We met at the south airlock just as the sun was going down. I suited up—surface suits came in three stretchy sizes; I took the largest. The fish-bowl helmet I rented was somewhat frosted on one side; sandstorm-scouring, no doubt. The air tanks, slung on my back, were good for about four hours. I felt heavy in the suit, even though in it I still weighed only about half of what I had back on Earth.
Rory Pickover was a paleontologist—an actual scientist, not a treasure-seeking fossil hunter. His pre-transfer appearance had been almost stereotypically academic: a round, soft face, with a fringe of graying hair. His new body was lean and muscular, and he had a full head of dark brown hair, but the face was still recognizably his. He was carrying a geologist’s hammer, with a wide, flat blade; I rather suspected it would nicely smash my helmet. I had surreptitiously transferred the Smith & Wesson from the holster I wore under my jacket to an exterior pocket on the rented surface suit, just in case I needed it while we were outside.
We signed the security logs, and then let the technician cycle us through the airlock.
Off in the distance, I could see the highland plateau, dark streaks marking its side. Nearby, there were two large craters and a cluster of smaller ones. There were few footprints in the rusty sand; the recent storm had obliterated the thousands that had doubtless been there earlier. We walked out about five hundred meters. I turned around briefly to look back at the transparent dome and the buildings within.
“Sorry for dragging you out here,” said Pickover. He had a cultured British accent. “I don’t want any witnesses.” Even the cheapest artificial body had built-in radio equipment, and I had a transceiver inside my helmet.
“Ah,” I said, by way of reply. I slipped my gloved hand into the pocket containing the Smith & Wesson, and wrapped my fingers around its reassuring solidity.
“I know you aren’t just in from Earth,” said Pickover, continuing to walk. “And I know you don’t work for NewYou.”
We were casting long shadows; the sun, so much tinier than it appeared from Eart;h, was sitting on the horizon; the sky was already purpling, and Earth itself was visible, a bright blue-white evening star.
“Who do you think I am?” I asked.
His answer surprised me, although I didn’t let it show. “You’re Alexander Lomax, the private detective.”
Well, it didn’t seem to make any sense to deny it. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I’ve been checking you out over the last few days,” said Pickover. “I’d been thinking of, ah, engaging your services.”
We continued to walk along, little clouds of dust rising each time our feet touched the ground. “What for?” I said.
“You first, if you don’t mind,” said Pickover. “Why did you come to see me?”
He already knew who I was, and I had a very good idea who he was, so I decided to put my cards on the table. “I’m working for your wife.”
Pickover’s artificial face looked perplexed. “My … wife?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Sure you do. You’re Joshua Wilkins, and your wife’s name is Cassandra.”
“What? No, I’m Rory Pickover. You know that. You called me.”
“Come off it, Wilkins. The jig is up. You transferred your consciousness into the body intended for the real Rory Pickover, and then you took off.”
“I—oh. Oh, Christ.”
“So, you see, I know. Too bad, Wilkins. You’ll hang—or whatever the hell they do with transfers—for murdering Pickover.”
“No.” He said it softly.
“Yes,” I replied, and now I pulled out my revolver. It really wouldn’t be much use against an artificial body, but until quite recently Wilkins had been biological; hopefully, he was still intimidated by guns. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Back under the dome, to the police station. I’ll have Cassandra meet us there, just to confirm your identity.”
The sun had slipped below the horizon now. He spread his arms, a supplicant against the backdrop of the gathering night. “Okay, sure, if you like. Call up this Cassandra, by all means. Let her talk to me. She’ll tell you after questioning me for two seconds that I’m not her husband. But— Christ, damn, Christ.”
“What?”
“I want to find him, too.”
“Who? Joshua Wilkins?”
He nodded, then, perhaps thinking I couldn’t see his nod in the growing darkness, said, “Yes.”
“Why?”
He tipped his head up, as if thinking. I followed his gaze. Phobos was visible, a dark form overhead. At last, he spoke again. “Because I’m the reason he’s disappeared.”
“What?” I said. “Why?”
“That’s why I was thinking of hiring you myself. I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Turn for what?”
Pickover looked at me. “I did go to NewYou, Mr. Lomax. I knew I was going to have an enormous amount of work to do out here on the surface now, and I wanted to be able to spend days—weeks!—in the field, without worrying about running out of air, or water, or food.”
I frowned. “But you’ve been here on Mars for six mears; I read that in your file. What’s changed?”
“Everything, Mr. Lomax.” He looked off in the distance. “Everything!” But he didn’t elaborate on that. Instead, he said. “I certainly know this Wilkins chap you’re looking for; I went to his store, and had him transfer my consciousness from my old biological body into this one. But he also kept a copy of my mind—I’m sure of that.”
I raised my eyebrows. “How do you know?”
“Because my computer accounts have been compromised. There’s no way anyone but me can get in; I’m the only one who knows the passphrase. But someone has been inside, looking around; I use quantum encryption, so you can tell whenever someone has even looked at a file.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he did it—there must be some technique I’m unaware of—but somehow Wilkins has been extracting information from the copy of my mind. That’s the only way I can think of that anyone might have learned my passphrase.”
“You think Wilkins did all this to access your bank accounts? Is there really enough money in them to make it worth starting a new life in somebody else’s body? It’s too dark to see your clothes right now, but, if I recall correctly, they looked a bit … shabby.”
“You’re right. I’m just a poor scientist. But there’s something I know that could make the wrong people rich beyond their wildest dreams.”
“And what’s that?” I said.
He continued to walk along, trying to decide, I suppose, whether to trust me. I let him think about that, and at last, Dr. Rory Pickover, who was now just a starless silhouette against a starry sky, said, in a soft, quiet voice, “I know where it is.”
“Where what is?”
“The alpha deposit.”
“The what?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Paleontologist’s jargon. What I mean is, I’ve found it: I’ve found the mother lode. I’ve found the place where Weingarten and O’Reilly had been excavating. I’ve found the source of the best preserved, most-complete Martian fossils.”
“My God,” I said. “You’ll be rolling in it.”
Perhaps he shook his head; it was now too dark to tell. “No, sir,” he said, in that cultured English voice. “No, I won’t. I don’t want to sell these fossils. I want to preserve them; I want to protect them from these plunderers, these … these thieves. I want to make sure they’re collected properly, scientifically. I want to make sure they end up in the best museums, where they can be studied. There’s so much to be learned, so much to discover!”