“Lomax!” he said, looking up. “Decided to turn yourself in?”

“Very funny, Mac,” I said. “You and Hux should go on the road together.”

He snorted. “What can I do for you, Alex?”

Mac was a skinny biological, with shaggy orange eyebrows shielding his blue eyes. “I'm looking for a guy named Joshua Wilkins.”

Mac had a strong Scottish brogue — so strong, I figured it must be an affectation. “Ah, yes,” he said.

“Who's your client? The wife?”

I nodded.

“A bonnie lass,” he said.

“That she is,” I said. “Anyway, you tried to find her husband, this Wilkins…”

“We looked around, yeah,” said Mac. “He's a transfer, you knew that?”

I nodded.

“Well,” Mac said, “she gave us the plans for his new face — precise measurements, and all that. We've been feeding all the video made by public security cameras through facial-recognition software. So far, no luck.”

I smiled. That's about as far as Mac's detective work normally went: things he could do without hauling his bony ass out from behind his desk. “How much of New Klondike do they cover now?” I asked.

“It's down to sixty percent of the public areas,” said Mac. People kept smashing the cameras, and the city didn't have the time or money to replace them.

“You'll let me know if you find anything?”

Mac drew his shaggy eyebrows together. “You know the privacy laws, Alex. I can't divulge what the security cameras see.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a fifty-solar coin, and flipped it. It went up rapidly, but came down in what still seemed like slow motion to me, even after all these years on Mars; Mac didn't require any special reflexes to catch it in midair. “Of course,” he said, “I suppose we could make an exception…”

“Thanks. You're a credit to law-enforcement officials everywhere.”

He snorted again, then: “Say, what kind of heat you packing these days? You still carrying that old Smith Wesson?”

“I've got a license,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“Oh, I know, I know. But be careful, eh? The times, they are a-changin'. Bullets aren't much use against a transfer, and there are getting to be more of those each day.”

I nodded. “So I've heard. How do you guys handle them?”

“Until recently, as little as possible,” said Mac. “Turning a blind eye, and all that.”

“Saves getting up,” I said.

Mac didn't take offense. “Exactly. But let me show you something.” We left his office, went further down the corridor and entered another room. He pointed to a device on the table. “Just arrived from Earth,” he said. “The latest thing.”

It was a wide, flat disk, maybe half a meter in diameter, and five centimeters thick. There were a pair of U-shaped handgrips attached to the edge, opposite each other. “What is it?” I asked.

“A broadband disrupter,” he said. He picked it up and held it in front of himself, like a gladiator's shield.

“It discharges an oscillating multifrequency electromagnetic pulse. From a distance of four meters or less, it will completely fry the artificial brain of a transfer — killing it as effectively as a bullet kills a human.”

“I don't plan on killing anyone,” I said.

“That's what you said the last time.”

Ouch. Still, maybe he had a point. “I don't suppose you have a spare one I can borrow?”

Mac laughed. “Are you kidding? This is the only one we've got so far.”

“Well, then,” I said, heading for the door, “I guess I'd better be careful.”

My next stop was the NewYou building. I took Third Avenue, one of the radial streets of the city, out the five blocks to it. The building was two stories tall and was made, like most structures here, of red laser-fused Martian sand bricks. Flanking the main doors were a pair of wide alloquartz display windows, showing dusty artificial bodies dressed in fashions from about two mears ago; it was high time somebody updated things.

Inside, the store was part showroom and part workshop, with spare parts components about: here, a white-skinned artificial hand; there, a black lower leg; on shelves, synthetic eyes and spools of colored monofilament that I guessed were used to simulate hair. There were also all sorts of internal parts on worktables: motors and hydraulic pumps and joint hinges. A half-dozen technicians were milling around, assembling new bodies or repairing old ones.

Across the room, I spotted Cassandra Wilkins, wearing a beige suit today. She was talking with a man and a woman, who were biological; potential customers, presumably. “Hello, Cassandra,” I said, after I'd closed the distance between us.

“Mr. Lomax!” she said, excusing herself from the couple. “I'm so glad you're here — so very glad! What news do you have?”

“Not much,” I said. “I've been to visit the cops, and I thought I should start my investigation here. After all, your husband owned this franchise, right?”

Cassandra nodded enthusiastically. “I knew I was doing the right thing hiring you,” she said. “I just knew it! Why, do you know that lazy detective McCrae never stopped by here — not even once!”

I smiled. “Mac's not the outdoorsy type,” I said. “And, well, you get what you pay for.”

“Isn't that the truth?” said Cassandra. “Isn't that just the God's honest truth!”

“You said your husband moved his mind recently?”

She nodded her head. “Yes. All of that goes on upstairs, though. This is just sales and service down here.”

“Can you show me?” I asked.

She nodded again. “Of course — anything you want to see, Mr. Lomax!” What I wanted to see was under that beige suit — nothing beat the perfection of a transfer's body — but I kept that thought to myself.

Cassandra looked around the room, then motioned for another staff member — also female, also a transfer, also gorgeous, and this one did wear tasteful makeup and jewelry — to come over. “I'm sorry,”

Cassandra said to the two customers she'd abandoned a few moments ago. “Miss Takahashi here will look after you.” She then turned to me. “This way.”

We went through a curtained doorway and up a set of stairs. “Here's our scanning room,” said Cassandra, indicating the left-hand one of a pair of doors; both doors had little windows in them. She stood on tiptoe to look in the scanning-room window, and nodded, apparently satisfied by what she saw, then opened the door. Two people were inside: a balding man of about forty, who was seated, and a standing woman who looked twenty-five; the woman was a transfer herself, though so there was no way of knowing her real age. “So sorry to interrupt,” Cassandra said. She looked at the man in the chair, while gesturing at me. “This is Alexander Lomax. He's providing some, ah, consulting services for us.”

The man looked at me, surprised, then said, “Klaus Hansen,” by way of introduction.

“Would you mind ever so much if Mr. Lomax watched while the scan was being done?” asked Cassandra.

Hansen considered this for a moment, frowning his long, thin face. But then he nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll just stand over here.” I moved to the far wall and leaned back against it.

The chair Hansen was sitting in looked a lot like a barber's chair. The female transfer who wasn't Cassandra reached up above the chair and pulled down a translucent hemisphere that was attached by an articulated arm to the ceiling. She kept lowering it until all of Hansen's head was covered, and then she turned to a control console.

The hemisphere shimmered slightly, as though a film of oil was washing over its surface; the scanning field, I supposed.

Cassandra was standing next to me, arms crossed in front of her chest. It was an unnatural-looking pose, given her large bosom. “How long does the scanning take?” I asked.

“It's a quantum-mechanical process,” she replied. “So the scanning is rapid. But it'll take about ten minutes to move the data into the artificial brain. And then…”