Eleven people had moved their consciousnesses into artificial bodies that day. I had him transfer the files on each of the eleven into my wrist commlink. “Thanks,” I said, doing that tip-of-the-nonexistent-hat thing I do. Even when you’ve forced a man to do something, there’s no harm in being polite.
If I was right that Joshua Wilkins had appropriated the body of somebody else who had been scheduled to transfer the same day, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out whose body he’d taken; all I had to do, I figured, was interview each of the eleven.
My first stop, purely because it happened to be the nearest, was the home of a guy named Stuart Berling, a full-time fossil hunter. He must have had some recent success, if he could afford to transfer.
Berling’s home was part of a row of townhouses off Fifth Avenue, in the fifth ring. I pushed his door buzzer, and waited impatiently for a response. At last he appeared. It I wasn’t so famous for my poker face, I’d have done a double take. The man who greeted me was a dead ringer for Krikor Ajemian, the holovid star—the same gaunt features and intense eyes, the same mane of dark hair, the same tightly trimmed beard and mustache. I guess not everyone wanted to keep even a semblance of their original appearance.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Alexander Lomax. Are you Stuart Berling?”
The artificial face in front of me surely was capable of smiling, but chose not to. “Yes. What do you want?”
“I understand you only recently transferred your consciousness into this body.”
A nod. “So?”
“So, I work for the NewYou—the head office on Earth. I’m here to check up on the quality of the work done by our franchise here on Mars.” Normally, this was a good technique. If Berling was who he said he was, the question wouldn’t faze him. But if he were really Joshua Wilkins, he’d know I was lying, and his expression might betray this. But transfers didn’t have faces that were as malleable; if this person was startled or suspicious, nothing in his plastic features indicated it.
“So?” Berling said again.
“So I’m wondering if you were satisfied by the work done for you?”
“It cost a lot,” said Berling.
I smiled. “Yes, it does. May I come in?”
He considered this for a few moments, then shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He stepped aside.
His living room was full of work tables, covered with reddish rocks from outside the dome. A giant lens on an articulated arm was attached to one of the work tables, and various geologist s tools were scattered about.
“Finding anything interesting?” I asked, gesturing at the rocks.
“If I was, I certainly wouldn’t tell you,” said Berling, looking at me sideways in the typical paranoid-prospector’s way.
“Right,” I said. “Of course. So, are you satisfied with the NewYou process?”
“Sure, yeah. It’s everything they said it would be. All the parts work.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said, pulling out my PDA to make a few notes, and then frowning at its blank screen. “Oh, damn,” I said. “The silly thing has a loose fusion pack. I’ve got to open it up and reseat it.” I showed him the back of the unit’s case. “Do you have a little screwdriver that will fit that?”
Everybody owned some screwdrivers, even though most people rarely needed them, and they were the sort of thing that had no standard storage location. Some people kept them in kitchen drawers, others kept them in tool chests, still others kept them under the bathroom sink. Only a person who had lived in this home for a while would know where they were.
Berling peered at the little slot-headed screw, then nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Hang on.”
He made an unerring beeline for the far-side of the living room, going to a cabinet that had glass doors on its top half, but solid metal ones on its bottom. He bent over, opened one of the metal doors, reached in, rummaged for a bit, and emerged with the appropriate screwdriver.
“Thanks,” I said, opening the case in such a way that he couldn’t see inside. I then surreptitiously removed the little bit of plastic I’d used to insulate the fusion battery from the contact it was supposed to touch. Meanwhile, without looking up, I said, “Are you married, Mr. Berling?” Of course, I already knew the answer was yes; that fact was in his NewYou file.
He nodded.
“Is your wife home?”
His artificial eyelids closed a bit. “Why?”
I told him the honest truth, since it fit well with my cover story: “I’d like to ask her whether she can perceive any differences between the new you and the old.”
Again, I watched his expression, but it didn’t change. “Sure, I guess that’d be okay.” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Lacie!”
A few moments later, a homely fiesh-and-blood woman of about fifty appeared. “This person is from the head office of NewYou,” said Berling, indicating me with a pointed finger. “He’d like to speak to you.”
“About what?” asked Lacie. She had a deep, not-unpleasant voice.
“Might we speak in private?” I said.
Berling’s gaze shifted from Lacie to me, then back to Lacie. “Hrmpph,” he said, but then, a moment later, added, “I guess that’d be all right.” He turned around and walked away.
I looked at Lacie. “I’m just doing a routine follow-up,” I said. “Making sure people are happy with the work we do. Have you noticed any changes in your husband since he transferred?”
“Not really.”
“Oh?” I said. “If there’s anything at all …” I smiled reassuringly. “We want to make the process as perfect as possible. Has he said anything that’s surprised you, say?”
Lacie crinkled her face. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, has he used any expressions or turns of phrase you’re not used to hearing from him?”
A shake of the head. “No.”
“Sometimes the process plays tricks with memory. Has he failed to know something he should know?”
“Not that I noticed,” said Lacie.
“What about the reverse? Has he known anything that you wouldn’t expect him to know?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “No. He’s just Stuart.”
I frowned. “No changes at all?”
“No, none … well, almost none.”
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t, so I prodded her. “What is it? We really would like to know about any difference, any flaw in our transference process.”
“Oh, it’s not a flaw,” said Lacie, not meeting my eyes.
“No? Then what?”
“It’s just that …”
“Yes?”
“Well, just that he’s a demon in the sack now. He stays hard forever.”
I frowned, disappointed not to have found what I was looking for on the first try. But I decided to end the masquerade on a positive note. “We aim to please, ma’am. We aim to please.”
I spent the next several hours interviewing tour other people; none of them seemed to be anyone other than who they claimed to be.
Next on my list was Dr. Rory Pickover, whose home was an apartment in the innermost circle of buildings, beneath the highest point of the dome. He lived alone, so there was no spouse or child to question about any changes in him. That made me suspicious right off the bat: if one were going to choose an identity to appropriate, it ideally would be someone without close companions. He also refused to meet me at his home, meaning I couldn’t try the screwdriver trick on him.
I thought we might meet at a coffee shop or a restaurant—there were lots in New Klondike, although none were doing good business these days. But he insisted we go outside the dome—out onto the Martian surface. That was easy for him; he was a transfer now. But it was a pain in the ass for me; I had to rent a surface suit.