“I remember the incident,” he said. “Last winter, yes. I believe he was a client of ours.”
“I’ve asked the soul bank in Paris for information on him. They wouldn’t tell me a thing.”
“You gave your name?”
“Yes. It didn’t matter.”
“Let me try,” said Pierre Schiff. He asked his telephone for a number, and did not bother with the vision element. Quickly be made contact. He spoke in rapid, slurred French, pitching his voice so low that Risa could not follow the words. The soft flesh of his face creased into deepening frowns; after a few moments he dropped the phone into his cradle.
He said, “The persona of Claude Villefranche was taken from storage in February and implanted.”
“In whom?”
“The name was not available. Even to me. Even to me.” He studied his pudgy palm as though it held the answer. “They are quite secretive, those people. But of course there arc ways of dealing with them. They are in need of constant credit for the expansion of their services, and we—” He smiled eloquently. “My son will help you. Let me summon him.”
An hour later, Risa found herself on a balcony overlooking the sea, lunching with Jacques Schiff, who was also her cousin, apparently, and far less portly than his father. She had changed from her chaste girlish clothes into something more likely to please Cousin Jacques: a scalloped shell of sprayon that lanced across her slender body to reveal a flawless shoulder, a small firm breast, and a rounded hip. Cousin Jacques was twenty-five, unmarried, tall, attractive. His eyes had a Gallic sparkle, brighter even than the sunlight dancing through the golden-yellow wine they drank with their oysters.
“I knew this Villefranche, yes,” he said. “Was he a friend of yours?”
“Of my persona,” Risa said. “Ah! Yes, so. Do you think I knew her?”
“You didn’t know her personally. If you did, she’s got no recollection of you, and I doubt that she’d have forgotten you, Jacques. Tandy Cushing.”
“Yes. So. I knew her by name. Claude described her to me. A beautiful, beautiful girl, he said. With — ah—” He laughed awkwardly. “Very adequate body. She is dead?”
“She was discorporated at St. Moritz last summer. A skiing accident. Claude was with her at the time. She’d like to know more about what happened.”
“But Claude himself has since been discorporated too,” Jacques mused. “It is a sad world, even now. Dangers lie everywhere for the young, the strong, the rich. Only the poor live long lives.”
“But they live only once,” Risa pointed out. “True. True.” Jacques steepled his fingers. “After lunch,” he said, “I will trace Claude’s persona for you.”
They ate well. For her main course Risa had a mousse of sole, and vegetables of some unfamiliar sort braised in a sauce that was clearly Venusian in origin. Yet the wine that flowed so copiously throughout the luncheon was quite Terrestrial, a lively Chablis four years old. Elderly men passing beneath the veranda paused and looked up at them and made mental calculations, wondering who it was who might be lunching with Pierre Schiff’s son, that pale girl in the revealing costume. Did any of them realize that it was not Pierre Schiff’s son but Mark Kaufmann’s daughter who should concern them on that veranda? Risa enjoyed her anonymity here.
After they had eaten, Jacques suggested that they go to his office while he made the necessary calls. Risa nodded toward the nearby hotel.
“My room is closer,” she said. He looked startled for a moment, but only for a moment. At his insistence, though, they entered the hotel through different doorways. She left the door to her room unsealed, and he slipped through it a moment after she arrived. The large, cavernous room was dark. Jacques produced a portable cesium-powered MHD torch and set it on the ornate dresser. Then he settled in a chair before the old-fashioned telephone and punched out a number.
“This will take a while,” he said.
She went into the bathroom, removed her clothing, and stepped under the vibrator. When she felt thoroughly clean, she wrapped herself in a cloud of grayish mist and emerged. Jacques still sat at the telephone, taking notes. At length he grunted in satisfaction and hung up.
“Any luck?” she asked. He turned to look at her. He frowned, and his eyes pierced the quasi-concealing mist to survey the essential points of her body. “Yes,” he said absent-mindedly. “I have the details. His persona was awarded to Martin St. John, a resident of London, several months ago.”
“Who’s he?”
“The third son of Lord Godwin. Here is his address. I have requisitioned his photograph, and it will be coming by slow transmission in a few moments.”
“I’m very grateful to you, Jacques. You’ve done me a great service.”
“Say nothing of it,” he replied. But he seemed willing enough to be rewarded for his activities on her behalf. His body was supple, lean, and skilled. It was the first time Risa had made love since taking on Tandy Cushing’s persona, and when she slipped into Jacques’ arms she felt a sudden wild surge of embarrassment, for there was something enormously public about this lovemaking, with Tandy watching everything through her eyes. Risa was not accustomed to feeling inhibited. After a moment she realized that it was not the lack of privacy that troubled her, but rather that she sensed the much more experienced Tandy sitting as a judge of her erotic performance. Tension gripped her.
—Loosen up, Tandy said. Are you always like this? Risa felt a flood of encouragement coming from within. She ceased to think of Tandy as a critical observer; Tandy was a participant, a cooperative entity. That made it much more interesting for her. Risa wriggled prettily; she put her lips to Jacques’; she surrendered to him with that mixture of kittenish girlishness and precocious womanhood that she knew was the best weapon in her armory. Tandy guided her. Without her help, Risa might not have been so successful in meeting Jacques’ sophisticated approach.
When it was over, and Jacques had donned his bankers solemn garb and was gone, Risa lay sprawled pleasantly on the rumpled bed, recapitulating with Tandy what had taken place, enjoying an amiable post mortem on her responses. It was wonderful to be able to speak so frankly and to know that every thought was perfectly understood.
“I feel so good having you with me,” Risa said. “To know that I’ll never be alone again. I wish I could reach out and hug you, Tandy.”
—Why not? Risa laughed. She thrust her arms about herself and squeezed tight, twisting on the bed as though she were in another’s embrace. Then she relaxed. She waved her legs playfully about.
—We ought to get going, Risa. “Where to?” — London. To find Martin St. John. “What’s the hurry?” Risa asked. But Tandy insisted. And so Risa phoned for reservations on the next flight to London, due to leave at five that afternoon. She just barely made it to the airport in time. En route, she studied the photo of Martin St. John that had come from the data file. Though only a flat, it gave a fair likeness: a man in his early thirties, light-haired, pale-eyed, with a soft face of no particular character. Flabby chin, loose sensual lips, pasty cheeks. Tandy was shocked. She sent up an image of the late Claude Villefranche for comparison: the hard face, the cruel eyes, the fight skin, the thin, curved line of the lips, all were the direct contradiction of the physiognomy of Martin St. John. Could Claude be happy in such a slack, soft-bodied individual?
Moments after she landed at London, Risa put through a call to Martin St. John. It was gratifying to find him at home. Peering at the three-square-inch screen of the airport telephone, though, Risa was struck by his lack of resemblance to the man in the photo. This Martin St. John looked tougher, harder, leaner. He’s been sick lately, Risa guessed. He’s lost a lot of weight. That must be it.
“Yes?” he said. “I’m Risa Kaufmann. You don’t know me, but we’ve got a great deal in common.”