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I
want to think.”
    The booth obeyed. The screen over the door
told me we were private. I turned to the floater. “What’s up?” I
asked.
    “Mis’ Yoshio Nakada would like to propose a
modification of your agreement.”
    “No,” I said.
    It fizzed, then asked, “Don’t you want to
hear what he’s suggesting?”
    “No,” I said again.
    It hung silently for a moment, mulling that
one over. With the privacy seal on it couldn’t ask anyone else to
help it make up its mind, so it had to work the problem out for
itself, and the neural net in a floater isn’t really made for that
sort of decision.
    Eventually, though, it said, “I would like to
ask you to reconsider.”
    “I don’t intend to modify the deal,” I told
it, “but we’re here, so what the hell, give me the read-out.”
    That it could handle.
    “Mis’ Nakada would greatly prefer to pay you
the five million credits now, in advance, and to bring Sebastian
Hsing and Guohan Hsing from Epimetheus to Prometheus only after the
investigation has been completed to Mis’ Nakada’s
satisfaction.”
    That was all, and I let the silence run for a
moment.
    “Why?” I asked, finally.
    “I’m not sure I should tell you that,” it
said.
    “Then I’m damn sure I won’t agree to the
change,” I replied.
    It fizzed again, which could have meant
almost anything, and then said, “You know that Mis’ Nakada is
concerned about the integrity of the corporate software in use by
Nakada Enterprises.”
    “Yeah,” I said, with a nod. “So?”
    “You are aware that Guohan Hsing is
currently, by the terms of his lifetime entertainment and
maintenance contract, legally incompetent, and a ward of the
Seventh Heaven Neurosurgical Corporation. Legalities aside, he is
also in an induced coma and kept comatose but alive by machinery
owned and operated by Seventh Heaven.”
    It paused, but I didn’t bother saying
anything this time. I just stared at it.
    “Removing a properly-contracted ward from the
property of Seventh Heaven is not legal, except in a very few
exceptional circumstances, none of which appear to apply in this
case.”
    “So?” I said. “Nakada knew that from the
start.”
    The floater ignored my objection. “Sebastian
Hsing,” it said, “is employed by the Interstellar Resorts
Corporation at the Ginza Casino Hotel. IRC has classed him as
essential personnel. While he is still technically a free adult, if
he chooses to leave his job he will be in breach of contract and
subject to a fine of up to one million credits. He has not chosen
to leave. Nakada Enterprises is forbidden by city regulations to
pay his fine, should he choose to leave; to do so would leave
Nakada open to lawsuit for employee piracy, and would have serious
extra-legal consequences as well. Nakada could make an offer to buy
out his contract, and in fact, such an offer has been made. The
offer was refused; IRC is not willing to part with Sebastian
Hsing’s services at any reasonable price, and to make an offer any
higher would surely raise suspicions.”
    “Go on,” I said.
    “Are you recording?”
    “No,” I said, which was a lie, but what the
hell.
    “I believe that Yoshio Nakada had every
intention of circumventing these obstacles. However, he now has
reason to believe that the corruption of the corporate software
available to him is far more extensive than he had realized when he
spoke to you last night.”
    Last night? I’d been thinking of it as
earlier today. Not relevant; I ignored that and asked, “What
reason?”
    “He is unsure whether he can get Guohan and
Sebastian Hsing off Epimetheus safely, given the current means
available to him,” it said, which did not answer my question.
    It shut up, and I stared at it for a
moment.
    “That’s it?” I said at last.
    “That’s it,” it agreed.
    “But that’s stupid,” I protested. “Everything
he’d need is on Epimetheus, not in the Nakada family compound. All
he has to do is send one message to a