But then, that would be a rationalization of a different kind.

Manz put down his glass and smiled at Vyra. “Reports?”

She sucked a prawn out of its shell without disturbing the chitinous legs. It was quite a performance. Manz had seen it before. Seafood was her staple diet.

“I didn’t turn up anything that would implicate or even point to Fond du Lac.” She chewed delicately. “Paul extremely Junior was understandably reluctant to divulge much, and I’m afraid I didn’t handle things too well. Tried too hard to put him at ease and achieved the opposite instead. Fond du Lac seems clean enough, though I only had time to make a cursory search.” She pinched another prawn.

“I still think Paul Senior might have access to information denied his offspring.” Manz toyed with his salad. A length of cabbage biogeered to be tactile-responsive curled tightly around his fork.

“I can’t speak to that, but Junior was pretty open about things. He insisted he was in full control, and I tend to believe him. Pretty damn difficult to run day-to-day on a business from anywhere offworld. Not that Fond du Lac isn’t mixed up in a few assorted semilegal dealings, but I don’t believe it’s any more than the usual stuff. I don’t think they’ve had anything to do with the jackings here. Call it a feeling.”

Manz was nodding to himself. “All right. We’ll swim with that for now. Moses?”

The humaniform harrumphed importantly, a mimicry of an affectation, since it had no throat to clear. “Eric Blaird was a fascinating study. A throwback in taste and style to an older era.”

Manz sniffed. “Skip the personality analysis.”

“I found him to be rude, boorish, and hostile, not to mention uncooperative.”

“Meaning you learned nothing,” Vyra commented around her most recent prawn.

“From him, no,” the mechanical intoned. “However, I did succeed in examining a great deal of appropriate material relevant to Troy’s interworld dealings.”

Manz frowned. “How’d you do that if he wouldn’t talk to you?”

Readouts flashed on the humaniform’s frame. “Among other things, I drew on the research I have been performing. It is a crude analogy, but the only way I know how to put it is to say that I seduced another mechanical. Blaird’s outer office monitor, to be precise. It was a unique enterprise of the first order.”

Vyra sipped her drink. “Now how did you manage that?”

“I am not entirely sure. It was a very strange experience for the both of us. I know that I seriously bemused and confused the cognitive programming of the device in question, which consequently allowed me open access to Troy company files. This is an example of what can take place when mechanicals are programmed with human attributes and designed to interact closely with humans.”

“Not as close as this,” Manz murmured. “You needn’t divulge the sordid details of your methodology. What did you find out?”

“That while Eric Blaird may be possessed of a most disagreeable personality, the company he works for appears innocent of complicity in the jackings that concern us. That is of course only a preliminary evaluation, based on what information I was able to obtain somewhat hastily.

“I did, however, secure enough hard data to have him indicted for price fixing, tax evasion, fraud, extortion, minor embezzlement, bribery, conspiracy, and malicious mischief. If brought into court and proven, these charges could bring the individual in question anywhere between three and fifty years, depending on the judge and the final determination rendered by contemporary legal programming.”

Manz burst out laughing, then hastened to stifle it at the looks he drew from several other tables. Vyra merely smiled, as unruffled as the interior of some stately English home.

“Since it’s time for confessions, Broddy, how did you make out with your Mr. Monticelli?”

“As cool as anyone I’ve ever met. I think he finally decided I had to be some kind of industrial spy, trying to wangle valuable information out of him. It was information I was after, but not the kind he imagined. He worked at being polite but couldn’t keep a natural unpleasantness from seeping through. I doubt he’s any more or less corrupt than your Eric Blaird, Moses. When I sort of threatened him, he reacted a mite too preciously. Played up his outrage for all it was worth.”

“That’s all?” she murmured.

Manz nodded as he pushed the cloth napkin around on his lap. “Nothing useful. Except that he keeps a large, hoary mutation around to look after his personal needs. Sort of had it threaten me. We took an instant dislike to one another. More to the point, this mucker was big enough and strong enough to break bones. As in necks.”

She looked up sharply from her meal. “The two dead cops at the Port.”

Manz nodded. “My first thought, too. Except that if he was responsible and Monticelli knew anything about it, he’d probably be keeping him hidden away somewhere instead of up front and visible.” He paused to consider his food.

“We’re not making enough progress. I took a com from Gemmel early this morning. This last jacking has the top floor screaming all the way to Berlin.”

“He has my sympathies,” Vyra replied, “but we’ve only been here a couple of days and already someone’s vaped your cover and tried to vape you. I don’t do kink, and I can’t do miracles.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Vyra.” He smiled fondly. “I remember when you could perform the miraculous.”

“And I remember when you could perform, but that’s not going to help us resolve this conundrum. What about that sweet Inspector Hafas? How’re the locals doing?”

Manz shook his head, serious once more. “They’re not making any more progress than they were before we arrived. This last jacking has them as stumped as the previous three.” He pushed his scavenged plate away. Instantly a mechanical appeared at tableside to remove the dish.

“Dessert, sir? Madame?”

“I haven’t had homeworld food in years.” Vyra considered the dessert menu that unfolded on the mechanical’s display screen. “I think I’ll try the marzipan tart. That’s made with some kind of nut, isn’t it?”

“Yes, madame. And you, sir?”

“Something whacko, to suit my mood. How’s the Rumbutan Papeete?”

“Expressive, sir, if I may be allowed to say so.”

“Unless there’s a proscription in your programming against it,” Manz replied. The machine considered whether a formal reply was required, decided it was not, and scooted off silently in the direction of the kitchen.

“You’ll get fat on food like that,” Vyra warned him.

“Not with friends to help me work it off.”

She kicked him under the table.

Near the service entrance at the rear of the hotel kitchen, a small privacy alcove had been installed for the benefit of employees and suppliers. The smell of stale sauces and rehydrated vegetables that hung heavy in the air did not bother the lean-faced, uniformed individual who slipped into the com booth and secured the door behind him.

He keyed in a number, then another, and waited, keeping an eye on the kitchen employees outside. Intent on their work, they ignored him. A connection beep drew his attention back to the com. Though the individual on the other end could see him, his own vid was blank. He expected that, and it did not bother him.

“Yes, sir, they’re here now. No, I haven’t been questioned: this is a big, popular place and the staff’s pretty busy. You want me to proceed?”

“By all means.” The voice on the other end was muffled and electronically disguised. “And try not to botch it this time the way you did with the woman.”

“Yes, sir.” The dialer was shaken. “Could I…” A soft musical tone replaced the voice on the other end, indicating that the connection had been terminated. The man stared at the privacy receiver for a moment, then replaced it in its holder.

A live trio was mooding the diners: a female lead who specialized in South American folkada and two bored-looking young men who drew forth music from a battery of synthesizers. The music was polyphonic and strongly rhythmic, a combination of ancient tunes and modern tonal structures. It teased a few couples out onto the small afterthought of a dance floor. One offworld pair wasn’t half bad, Manz mused as he observed the kinetic display. He considered asking Vyra to dance, then decided against it. Too public, and too risky. Besides, she’d make him look bad.

In place of the mechanical that had cleared the table and taken their order, a human waiter appeared bearing a cuprothermic bowl of lightly steaming melted chocolate together with a platter of appropriate tidbits for dipping. Manz frowned as the display was set carefully on the table.

“We didn’t order this. I’m having Rumbutan Papeete and my companion …”

“Your orders will arrive later, sir, if you are still hungry.” The waiter straightened. “This is compliments of the management. Because of the unfortunate incident of the previous night, sir.” He smiled apologetically, bowed, and departed.

Okay, so I’m tempted, Manz admitted to himself. As he inspected the elegant array of dipables, the band and soloist launched into a weird Nigerian-inspired stompromp chant. The dance floor cleared save for a pair of limber, energetic teens.