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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 air lock.
    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 Earth, 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