Chapter Twenty
The domain recording played out in miniature on the table in the Gold Split’s private room. Isaac and Susan sat on the edges of their abstraction recliners and watched the conversation unfold for the third time.
The recording started with Joachim Delacroix pacing back and forth in the gloom of a damp cave. A single lamp provided orange-tinged illumination, casting light across an array of stalactites reaching down toward the man like a thicket of daggers.
A second man arrived a few minutes later. If Isaac could pick a phrase to describe him, it would be “deliberate averageness.” Average height, average build, and a face that was neither ugly nor attractive. This was the look of a man who could blend into any crowd. If his avatar was based on a real body, then he was most assuredly a synthoid. No one was that average by accident.
The two men began to talk, calm at first, but with escalating frustration. Isaac didn’t know what they were talking about, because they were using SysPol security chat and he didn’t have the key, but the tenor of their conversation was all too clear. Soon the two men were shouting at each at the top of their virtual lungs. Delacroix appeared ready to storm out, but then the other man spoke in a softer, perhaps conciliatory tone. Was he making a peace offering of some sort? If so, Delacroix begrudgingly accepted, and the two calmed down and finished their conversation on good terms.
The recording paused at the end.
“What do you think?” Susan asked.
“Whatever they were talking about, Delacroix really didn’t want it getting out,” he said. “He met this man deep in a cave within a hostile anarchy abstraction and used security chat to encrypt their speech on top of it all. These aren’t the actions of an innocent man.”
Cephalie popped into existence on the table.
“I heard back from the Ministries of Citizen Services, Finance, and Transportation.”
“And?” Isaac asked.
“The second player is Thomas Stade, an eighty-two-year-old Oortan synthoid who immigrated to Janus seven years ago. His public profile lists him as a ‘freelance consultant.’ Formerly contracted by the Trinh Syndicate, but that was only for a year. No criminal record, though. His file’s spotless as far as SysPol or SSP are concerned.”
“And Delacroix’s chat key?”
“Like you thought, Andover-Chen had it on him and was kind enough to provide me with a copy. I already tested it on the domain record, and it didn’t work. Delacroix must have generated a new encryption key at some point.”
“I’m not surprised.” Isaac blew out a quick breath. “He really didn’t want this getting out. Worth a try, though.”
“What else do we have on Thomas Stade?” Susan asked.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Cephalie said, conjuring a spreadsheet over her hand. “Public transportation and fiscal records, mostly. I’m not sure what kind of ‘consulting’ he does, but I haven’t found much in the way of a digital presence. The banks show he has a modest sum of Esteem to his name. No permanent residence, either.”
“Sounds like a man who operates mostly ‘off the record,’” Isaac said. “Do we know where he is now?”
“We don’t. Based on public transport logs, he last passed through the Howling Bow Airport on an inbound flight a day after the Free Gate cave visit, but there are some irregularities in what I received from the Ministry of Transportation. It may not be accurate.”
“The Howling Bow,” Isaac grumbled. “Of course.”
“What’s wrong?” Susan asked. “Why wouldn’t the data be accurate?”
“Whoever Stade is, he knows how to be discreet,” Isaac explained. “The Howling Bow is a city situated along the upper leading edge of the Janus crown. Structurally, it serves as a wind buffer for cities inland, like Ballast Heights. It’s an old and not very popular place to live, though honestly, it’s not as bad as people make it out to be.”
Cephalie pulled a sign out of her purse, which read: NO, IT’S WORSE.
“To each their own,” Isaac dismissed. “The important takeaway is certain areas of the Janus infostructure haven’t been updated in decades, and a few spots are centuries old. Not all parts of the infostructure play nice together, which creates blind spots for SysPol and SSP. Or, at the very least, hazy spots where automatic data collection and collation are less reliable and searching for information is slower. If Thomas Stade flew into the Howling Bow, then there’s a good chance he’s purposefully trying to cloud his data trail.”
“Then where does that leave us?” Susan asked. “Initiating a manhunt for Stade?”
“Perhaps not,” Isaac said. “Cephalie, where was his flight inbound from?”
“The Atomic Resort. It’s an Oortan dirigible currently stationed two hundred kilometers south of Janus.” Cephalie’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, and this might be interesting. Stade left Janus for the Atomic Resort less than an hour after his last conversation with Delacroix. He bought his ticket just before boarding.”
“Sounds like he wanted to get out there in a hurry,” Susan speculated.
“Indeed,” Isaac said. “I wonder what sort of business he had on the dirigible. Regardless, we’ll need to check it out for ourselves, though the fact that it’s Oortan-owned is a potential problem.”
“Why’s that?” Susan asked.
“The Oort Cloud Citizenry isn’t a SysGov member state, which places the Atomic Resort outside our jurisdiction, so our authority as SysPol detectives won’t get us very far on its own. On the other hand, the OCC has applied for statehood in the past, unsuccessfully, and SysPol’s services are one of the key benefits of statehood. That means its citizens, generally speaking, hold us in a positive light, but there’s nothing on the books that compels their cooperation.”
“Then we’ll need to be discreet.”
“And friendly.” He gave her a meaningful look.
“I can do that.”
“And you’ll have to leave your gun behind.”
She frowned at him. “If I must.”
“Yes!” Cephalie thumped the air.
“Find something good?” Isaac asked.
“You could say that.” She flourished a hand over her spreadsheet. “Guess who else has been to the Atomic Resort? Why, none other than Delacroix himself! It was two months back, but Delacroix put in for vacation time and spent three days at the resort before he transmitted back to Earth. And it seems Stade was also at the resort during that very same week!”
“Another strong connection between those two,” Isaac said, nodding. “And even more reason to head out there ourselves. Good work, Cephalie.”
She took a bow from the table beside the recording.
“Then we’re off to this resort next?” Susan asked.
“Yes, but let’s not be hasty.” Isaac glanced down at the two men in the cave. “Stade is a face we didn’t have before, and I’m wondering if we might find connections elsewhere.”
He opened a comm window.
“What’s on your mind?” Susan asked.
“Just checking a hunch. This shouldn’t take long.”
The call went through, and a bald synthoid with powder white skin, black eyes, and black lipstick appeared in the window.
“Hello, Mister Chow—”
“Caravaggio!” the synthoid spat quickly. “The name’s Neon Caravaggio!” He leaned toward the screen and spoke softer. “I’m working right now. Sorry for yelling.”
“I understand, Mister Caravaggio. My sincerest apologies for the confusion. I was thinking of someone else. Would you mind if I trouble you with a few questions? Is now a good time?”
“Yes, of course. I could use the break.” He stood up and began walking. “Did you two like the artshirts?”
“Umm…” Isaac recalled mulching the shirt on the train ride back. He glanced to Susan, who threw out a quick thumbs up. “Agent Cantrell enjoyed hers.”
“Oh, that’s great to hear. Tell her there’s more where that came from. Inspiration struck after you left, and I’ve started a new series.” He spread his hands theatrically. “Solar Descent characters dressed as the men and women of SysPol! I think it’ll be a hit. How about you?”
“Mister Caravaggio, I need to ask you about an individual who recently came to our attention. His name is Thomas Stade. I’m sending his picture over to you.”
“Got it.” Caravaggio studied the off-screen image. “Hmm. Talk about a plain face.”
“Do you recognize him? Specifically, did you ever see him near your table or at any of your panels during DescentCon?”
“I don’t think—” Caravaggio’s mouth formed a sudden O. “Wait a second! That was the guy!”
“The guy?” Isaac asked.
“He must have been the strangest customer I had all convention.”
“How so?”
“He came up to my table and said he wanted a gift for a friend. I began my normal intro where I go over the more popular items in my catalog, and he totally ignored me! He just pointed up at one of the shirts I had on display and said, ‘That one.’ So, I asked him if he’d like me to print a new one or if he’d prefer to purchase a single-use pattern license. You know, normal sales process.
“But the guy refused! Said he wanted the shirt hanging way up on my booth display! I again tried to offer him a freshly printed one, but he wouldn’t hear it. He insisted I pull the display shirt down and sell him that one.”
“How did you respond?” Isaac asked.
“Well, you know how it is. A sale’s a sale, right? So, I got out of my booth, took the shirt down, and sold him that one.” Caravaggio shook his head. “Weird guy. Didn’t even wait for me to sign it.”
“Did stepping out of the booth place the two of you in closer proximity?”
“Of course, it did. And he stayed close to me while I brought it down. Like, creepy close. In fact— Oh!” Caravaggio sucked in a quick breath. “Was he the guy? Did that [BLEEP]ing [BLEEP]sack give me the virus?”
“I can’t answer that other than to say we are investigating the matter.”
“I bet it was! That [BLEEP]ing creepstick! I knew he wasn’t a real fan!”
“Thank you, Mister Caravaggio. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Why that [BLEEP]ing piece of [BLEEP]ing [BLEEP] [BLEEP]! He’d better hope I never see his boring face ag—”
Isaac closed the comm window.
“Stade was at DescentCon,” Susan summarized. “And he came into close contact with the virus vector.”
“This lead is looking better by the minute.” Isaac permitted himself a wolfish grin.
“We thought Caravaggio was a good lead, too.”
“Let’s keep a positive attitude, shall we?”
“You still want me to chase down the convention security video?” Cephalie asked. “They did finally get back to me, but it sounds like they intend to contest the warrant.”
“Keep on it for now and widen it to include any video of Stade. It’s possible Caravaggio wasn’t his only errand at the convention.” Isaac opened a new window. “Dispatch.”
“Themis Dispatch here. How may we serve you, Detective?”
“I’d like to requisition a variable-wing aircraft. Our investigation is taking us off Janus-Epimetheus, and I’m not sure where it’ll take us next.”
“Understood, Detective. Would you like the v-wing to be armed?”
“Oh, no. I don’t think that’s nece—”
“Arm it,” Susan interjected.
“We’re only flying out to the resort,” Isaac pointed out.
“We’re also hot on the trail of a man suspected of killing two cops. We should prepare accordingly.”
“That’s…” Isaac hesitated with a grimace. He couldn’t fault her logic.
“Better safe than sorry,” she added.
“Will that be armed or unarmed, Detective?” Dispatch asked.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Arm it up. Just stay clear of anything too…flamboyant. We’re heading for an OCC dirigible next.”
“Not a problem, Detective. I’ll see to it the v-wing is equipped with an appropriate defensive package. Where would you like your transport delivered?”
“New Frontier Airport, please.”
“Understood. Your request is in the queue. The v-wing should be ready for pickup in about two hours. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Not right now, Dispatch. Thanks.”
“Our pleasure, Detective.”
The comm window closed.
“Cephalie, how fancy is the resort?”
“Depends which parts we visit, but most areas are very high end.”
“Then we should dress the part. Our uniforms will only serve to draw unwanted attention, anyway.” He massaged his face then glanced to Susan. “Did you bring any formal patterns with you?”
“No.”
“You’ll need to take care of that when we stop back at the hotel.”
* * *
In her hotel room, Susan activated the delivery port’s attendant program.
“Hello, Miss Cantrell!” the program said. “How are you today?”
“I have a problem.”
“I’m listening and ready to be of service.”
“I have no idea how SysGov formal wear works.”
“Could you please clarify the nature of your problem?”
“You don’t understand.” Her brow creased with worry. “I don’t do formal. You see what I’m wearing now? This is formal for me.” She sighed heavily. “I need help.”
“I’m ready to be of assistance, Miss Cantrell.”
“Can you help me pick something out? I need something classy to wear, and I need it fast. We’re leaving for the airport soon.”
“Of course, Miss Cantrell. We have a vast selection of Saturnite clothing patterns, ranging from Ballast Heights couture to the latest Epimethean trends, all ready for on-demand printing. Would you like to view a sample? It’s recommended you select a base garment first, then choose a dynamic scarf or other accessory to complement the base.”
“Sure. Let’s see a few.”
A bright green gown appeared.
“No.”
The gown vanished, replaced with a black one-piece…bathing suit?
“No.”
A gray business suit with a cleavage window popped up next.
“No.”
A fluorescent pink…abomination with too many straps appeared.
“Hell no.”
“Perhaps if you explain why a pattern isn’t to your liking, I can better filter the catalog.”
The previous selections arranged themselves in a row. Susan pointed to each in turn.
“Hate the color. Too much ass. Too much cleavage. Too much of both and a terrible color.”
“I see. Filtering the catalog now.”
A snug, light gray business suit came up next.
“Okay, now you’re on the right track. Let’s see some more like that one.”
* * *
Isaac waited in the Top Shelf Hotel lobby and smoothed out the front of his black formal wear. He looked good in black; most people did, he reflected, but he’d added a splash of color with a dynamic purple scarf that feature electrified energy crackling along its length.
“She’s taking longer than I thought she would,” he commented.
“Want me to go check on her?” Cephalie offered, hopping to his shoulder.
Isaac checked his abstract clock. “Not yet. We’ll wait.” He glanced to the counter-grav shaft, then to Cephalie. “Did she seem worried to you?”
“Hadn’t noticed.” Cephalie yawned into a fist.
“She seemed worried. I wonder why.”
Isaac checked his clock a few more times as he waited, and just before they were due to leave, Susan floated out of the shaft, dressed in a dark gray business suit with long sleeves and a high collar. She’d forgone a scarf in favor of a silver, shield-shaped pin at her throat. The gun at her hip stuck out, though.
She walked over and did a double take when she saw him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Are those the same colors as Big Stompy?” she asked with a shrewd half smile.
“I exercise my right to remain silent.” He gestured to her new clothes. “You look good, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll have to leave your gun in the v-wing.” Isaac tapped the side of the LENS. “Same with this.”
“Resort rules, I assume.”
“As far as the guests are concerned. They’ll have armed security.”
“What about my body?”
“You have any projectile weapons or explosives in secret compartments? Anything like that?”
“No.”
“Then we should be fine. Oortans don’t judge when it comes to a person’s synthoid. Let’s go.”
They both climbed into the car, and the door sealed shut.
“Vehicle, take us to New Frontier Airport, Bay Three.”
“Destination set. Departing.”
The car pulled out of the hotel parking lot and merged onto the main Shelf Six highway. It drove half a kilometer, then began taking down ramps, descending through the city.
“How do we approach this when we get there?” Susan asked. “Besides hunt and peck, I mean.”
“I’ve given that question some thought, and here’s what I’ve come up with.” Isaac opened a profile and passed her a virtual copy. “Meet the owner of the Atomic Resort.”
“‘Fat Man,’” she read. “Lovely.”
“Mmhmm.”
The profile included images of a morbidly obese male, clothed in dark purple finery and seated in a plush recliner, the folds of his massive girth spilling over the armrests, legs and arms sagging with extra flesh.
“His physical shape is deceiving,” Cephalie explained. “Fat Man inhabits a synthoid, and he’s old. Very old. First entries in his SysPol file were from three centuries ago, and given all that time, he remains an enigma to this day. We don’t even know if his connectome was originally organic or artificial, and we’re pretty sure that body hides tech illegal in SysGov.”
“Has he ever come into conflict with SysPol?” Susan asked.
“A few minor incidents,” Cephalie said. “Most stem from customer complaints, but his Oortan status protected him without fail. Given the timespans we’re dealing with, the volume is barely background noise for a business of his size.”
“This is where I propose we start,” Isaac said. “We have no jurisdiction over there, but that doesn’t mean Fat Man won’t give us what we want.”
“We start by asking nicely?”
“Exactly. Let’s see what that gets us and go from there.”
“And if he turns us away?”
“Then we ask around until we find something,” Isaac said.
“Sound like we could be there for a while.”
“There are worse places to be stuck. Remember Nina and her printers?”
“Yeah.” Susan chuckled.
The car pulled away from a down ramp and drove toward the outer wall of Shelf Two. Abstract marquees lit up the outer wall around the three airport bays, listing pending arrivals and departures and providing directions to nearby waiting areas and restaurants. The car passed through an automatic security checkpoint, then drove up to Bay Three, the smallest of the airport bays and meant for private launches.
Isaac climbed out of the car and walked up to the hexagonal bay door. An airline AC with the avatar of an old-fashioned aviator materialized next to him.
“Detective Cho, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“Your v-wing came in from Kronos Station a few minutes ago. We’ll have it shifted over momentarily. Please wait here.”
The AC vanished, and a virtual caution sign pulsed over the hexagonal door. The airport stored private craft in hexagonal bins arranged below the launch bays, and when a craft was needed, a robotic storage and retrieval system (SRS) shifted the bin up to the correct bay. Some aircraft were too large for individual bins, and in those cases, multiple bins would be merged to make room in the storage system.
The SysPol v-wing only took up a single bin, and an abstract window in the bay door provided a view of the bin rising before it locked into place. The caution sign vanished, the hexagonal bay door split aside, and Isaac walked over to the aircraft.
“You know,” he said, circling the v-wing, “when the dispatcher said ‘appropriate defensive package,’ this was not what I was expecting.”
The variable-wing aircraft’s body could dynamically shift through numerous configurations, and the current shape was optimized for Saturn’s dense atmosphere at the bottom of the Shark Fin. Prog-steel formed a thick, gunmetal gray delta wing with a small crew cabin at the front, winglets at the edges of the delta, and a tall vertical stabilizer situated above the rear-mounted graviton thruster.
“What were you expecting?” Susan asked.
“Something less loud.” Isaac used his boot to prod the bottom of the fat weapon blister beneath the v-wing’s nose. A cluster of seven barrels protruded from the blister’s front. “What’s this supposed to be, anyway?”
“A thirty-millimeter Gatling gun?” Cephalie offered.
“And these?” Isaac gestured to racks underneath the wings. “What are these?”
“Those would be the precision micro-missiles,” Cephalie said.
“Do we really need all this?” He turned to Susan.
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t pick the loadout. Though”—she caressed the Gatling barrels with the smallest hint of a smile—“I feel a lot safer now that I’ve seen it.”
“But all we’re doing is flying to an Oortan dirigible.”
“You’d feel the same as me if you’d dealt with Admin Oortans before.”
“This had better not cause problems at the resort,” Isaac said. “Cephalie, do we have clearance to land there?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know we’re packing this much firepower?”
“Yes.”
“All right then,” Isaac huffed, then shrugged his arms. “I guess I’m the only one who sees a problem. Who am I to complain?”
He climbed on board.
* * *
The v-wing rose through dark clouds lit within by the rare streak of lightning. The aircraft’s sharp-edged delta morphed into a straight wing more suited for gliding through the thinner upper atmosphere. Night had fallen over Janus-Epimetheus, and the glittering lights of its crown turned nearby clouds into a glowing haze.
The v-wing sped away from the megastructure and toward a far smaller collection of lights which slowly resolved into a grand dirigible with an egg-shaped main body ahead of box-shaped rear fins, greatly resembling the “Fat Man” Mark III nuclear bomb from Earth’s distant past. Lights glowed atop the dorsal landing bays and from the dirigible’s sixty-level outer concourses, built along the outside of its primary exotic foam bladders.
A series of large hoops and pillars floated around the resort in a rough circle, and over thirty v-wings raced through the ever-changing obstacle course. More craft flew into the dorsal bays or departed through the ventral hangar.
“You think Fat Man will ever branch out with a second dirigible?” Isaac asked.
“Who knows?” Cephalie said.
“Think he’ll theme it after the Little Boy if he does?”
“Hard to say.”
“Why would he do that?” Susan asked.
“Well…I mean…” Isaac gestured to the dirigible, growing larger as they approached. “Just look at it.”
“Yes, I see it,” Susan said. “What does the resort have to do with little boys?”
“Not boys. Little Boy. As in the nuke dropped on Hiroshima.”
“What are you talking about?” Susan asked with genuine confusion.
“You know. The two most famous bombs in Earth’s history. Fat Man and Little Boy.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve completely lost me.”
“Isaac.” Cephalie leaped to his shoulder and whispered into her ear. “World War II played out differently in her universe. The United States never nuked Japan.”
“Oh, right.” He smiled apologetically at Susan. “Whoops. Sorry.”
“Did you just forget I’m not from around here?”
“Momentary lapse. Won’t happen again,” he assured her.
“Don’t try too hard.” She smiled back at him. “I’ll take this as a compliment.”
The v-wing slowed over the vast dirigible’s dorsal hangar bays. A hexagonal port opened, the v-wing pulled its wings into its main body, and the graviton thruster eased them down. They touched down on the landing cradle with a small jostle, the bay door sealed above them, and the hangar SRS robotics maneuvered their bin to an empty egress point.
Their bin locked into place, the air finished cycling, and the v-wing’s atmospheric indicators lit up green. The cabin hatch split open, and a stairway extruded to the floor.
“Fat Man approved our meeting request,” Cephalie said, materializing on Isaac’s shoulder. “He’s at his personal balcony overlooking the arena. We can head up whenever.”
“Then let’s not keep him waiting.” Isaac climbed out of the v-wing cabin and hustled down the steps.
One wall of their bin parted to reveal a long hallway connecting to other bins on one side and lined with open counter-grav shafts on the other. Guests in Lunarian, Martian, Saturnite, and Jovian finery headed to or from their own rides as Isaac and Susan approached the nearest shaft.
Cephalie entered their destination, and they stepped in. Gravitons whisked them upward at a diagonal toward the front of the dirigible, then deposited them in a wide circular balcony with rich, red carpeting, plush recliners, and windows angled outward for a better view of the arena.
Fat Man leaned against a railing by the window, watching the match play out, and an Oortan squidform synthoid stood guard near him, its eight tentacles tipped with projectile weapons. The squidform’s mechanical, many-eyed head swiveled in quick, jerky bursts of motion as it scrutinized them with a variety of sensors.
“Well, if it isn’t a SysPol detective and his entourage!” Fat Man beckoned for them to approach. “Please! Come here! Come here!”
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Isaac said, walking over.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Detective.” Fat Man let out a deep, boisterous chuckle. “I welcome all to my humble establishment, SysPol included. But before business, perhaps a dash of pleasure, if you’ll indulge me.” He spread an open hand toward the arena, and the fatty jowl under his arm wobbled. “Who do you think will win?”
Isaac gazed into the fighting pit below. Two synthoids battled each other amidst a ruined, urban landscape. One was a hulking brass-skinned brute sporting a pair of war hammers, the other a lithe, silvery acrobat brandishing a flexible whip-sword. If the brute landed a single hit, he’d crush the speedster.
“I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask,” Isaac said. “Perhaps the—”
“The silver one,” Susan cut in.
Isaac glanced her way but didn’t say anything, and she gave him a quick wink. If that’s who she thought would win, who was he to argue?
“You sure about that, my dear?” Fat Man asked. “Raging Hammersmith is a seasoned veteran of the arena. All the smart Esteem’s on him, whereas Silver Slash is a relative unknown, just working her way up the ranks.”
“I know a winner when I see one,” Susan replied confidently.
“Oh ho! Is that so?”
“She has a good eye,” the squidform said in a husky male voice.
“I’m inclined to agree. This is Thorn, by the way.” Fat Man laid a bejeweled hand upon the synthoid’s shoulder. “Champion of the Atomic Arena and my personal bodyguard.”
Thorn bowed with a sweep of two tentacles.
“Tell you what,” Fat Man said. “How about I put in a small bet in your name? If Silver Slash wins, you can keep it. If not…” He shrugged, and several parts of him jiggled. “We’ll call it a harmless bit of fun and move on.”
“Sounds like I have nothing to lose,” she said.
“Indeed not!” Fat Man opened an interface and entered a wager in Susan’s name. “There. And now, I’m sure you’re all eager to get to business.” He clasped his hands. “How can this old devil be of service?”
“We’re looking for information on two men.” Isaac opened profiles on Delacroix and Stade. “Both have been to your resort in the past few months.”
“Oh dear.” Fat Man’s jowls wobbled under his mouth. “I’m all for friendly cooperation with SysPol, but when you start talking about breaches of customer confidentiality…” He spread his hands in the way of an apology.
“One of them is a deceased Gordian Division agent.”
“And the other?”
“Possibly involved in his murder.”
“How dreadful. Well, that does change the arithmetic of the matter.” Fat Man placed a thoughtful finger against his puffy lips. “If we’re talking about a SysPol agent, and a dead one at that, then I suppose I can bend the rules in the spirit of respecting your organization’s loss. But the other man…” He shook his head.
“I’ll take any information you can give me.”
“Which one is the agent?”
Isaac presented Delacroix’s profile, and Fat Man copied it.
“Let’s see what we find.” He perused his records behind a privacy filter. “Yes, there he is. Joachim Delacroix. A rather focused individual, it would seem. He knew exactly what he wanted and where to get it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, according to my records, he spent almost three whole days at the Made-For-You brothel in the Nose Concourse. Very upscale, but very expensive.”