“Must have been expensive. To bring it back to Earth, I mean.”
“Money wasn’t an object, Mr. Kovacs.” The mask was back in place. Time to move on.
We made double time down the left-hand corridor, perhaps to make up for our unscheduled stop. With each step Mrs. Bancroft’s breasts jiggled under the thin material of the leotard and I took a morose interest in the art on the other side of the corridor. More Empathist work, Angin Chandra with her slender hand resting on a thrusting phallus of a rocket. Not much help.
The seaward lounge was built on the end of the house’s west wing. Mrs. Bancroft took me into it through an unobtrusive wooden door and the sun hit us in the eyes as soon as we entered.
“Laurens. This is Mr. Kovacs.”
I lifted a hand to shade my eyes and saw that the seaward lounge had an upper level with sliding glass doors that accessed a balcony. Leaning on the balcony was a man. He must have heard us come in; come to that, he must have heard the police cruiser arrive and known what it signified, but still he stayed where he was, staring out to sea. Coming back from the dead sometimes makes you feel that way. Or maybe it was just arrogance. Mrs. Bancroft nodded me forward and we went up a set of stairs made from the same wood as the door. For the first time I noticed that the walls of the room were shelved from top to bottom with books. The sun was laying an even coat of orange light along their spines.
As we came out onto the balcony, Bancroft turned to face us. There was a book in his hand, folded closed over his fingers.
“Mr. Kovacs.” He transferred the book so that he could shake my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. How do you find the new sleeve?”
“It’s fine. Comfortable.”
“Yes, I didn’t involve myself too much in the details, but I instructed my lawyers to find something … suitable.” He glanced back, as if looking for Ortega’s cruiser on the horizon. “I hope the police weren’t too officious.”
“Not so far.”
Bancroft looked like a Man Who Read. There’s a favourite experia star on Harlan’s World called Alain Marriott, best known for his portrayal of a virile young Quellist philosopher who cuts a swathe through the brutal tyranny of the early Settlement years. It’s questionable how accurate this portrayal of the Quellists is, but it’s a good flic. I’ve seen it twice. Bancroft looked a lot like an older version of Marriott in that role. He was slim and elegant with a full head of iron grey hair which he wore back in a ponytail, and hard black eyes. The book in his hand and the shelves around him were like an utterly natural extension of the powerhouse of a mind that looked out from those eyes.
Bancroft touched his wife on the shoulder with a dismissive casualness that in my present state made me want to weep.
“It was that woman, again,” said Mrs. Bancroft. “The lieutenant.”
Bancroft nodded. “Don’t worry about it, Miriam. They’re just sniffing around. I warned them I was going to do this, and they ignored me. Well, now Mr. Kovacs is here, and they’re finally taking me seriously.”
He turned to me. “The police have not been very helpful to me over this matter.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here, apparently.”
We looked at each other while I tried to decide if I was angry with this man or not. He’d dragged me halfway across the settled universe, dumped me into a new body and offered me a deal that was weighted so I couldn’t refuse. Rich people do this. They have the power and they see no reason not to use it. Men and women are just merchandise, like everything else. Store them, freight them, decant them. Sign at the bottom please.
On the other hand, no one at Suntouch House had mispronounced my name yet, and I didn’t really have a choice. And then there was the money. A hundred thousand UN was about six or seven times what Sarah and I had expected to make on the Millsport wetware haul. UN dollars, the hardest currency there was, negotiable on any world in the Protectorate.
That had to be worth keeping your temper for.
Bancroft gave his wife another casual touch, this time on her waist, pushing her away.
“Miriam, could you leave us alone for a while? I’m sure Mr. Kovacs has endless questions, and it’s likely to be boring for you.”
“Actually, I’m likely to have some questions for Mrs. Bancroft as well.”
She was already on her way back inside, and my comment stopped her in mid-stride. She cocked her head at an angle, and looked from me to Bancroft and back. Beside me, her husband stirred. This wasn’t what he wanted.
“Maybe I could speak to you later,” I amended. “Separately.”