“Don’t know yet. Chemanal will take a little while. Signs point to a small amount, which suggests an assassin with money. We’re still working on it.”

“Let me know when you come up with something.” Hafas stepped out of the way so the officer doing the vid recording could finish his work.

Out in the bedroom two men in dull white coveralls were loading lumps into a body bag. Manz was thankful for their speed and efficiency. He turned away.

The inspector didn’t speak again until the collectors had departed with their grisly cargo. “Not much left to identify. Most of it came off the ceiling and walls.” He gnawed on a fingernail, watching Manz closely. “Hell of a scene. Not a close acquaintance, I hope.”

“I just met her tonight,” the adjuster informed him calmly. “Seemed like a good kid, considering why she was here.”

“Yeah. Why she was here, I mean. Felt the need for a little outside companionship after a long day’s work, did you?”

“Not exactly. She was waiting for me when I got here.”

The inspector’s heavy brows rose slightly. “She craved your company?”

“More like my Company. Claimed she had information about the jackings. Wanted a one-way ticket offworld, fresh passport, a quarter mil credit, and protection. We more or less struck a deal. Before she could tell me anything, she had to go. So to speak.” He made a face. “She got the one-way, anyway.”

“You at least get a name?”

Manz filled him in. Hafas worked a pocket communicator.

“Could be an alias,” Manz pointed out.

The inspector nodded sagely. “Possible. Hard to do a passport refresh on an alias, though.”

While they waited, specialists continued to file in and out of the room. It wasn’t long before the com beeped softly. Manz waited while Hafas studied the compact readout.

“Anything I should know?” he finally asked.

“Depends. You been naughty or nice this year?” When the adjuster didn’t comment, he continued. “Seems that your Ms. Trong …”

“Pass on the possessive, if you don’t mind.”

Hafas shrugged. “She’s a registered temptech. Regionally listed; beyond that I don’t know yet. That can signify a number of different things. According to tax and file records, she’s worked for a lot of companies in a number of cities all the way from JeP to Vegas. Suggesting that her abilities were much in demand.”

“Having known her, albeit briefly, I can understand why.”

The inspector continued to study the screen. “She moved around a lot. This list of employers is pretty extensive. Interestingly, our three corporate suspects are all on it, along with a dozen other local concerns who could also handle a major offworld transshipment.”

“So maybe she was telling the truth, and she really knew something worth knowing.”

“Looks possible.” Hafas snapped the clamshell com closed. “You still think the banger was intended for you and not to shut her up?”

“There’s no way to tell for sure, but that’s the way it reads to me, Tew. Maybe somebody was hoping to get both of us at once. But we just got here, and that kicker had to be set up after we checked in and before we got back. Hard to imagine even somebody who knew everything believing that she’d try to get ahold of me so soon, and being able to plan for it to boot. Impossible to assume they’d know she was intending to meet me here. Too much happening too fast.

“But whoever did this knew that I’d be here. Besides, if they were worried about her trilling, they could have offed her before she got here.”

“Whoever they are, they are not nice people,” declared Moses. It was the kind of statement designed to surprise folks who weren’t familiar with the mechanical’s abilities. Empathy was part of his advanced programming.

Hafas scratched the back of one hand with the other. “What are you going to do now?”

“Change rooms. Have a long heart-to-heart with hotel security. Try to get a little sleep. Then tomorrow do a little sight seeing. Pay a congenial visit on the part of Braun-Ives to each of our three potential jacker underwriters. Who should I try to talk to?”

The inspector consulted his com afresh. “Try Cardinal Monticelli at Borgia… that’s his name, not a title. Eric Blaird at Troy.” He read carefully. “Colton Paul at Fond du Lac. That’s Colton Paul, Jr. Current info states that Paul Senior is out and about in the Territories and has been for some time.”

“That would seem to rule out Fond du Lac.”

“Not necessarily. I haven’t personally run any in-depth personnel studies, but the quick gimme suggests that this Junior’s no dummy. His old man’s absence could be a fail-safe in case they’re behind any of this and waste products start to hit the fan.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Hafas hesitated. “Watch your steps, Manz-man.”

The adjuster nodded somberly. “More than that, I’ll have a care where I sit.”

As they were waiting for room reassignment, he caucused with his associates. “It would be natural and normal for these three suspected concerns to keep track of each other’s business dealings. Their interests overlap enough for them to be considered competitors. So it might look peculiar if I show up at all three and somebody takes the time to do a little cross-correlating. We don’t want to make anyone any more nervous than they already are. Moses, you have a chat with Blaird. Try to sell him some corporate insurance.”

“I will comply.”

“You’re so up on recording, make sure you don’t miss anything. Vyra, you pay a visit to …”

“Let me guess. Paul of Fond du Lac.”

“Junior. I’ll schedule afternoon tea with the cardinal. And listen: somebody looks to have a line inside the Company. We have to assume we’re no longer working under protective cover. Operative paranoia’s now in effect.” He and Vyra gazed into each other’s eyes understandingly.

“From this point on we assume everyone’s a potential assassin. If that goes hard on the general public, that’s tough. That’s what Braun-Ives carries internal liability for. But I’d just as soon we don’t have to make use of it.”

VIII

The offices of Eric Blaird suggested a setting from Dickens. Even the twin wall monitors boasted an antique gloss. It was a far cry from Javanese Contemporary, the current fad in business decor. Blaird took evident pride in his collecting and wanted everyone to know it extended to his business as well as his personal life.

His desk was nineteenth-century Scottish, Spartan and full of wormholes that had actually been produced by insect larvae instead of the antiquer’s art. His desktop was fashionably littered with work.

Blaird himself was nearly invisible behind the massive block of dark wood. He was a little mouse of a man; an elderly mouse, with his hair ponytailed in back and a single platinum ring in one ear. His hair was receding and his manner condescending. His relationships, both personal and professional, were as crusty as stale pumpernickel.

Somewhere within the desk, an artfully concealed grid sang for attention. Blaird barely glanced up from his current project.

“It’s not lunchtime, and I don’t recall scheduling any appointments,” he announced brusquely.

“A representative from Port Authority is here with questions, sir.”

Blaird mouse-frowned. It gave him a decidedly pinched appearance. “Why let him in to see me? Shunt him to somebody in the appropriate department.”

“It is claimed to be a matter for your eyes only, sir. Government insistence.”

“I should have been notified,” the executive groused. “Well, maybe it won’t take long. Grant admittance.” He returned to his viewer.

The door slid aside and Moses rolled quietly across the carpet. His progress was marked by a silence that unnerved many humans, so he made it a point to hum softly as he advanced.