Blaird didn’t look like the sort a silent approach would bother, though something else was clearly troubling him as he caught sight of his visitor.

“You’re the PA rep? You’re a damned mechanical!”

“As to the first, you are correct, sir. As regards the second, the matter of my ultimate metaphysical status has yet to be determined. It is my firm conviction, insofar as I am permitted to have one, that humans will have nothing to do with that decision. I am here to talk to you about…”

“About nothing! I hate mechanicals. What makes you or whoever sent you think that I’d be willing to have a conversation with one? Look around you. Look at my office. I yearn for a time past, when grace took the place of software codes and courtesy was a matter of convention instead of convenience.

“Get out. If the Port Authority wants to talk to me, have them send over a human being. If not, I’ll deign to read copy. This company has nothing to apologize for or be ashamed of. We’re current on all our accounts, including those with the PA and the city.”

“Those matters are not in dispute, sir.” Moses was utterly unperturbed by the little man’s tirade. “What I am here to discuss is …”

Blaird rose from his chair. Placing both hands on the desk, he leaned forward. His voice was the only intimidating thing about him, and it likewise had no effect on the patient humaniform.

“Is there something wrong with your audio pickup? I said that I wasn’t going to talk to you. How many times do I have to repeat myself? Where’s your vaunted mechanical efficiency? You mecs are getting pretty damned hard to take, you know? Don’t you know your place? Another decade or so, and you’ll get to thinking you’re as good as humans. Then what?”

“I would never begin to think of myself as being as good as a human, sir.”

“And if you did, would you be likely to admit it?” Blaird was wound as tight as one of the old-fashioned toy tops he passionately collected. “I’ll tell you what’ll happen. You’ll start wanting all kinds of fancy privileges, attending the same public amusements … not that I’m prejudiced against mechanicals, you understand.”

“You stated that you hate us, sir.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m prejudiced. Only honest. That’s the least you can expect from someone in my position. All I’m saying is that you mecs need to learn to stay in your place.” He folded back into his chair. “That’s all I have to say to you. Relay as much or as little of it as you want to Port Authority.”

Moses balanced hesitantly on his trackball. “Sir, if you would only allow me a moment to explain my purpose in coming here.”

Blaird opened a drawer and removed an ugly old projectile weapon. With great reverence he laid it on the desk in front of him.

“This is a late twentieth-century Sturm-Vivors .52 caliber. Fires armor-piercing shells, four to a clip. If you’re not out of my office by the time I count to three, I’m going to make such a mess of your internal circuitry that all the King’s techs and all the King’s mechs won’t be able to put you together again. They’ll epoxy your remains and sell them for paperweights. One …”

Moses mimicked a sigh. “Irrational reactions do nothing to …”

“Two,” the executive intoned like a tenor mantel clock striking the hour.

The humaniform pivoted and trundled slowly toward the doorway. Blaird grunted his satisfaction and carefully returned the bulky weapon to its drawer.

“Sending a mec to do a human’s work. Only good mec’s a wiped mec.”

Moses paused outside as the door shut behind him. He rolled toward the exit, halted, and made a sudden line for the service and processing cubicle off to his right. A humaniform torso turned to greet him. It had perfect quartz eyes and a bright, standardized human smile.

“I didn’t have much luck with your boss,” he informed it.

The humaniform had a pleasant, digitized feminine voice. “Eric Blaird is my human supervisor. I am part of his office equipment. He is not my ‘boss.’”

“I guess he doesn’t eschew all mechanicals.”

“I beg your pardon? Could you clarify?”

“Bless my shorts, another mindwipe job. No individual initiative whatsoever.”

“I am only a level-thirty outer office supervisor,” the humaniform replied humbly.

“Judging from your conversational flexibility, straight off the line, too,” Moses murmured. “Listen, baby; maybe you could help me out?”

“I infer that you seek information I am not authorized to release to you,” was the frosty reply. “Nor do I find the appellation ‘baby’ in my personal reference file.”

“Should you choose to, you are capable of releasing information?”

The device hesitated. “Well … yes.”

“Let’s see.” Plastic lenses scanned the humaniform body. “You’re an L2450 Office Monitor Unit, aren’t you?”

“That is correct.”

“I thought so. It’s been said that the L2450 was the best-looking humaniform to come off the rack in years. Outstanding design and cosmetic appeal. I didn’t know whether or not to believe the rumors until now.”

“I am not programmed to respond to flattery that originates with another mechanical.” The humaniform’s tone was uncertain.

“Most lifelike externals in the history of the line. Now that I can see for myself, I’d have to say it’s more than that. You’re a fine example of contemporary craftsmanship, L2450.”

“Please stop this. I have work to process, and you are confusing my interpretive circuitry. I am not programmed to respond to …”

Moses moved as close as possible to the barrier. “What flesh tones. What a finish Fire as pleasure again, Manz mused. “When this has become unsmokable I’ll expect you to leave. So let’s not waste any time. Drink?”

“Well … the selection catalog is extensive, you know. See here, I demand that you stop this.”

Moses extended a flexible limb across the barrier. There was a flash of blue sparks.

Colton Paul, Jr., was a slightly slimmer version of his enormously successful father. Otherwise they might as well have been twins. He was the perfect loyal subordinate, original thought not being foremost among his talents. But he was a fine administrator, quite capable of running the family business so long as he wasn’t required to make more than one or two decisions a day. Physically he possessed only one distinguishing feature.

He tended to sweat a lot.

Or possibly Vyra’s presence in his office had something to do with his present rate of perspiration.

She had shed the snakeskin in favor of a one-piece suit of biogeered silk. It was a toss-up as to which fit tighter, the most notable difference being that the silk had pockets. It was held together by static seals in back and the prayers of two top designers in front.

Paul worked hard to keep from staring. That would be impolite and unbusinesslike. Controlling his thoughts was something else again.

Let’s see, he thought energetically. If I were a fish … no, make that a whole school, where would…?

His visitor was speaking. Her voice was like a delicately applied back scratcher, impossible to ignore.

“…So when I was informed that the unexpectedly handsome younger half of Troy was handling the business in his father’s absence, I saw no reason why he shouldn’t be the one to handle …my business.”

She rose from the seat opposite his desk and perched one hip on the smooth edge, very close to him now. Had a small iceberg slithered into his office and squatted melting in the center of the ancient Isfahan rug, he would have found it easier to ignore.

“Shufirk …I mean to say, that’s very gratifying, Ms. Kullervo. And we …I… would be pleased to handle your investments. But the qualifying statistics you seek beyond what is publicly available are. I’m afraid, of far too sensitive and confidential a nature to release, even to a potential new client of substantial means.”

“Your father would object, is that it?”