kempt and sheveled, then headed over to Pickover’s place.
When I got there he was doing precisely what I’d suggested he do: cleaning a fossil. “Goodness!” he said, looking at me. “What happened to you?”
“What?”
He pointed at my forehead. “That’s a hell of a goose egg.”
I probed the area he’d indicated. “Oh. Yeah. I took a fall.”
He might not have been a detective, but he was a scientist. “Falling in this gravity doesn’t cause injuries like that.”
“True. I went flying onto a piece of alloquartz.”
“My God.”
“Anyway,” I said, “the good news for that conscience of yours is that Lakshmi Chatterjee is alive.”
“And kicking, apparently,” he replied—but he did look relieved. “How’d she get back here?”
“I have no idea. But I got the diary from her.”
He held out his hand, and I gave it to him. “Sorry about the back cover,” I added.
Pickover flipped it open to the first page and began reading. After a few moments, he looked up. “That’s O’Reilly’s voice, all right—his tone.”
“I’m going to have to work my way through it,” I said.
“I want to read it, too,” Pickover replied. We considered for a moment. I couldn’t recall the last time the fact that I wanted to read something prevented somebody else from simultaneously reading it, too. I suppose somewhere in New Klondike there might be a paper scanner, but I had no idea where.
“All right,” I said. “It’ll probably make more sense to you than me, anyway—you go first. Just, for God’s sake, keep your door locked, and don’t let Lakshmi Chatterjee anywhere near it.”
“She drove stakes into my heart like I was a vampire,” Pickover said. “She’s the last person I’d allow in here.”
“Good. Start reading. How long do you think it’ll take you?”
He riffled the pages, gauging the density of content. “Two or three hours, I suppose.”
“Did you get yourself checked for tracking chips?”
“Yes. I’m clean. I’m sure Fernandez wanted to put one in, but I didn’t give him an opportunity.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get some dinner. You may not have to eat, Rory, but I do.”
* * *
And I did precisely that, going over to The Bent Chisel. Buttrick was his usual nasty self. I headed back and waited for Diana to come and offer me service. Truth to tell, what I wanted wasn’t on the menu, but she wasn’t off for several more hours, so that would have to wait. I ordered a drink, plus steak and green beans; the former would be vat-grown, the latter, synthesized.
Diana returned with my Scotch on the rocks, and I made short work of it. There weren’t many other customers this time of day, so she motioned for me to scooch over a bit, and she placed her shapely bottom next to mine. “Whose husband whacked you on the forehead this time?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said.
“Riiiiight,” she replied and she squeezed my thigh.
“Seriously,” I said. “Hey, you’re a cultured gal. Do you know anything about the writer-in-residence here?”
“Lakshmi Chatterjee? Sure.”
“Is she any good?” It was the first time in my life, I think, I’d asked that about a woman and didn’t mean for the words “in the sack” to be understood.
“She’s great. I read her book about Lunaport when I heard she was coming here. She’s like the Shelby Foote of that war.”
“Ah,” I said. I’d never heard of him, but I imagine with a name like that he got beat up a lot as a kid. “Seems like a sweet deal, getting an all-expenses-paid trip to Mars.”
“Well, she has to work for it,” Diana said.
“Oh, yeah. She’s writing a book on the B. Traven.” Or maybe she’s doing an authorized biography of Denny O’Reilly. Or something.
“Not just that,” said Diana. “She has to meet with beginning writers in the community and critique their manuscripts.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. That’s how these things go: most of the time is the writer’s own, but some of it has to be spent working with newbies.”
“How does that work?”
“You make an appointment, send in a manuscript in advance, and she meets with you for an hour to go over it.”
“At Shopatsky House?”
“I guess.”
“You write poetry,” I said.
She winced. “I write bad poetry.”
There are some things even I couldn’t dispute with a straight face, so I let that pass and simply said, “You could make an appointment to see her.”
“Oh, God, no. I couldn’t show my poetry to her. She’s excellent.”
“That’s what she’s there for. To help beginners.”
“I can’t, Alex.”
“Please, baby. I need you to get into that house.”