TWENTY
Dr. Pickover and I reached the vicinity of New Klondike by mid afternoon. To his credit, Rory had taken a straight path all the way back, with no attempt to disguise the route. Polarizing the fishbowl at night had rendered me almost blind, but here in broad daylight it just made looking out at the world comfortable—so I now had a rough idea of where the Alpha Deposit was.
“Almost there,” said Pickover, via radio. It was astonishing listening to someone who had been running at high speed for hours but wasn’t out of breath. I looked at my air gauge; I still had twenty-odd minutes left. I’d never thought of the dome as pretty before, but it sure looked that way as it came into view, glistening in the sunshine.
“Okay,” I said to Pickover. “No point in making a spectacle of ourselves. Let’s walk the rest of the way.”
The scientist stopped and bent his knees, lowering himself a bit. I hopped off his back. It felt good to not be bouncing up and down anymore.
“We have to go back for her,” Pickover said, as I fell in beside him. “Get more bottled air, get another buggy. Go rescue her.”
I reached over and held his forearm with my suit glove. “Rory, she’s dead by now. She has to be.”
“But if—”
“If what? She had less air than me, and I’m almost empty. Even if she did manage to conserve her oxygen, there’s no way she could still be alive by the time we got back out there.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But what? She tried to kill both of us.”
“I know. I just don’t want it on my conscience, I guess.”
“I had mine removed years ago,” I said. “Makes things easier.”
We walked on in silence. The dome in front of us was an impressive feat. Building it would have been impossible even forty years ago, but nanoassemblers had constructed the whole thing molecule by molecule, extracting the source silicon dioxide from the Martian soil, modifying it into ultraviolet-opaque alloquartz, and laying it down in the pattern Howard Slapcoff’s engineers had programmed. Its rim was anchored into the permafrost, and its great weight was borne by curving struts and the central support column, all made of carbon nanotubes.
We went through the airlock, and I returned the surface suit. The person who had rented us the suit wasn’t on duty anymore—which was a good thing, since I would have felt obliged to clock him for having revealed the radio-encryption key to Lakshmi. Adding insult to injury, Pickover lost his damage deposit because of the chip out of my helmet.
I collected my little tablet computer, phone, shoulder holster, and gun from the locker, put the tab in my right hip pocket, slipped the phone around my left wrist, placed the pistol in the holster, and draped the holster over my shoulder. My clothes were clean, but Pickover was covered with dust, and he’d gotten a fair bit of it in the exposed workings of his face. I used the john while he went through the cleaning chamber, where air jets blasted dust off him, and vacuum hoses sucked up the stuff that wouldn’t blow away.
When Pickover was done, we headed out onto Ninth Avenue. “What now?” he asked.
I gave him an appraising look. “You’ve been missing most of your face for God knows how long, and you’ve got two holes in your chest. I’m thinking it’s time you visited NewYou.”
He shuddered. “I get so angry when I think about what they did. A bootleg copy of me!”
“I know. But the people who did that are gone, and so is the bootleg—and you do need to get fixed up, and they’re the only game in town.”
“All right,” he said. “But will you come with me?”
“You’re the client; I charge by the hour. You really want to pay someone to hold your hand?”
“Please, Alex.”
I’d been hoping to go home, have a shower, change, and then maybe go see Diana. But I said, “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
I made Pickover wait for me while we stopped at a shop so I could buy a sandwich; the ones I’d bought before had gone up with the buggy. Meat was synthesized directly—no need for messy, smelly animals—and the place we went into printed a passable roast beef on an algae bun. I ate it as we walked along. We had to cross right through the center of town, since NewYou was on Third and about halfway out to the other side of the dome. Before we went in, I think Pickover would have liked to have taken a deep breath to steel himself—so to speak—but he couldn’t.
We were greeted inside by Horatio Fernandez, he of the massive arms. “My God,” he said, looking at Pickover, “what happened to you?”
I spoke before Pickover could answer. “Little accident with some climbing gear.”
“And your face?” asked Fernandez.
“Cut myself shaving,” Pickover replied.
“Jesus,” said Horatio. “Let’s get you into the workshop.”
Pickover looked at me. “I’ll wait,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
Fernandez called out, “Reiko!” A woman came through a doorway to mind the store. Fernandez headed into the back, and Pickover followed.
I remembered Reiko Takahashi from the Wilkins case, and so I went over to say hello. She was petite, about twenty-eight, and very pretty for a biological.
“Hello, Mr. Lomax,” she said, smiling perfect teeth.
I was pleased she remembered my name. “Alex,” I said.
“Alex, yes. Hi.”
“Hi.”
She moved closer and looked around, making sure we were alone, I guess. “Are you working on another case?”
“My friend needed some maintenance, and I’m keeping him company.”
“Ah.”
Reiko had long black hair that went halfway down her back. Three streaks of orange went through it, one behind each ear, and the third exactly down the
center. She had brown eyes, and eye shadow that matched the streaks, and was wearing a dark gray pantsuit over a silky blouse that was also the same shade of orange. “What brought you to Mars?” I asked, making conversation.
She smiled mischievously. “A spaceship.”
“Ha ha. Seriously, though?”
She looked at me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she wanted to confide something. But then she simply said, “Something to do.”
I turned on the patented Lomax charm. “Well, I’m glad you came.” I gestured at the front window. “This planet is so dreary; we can use all the beauty we can get.”
She dipped her head a little, pleased. Then she looked up at me without straightening her neck back out. “I’m glad you dropped in,” she said.
“Thank you.” I dialed it up a notch. “I’m certainly glad I did, too.”
Her voice grew tentative. “I’d been thinking of coming to see you, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I’m . . . forgive me, but I just wasn’t sure you were the right man.”
I put a finger under her chin and lifted her lovely face. “Of course I am. Why don’t we go somewhere and talk?”
She looked around. “No, this will do. We’re alone.”
“We are indeed,” I said.
“You see, there’s a matter I need help in investigating.”
Oh. “And what might that be?”
She looked at me for several seconds, sizing me up. “Okay,” she said. “But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?”
It was amazing how many people would ask you to pledge silence then go on even when you hadn’t. I was feeling pleased about that insight when she started speaking, but by the time she’d finished, I’d found myself taking a step backward.
“It’s just this,” she said. “Denny O’Reilly was my grandfather.”
TWENTY-ONE
I’m sure my poker face cracked; that was quite a claim. “Really?” I said.
She nodded. “My mother was his daughter; his only child. And I’m his only grandchild.”
I’d seen photos of Denny O’Reilly. He’d been a white guy, and Miss Takahashi had exquisite Asian features. She’d obviously previously encountered surprised expressions like the one I must have been wearing. “My grandmother was from Kyoto,” she said. “And my mother married a man from Tokyo. Despite that, I was hoping I’d still have a little bit of the luck o’ the Irish in my genes. I thought I could retrace my grandfather’s steps and find the Alpha.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
“And now you work here?” I raised my eyebrows. “Forgive me, but, well, if you’re Denny O’Reilly’s granddaughter, shouldn’t you be, you know, rolling in it?”
“My grandmother was his mistress, not his wife.”
“He didn’t leave anything to your grandmother?”
“He didn’t leave anything to anyone. He died intestate. And in the jurisdiction he lived in, that meant it all went to his actual wife. She had no children—and, for that matter, neither did Simon Weingarten. I’m the only surviving heir of either of them—except the courts did me out of my due.”
“Ah. And when you failed to find riches here, you had to get a job.”
“Exactly.” She gestured at one of the floor models. “Have you ever thought about transferring, Mr. Lomax? A man in your line of work, it might come in handy.”
“You on commission, Reiko?”
She smiled. “Sorry.”
“So, what exactly were you hoping I could help you with?”
“Well, like I said, I wasn’t sure if I needed a detective, or what. But someone broke into my apartment last week.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing. But the place was ransacked. I called the police, and they took my report over the phone, but that’s all.”
“Do you know what the thief was looking for?”
She said, “No,” but I could tell she was lying.
There was still no one else in the shop. It was my turn to decide if I wanted to confide in her. “You asked if I had a case. I’m actually investigating an old one: the fate of Willem Van Dyke.”
Her eyes opened wider.
“I see you know the name,” I said.
“Oh, yes. He came to Mars on the second expedition with my grandfather and Simon. Horrible man; tried to sell all the fossils out from under them.”
“That’s what your grandfather said?”
“Yes. Why do you care what happened to Van Dyke?”
“I have a client who doesn’t like loose ends.”
“Was that him? Your client? Going into the back?”
I nodded.
“He looked in bad shape.”
“He’ll be okay.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rory Pickover.”
“That was Mr. Pickover? Wow.”
“Yeah. His face needs a little work.”
“I’ll say. Why’s he interested in this?”
“You know he’s a scientist, right? He wants to find any fossils from the Alpha that might have gone into private collections, and he figures Van Dyke might be the key to that.”
“Ah,” said Reiko. “Well, maybe I can help, too. The diary mentions some names.”
“Whose diary?”
“My grandfather’s.”
“He kept a diary of the second expedition?”
“Yes, I believe so. And of the first, as well. I’ve never seen those, but . . .”
“But what? What diary are you referring to?”
“There was one of the third mission.”
“Really?” I said. “But wouldn’t that have been lost when their ship burned up on re-entry?”
“No. My grandfather beamed it home to my grandmother just before he and Simon left Mars. Of course, they were going to spend the months of the return voyage in hibernation, and only thaw out to handle re-entering Earth’s atmosphere. But he broadcast the diary just before he left Mars—in terms of his conscious time, that was less than a day before he died.”
“And you have copies of this diary?”
“Well, a copy, yes. A bound printout of it.”
I felt my eyebrows go up. “On paper?”
“Uh-huh. My grandmother never wanted it to get out; parts of the diary are very personal, and you know how things take on a life of their own once they get online. But she wanted me to know where I’d come from, and who my grandfather had been. So about a year ago, just before she died, she had a bound printout of it made, then erased the files. I have the one and only copy.”
“And it’s here on Mars?”
She didn’t answer.
“Is it?” I said.
Another hesitation, then a small nod.
“That’s what the thief was looking for,” I said. There was no point in raising my tone to make it a question; it was obviously true.
She nodded again meekly.
“Does the diary reveal the location of the Alpha?”
“No. If it did, I wouldn’t be working here. But, as I said, he mentions some collectors he’d done business with in the past.”
“Who else knows about—”
Just then, the front door slid open, and an elderly man shuffled in. “Excuse me,” Reiko said, and she went over to speak to him. From what I overheard, he was a prospector trying to decide between spending the money he’d made from his finds either on transferring or on passage back home.
I pulled out my tab and looked at the encyclopedia entry on Denny O’Reilly, particularly the stuff on his personal life. There was no mention of a mistress, although he had indeed been married at the time he’d died, and that woman, who had been dead herself for a dozen years, had inherited his estate; she’d doubtless had the money to transfer at some point, but had been killed unexpectedly in a plane crash.
The
elderly customer was looking at a sample body in the window display. The man happened to be black and the body was white, but its build was similar to his own.
Since she was still busy, and since Rory would probably be a while longer, I stepped outside onto the street and used my wrist phone to call Dougal McCrae.
“Hello, Alex,” he said from the tiny screen.
“Hey, Mac. Did you guys investigate an incident at the home of a Reiko Takahashi recently?”
He looked away from the camera. “Two secs.” Then his freckled face turned back to me. “Yeah, a B&E. Kaur handled it. Strange; nothing taken.”
“What can you tell me about Miss Takahashi?”
He looked off camera again. “No wants, no warrants. Life-support tax paid in full. Came here three months ago. Works at NewYou—you’ve met her, remember?”
I nodded. “Thanks, Mac. Talk to you later.”
“One thing while I’ve got you, Alex.”
“Sure.”
“We’ve had a couple of missing-persons reports.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A woman named Lakshmi Chatterjee and a man named Darren Cheung. Logged out of the dome, but apparently never returned. They rented a Mars buggy, and she rented a surface suit; the rental firm wants them back.”
“I can imagine so.”
“Same log shows that you and Dr. Pickover went out shortly before them.”
“I brought my suit back.”
“With a cracked helmet.”
“Shoddy workmanship,” I said.
Mac looked at me dubiously.
“Anyway,” I said, “I’ll let you know if I see them.”
“You do that, Alex.”
I nodded, shook the phone off, and started to head back inside. I was startled by the door sliding open before I’d reached it—it was the old man, coming out. “What did you decide?” I asked amiably.
He narrowed his eyes, as if wondering what business it was of mine. But he answered nonetheless. “I’m going home.”
He didn’t look like he was in good enough shape to hack the gravity on the mother world. “Really?” I said.