Nominated for Nebula Award for best Novella in 2005
The door to my office slid open. “Hello,” I said, rising from my chair. “You must be my nine o'clock.” I said it as if I had a ten o'clock and an eleven o'clock, but I didn't. The whole Martian economy was in a slump, and, even though I was the only private detective on Mars, this was the first new case I'd had in weeks.
“Yes,” said a high, feminine voice. “I'm Cassandra Wilkins.”
I let my eyes rove up and down her body. It was very good work; I wondered if she'd had quite so perfect a figure before transferring. People usually ordered replacement bodies that, at least in broad strokes, resembled their originals, but few could resist improving them. Men got buffer, women got curvier, and everyone modified their faces, removing asymmetries, wrinkles, and imperfections. If and when I transferred myself, I'd eliminate the gray in my blond hair and get a new nose that would look like my current one had before it'd been broken a couple of times.
“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wilkins,” I said. “I'm Alexander Lomax. Please have a seat.”
She was a little thing, no more than a hundred and fifty centimeters, and she was wearing a stylish silver-gray blouse and skirt, but no makeup or jewelry. I'd expected her to sit down with a catlike, fluid movement, given her delicate features, but she just sort of plunked herself into the chair. “Thanks,” she said. “I do hope you can help me, Mr. Lomax. I really do.”
Rather than immediately sitting down myself, I went to the coffee maker. I filled my own mug, then opened my mouth to offer Cassandra a cup, but closed it before doing so; transfers, of course, didn't drink. “What seems to be the problem?” I said, returning to my chair.
It's hard reading a transfer's expression: the facial sculpting was usually very good, but the movements were somewhat restrained. “My husband— oh, my goodness, Mr. Lomax, I hate to even say this!” She looked down at her hands. “My husband… he's disappeared.”
I raised my eyebrows; it was pretty damned difficult for someone to disappear here. New Klondike was only three kilometers in diameter, all of it locked under the dome. “When did you last see him?”
“Three days ago.”
My office was small, but it did have a window. Through it, I could see one of the supporting arches that helped to hold up the transparent dome over New Klondike. Outside the dome, a sandstorm was raging, orange clouds obscuring the sun. Auxiliary lights on the arch compensated for that, but Martian daylight was never very bright. That's a reason why even those who had a choice were reluctant to return to Earth: after years of only dim illumination, apparently the sun as seen from there was excruciating. “Is your husband, um, like you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Oh, yes. We both came here looking to make our fortune, just like everyone else.”
I shook my head. “I mean is he also a transfer?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, he is. In fact, we both just transferred.”
“It's an expensive procedure,” I said. “Could he have been skipping out on paying for it?”
Cassandra shook her head. “No, no. Joshua found one or two nice specimens early on. He used the money from selling those pieces to buy the NewYou franchise here. That's where we met — after I threw in the towel on sifting dirt, I got a job in sales there. Anyway, of course, we both got to transfer at cost.”
She was actually wringing her synthetic hands. “Oh, Mr. Lomax, please help me! I don't know what I'm going to do without my Joshua!”
“You must love him a lot,” I said, watching her pretty face for more than just the pleasure of looking at it; I wanted to gauge her sincerity as she replied. After all, people often disappeared because things were bad at home, but spouses are rarely forthcoming about that.
“Oh, I do!” said Cassandra. “I love him more than I can say. Joshua is a wonderful, wonderful man.” She looked at me with pleading eyes. “You have to help me get him back. You just have to!”
I looked down at my coffee mug; steam was rising from it. “Have you tried the police?”
Cassandra made a sound that I guessed was supposed to be a snort: it had the right roughness, but was dry as Martian sand. “Yes. They— oh, I hate to speak ill of anyone, Mr. Lomax! Believe me, it's not my way, but — well, there's no ducking it, is there? They were useless. Just totally useless.”
I nodded slightly; it's a story I heard often enough — I owed most of what little livelihood I had to the local cops’ incompetence and indifference. “Who did you speak to?”
“A— a detective, I guess he was; he didn't wear a uniform. I've forgotten his name.”
“What did he look like?”
“Red hair, and—”
“That's Mac,” I said. She looked puzzled, so I said his full name. “Dougal McCrae.”
“McCrae, yes,” said Cassandra. She shuddered a bit, and she must have noticed my surprised reaction to that. “Sorry,” she said. “I just didn't like the way he looked at me.”
