at once, he didn’t seem to know me at all. Oh, he looked at me suspiciously, but it seemed just typical prospector paranoia. The woman who’d been here earlier had glared at me the same way; no fossil hunter wanted another to know where his or her bounty had been found.
“Mr. Berling,” I said, extending a hand that had recently been touching his wife’s perfect new body. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Do I know you?”
“Alexander Lomax. I visited you at your home and asked you about your satisfaction with your transference.”
Ernie was looking on in quiet amusement but said nothing.
“Oh,” said Berling. “Right.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions on another topic, if I may?”
“I told you I was happy with the work NewYou did. We really don’t have anything else to discuss—and I’ve got business with Mr. Gargalian here.”
“I’ll gladly wait.”
His brows drew together. “There’s something fishy about you, Lomax.”
This from a guy who was wearing somebody else’s face. “Not at all,” I said. “I’m just a contract researcher. I did some work for NewYou, and now I’m doing some for the New Klondike Historical Society.” I didn’t actually know if such a thing existed, but I figured it sounded plausible.
“About what?”
“I understand you came here early on, aboard a ship that was called the B. Traven, and—”
He lunged at me. I deked sideways, and he went sailing past, crashing into one of Ernie’s worktables and tilting it backward a bit. A slab of rock slid toward the edge and started falling in Martian slo-mo. But Gargantuan Gargalian, moving with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, caught it before it hit the floor. “Stop it!” he demanded as he placed the fossil back on the table, which had now righted itself.
It wouldn’t be much use, but I whipped out my gun anyway and pointed it at Berling—who, in turn, was pointing an artificial arm at me. “He started it!” Berling barked.
“What?” I said. “What did I do?”
Berling glared at me with the best approximation of rage his movie-star mask could muster. “How dare you bring that up? Damn you, how dare you?” His fists were balled, but they were rock-steady as he held them down by his hips; I guess transfers didn’t quake when they were furious.
Even Ernie was on his side now. “You should know better than to mention the Traven to a survivor, Alex. I think you should leave.”
I looked at them: the dashingly handsome transfer and the old fat biological. They both had expressions normally reserved for those who’d caught someone farting in an airlock. I holstered my gun and headed outside.
FOURTEEN
During the day, all sorts of people walked New Klondike’s streets, although even more took hovertrams. But at night, decent folk mostly stayed indoors, especially as you got farther out toward the rim. Of course, I wasn’t decent folk. There were hookers plying their trade and teenage hoods—the kids of failed stampeders who had nothing much to live for—hanging around, looking for anything to relieve their boredom, and if that happened to be rolling a drunk or breaking into a shop, so much the better.
Still, I didn’t expect any trouble as I headed along Fourth Avenue toward my 11:00 p.m. date with Diana. After all, a good percentage of the lowlifes in town knew me on sight—and knew to avoid me. And even those who didn’t know me could hardly assume I’d be an easy mark: I was muscular in the way most Martians weren’t. But as I crossed the Third Circle, I was accosted by a tough-looking punk: biological, male, maybe eighteen years old, wearing a black T-shirt, with an animated tattoo of a snake with a rattling tail on his left cheek. “Gimme your money,” he said.
“And if I don’t?” I replied, my hand finding the Smith & Wesson.
“I cut you,” he said, and a switchblade unfolded.
“Try it,” I said, drawing the gun—for the second time in an hour; not a record, but close—“and I shoot you.”
“Fine,” said the punk. “Do me a favor.” And he astonished me by spreading his arms and dropping the knife, which fell with typical Red Planet indolence to the fused regolith of the sidewalk.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my gun trained on him, “I’ll bite. How would that be doing you a favor?”
“I got nothing, man. Nothing.”
“Been on Mars long?”
“Six weeks. Spent everything to get here.”
“Where you from?”
“Chicago.”
That was a place I had been to back on Earth; I could see why he’d wanted to get out.