Smith and Jones exchanged token smiles and then turned back to face Serrin. They’ve got their act down pat, the mage thought. They should be exchanging banter with Barry Dando on whatever the lame Brit equivalent is of the late-night talk show, not pushing this crap. Who do they think they’re kidding with watchers? Anyone into serious research will have hermetics, mages on the company payroll, who’ll make damn sure nothing so simple can crack anything that matters.

"Of course," Jones continued slickly, as Smith smoothed an errant strand of hair over his balding head, “those corporate interests that are developing research along the lines in which our client has a primary interest will be vigilant regarding the possibility of watchers being used as observers. Our client would regard such vigilance as a positive sign that those very corporations are developing research along lines in which our client is interested. In short, we want you to use watchers as a lure to test the defenses of certain corporations."

Jones sat back, then lunged forward to grab the coffee pot. There was a twitchiness about the gesture that told Serrin coffee wasn’t the only Colombian export Jones had ingested that morning. It had been so long since his last visit to this country that he’d almost forgotten people here still got high on drugs rather than dreamchips. It amazed him that people were so willing to destroy their bodies and minds.

Smith took up the conversation again in an oily, ingratiating tone. “This is not a demanding task, Mr. Shamandar. However, you must be aware that the unfortunate official restrictions under which we live in Britain require that we look beyond our own shores for able operatives to carry out the tasks requested by clients such as ours.”

Serrin was growing more annoyed by the minute. Why had they brought him all this way just to beat around the bush? Looking down, he saw that he’d dolloped marmalade onto what remained of his eggs. He decided to brazen it out. It didn’t taste good.

"Our client offers one thousand nuyen per day, plus expenses.” The fat man sat back, looking smug. The tiny gem glittered in his mouth, adding fake glamour to his crocodile smile.

“Fifteen hundred,” Serrin said curtly. ‘‘The work may seem easy, but experts don’t come cheap.” Serrin thought he might be pushing his luck, but he wanted to test the responses of these unflappable suits. To his surprise, Smith agreed at once.

“Very well. You drive a hard bargain, sir. Fifteen hundred was the limit allowed by our client. You will begin work tomorrow. At five o’clock this afternoon, we will have delivered to you a list of the sites we wish you to survey. You will spend an initial period of one week conducting surveillance and then report to us, both orally and in writing, in nine days’ time. We are authorized to give you this.” Smith handed Serrin a roseate hard plastic rod that he’d retrieved from the recesses of his immaculate Saville Row suit. “This is good for twelve thousand nuyen, plus three thousand for travel and other incidental expenses. You will not need to provide receipts unless you exceed that sum and wish to claim the balance from our client. Your hotel bill will be covered by our client, who wishes you to stay here each night rather than in Cambridge, where your research will be conducted. That will help prevent detection of your work. You can confirm the sum the credstick authorizes in the credit analyzer in the hotel lobby if you wish.”

The suits were rising to their feet now, Smith sweeping away some toast crumbs from the expanse of waistcoat stretched over his ample belly. Jones shook Serrin’s hand with exactly the same pressure Smith had applied. “Please enjoy your day. We look forward to seeing you again.” With that, the men swept out of the suite.

Serrin drained the coffee pot, adding just a little of the slightly yellowed cream from the jug, which spilled some of its contents over the starched linen tablecloth each time it was used.

This was too easy. The fixer had agreed too readily to a fifty percent increase; the credstick had already been cut on that basis. They knew him, they knew watchers were his specialty. Serrin had the feeling that somehow he was being used. But for fifteen hundred nuyen and for a job that couldn’t possibly present any danger, he couldn’t imagine that it was a sucker deal.

Could he?

Jones rubbed his chin as he leaned back in the passenger seat of the Toyota Elite. He looked over at the fat man hurriedly tapping the scrambling code into the portacom link, holding his thumb tightly over the scanner as it checked his thumbprint ID. Smith jacked in the electrodes from the link so the portacom could make the backup brainwave-scan ID check, then fumbled the telecom code into the pad. The screen flickered and registered entry of the code.

With a grunt, Smith checked off the portacom and reached for the ignition. As the car began to purr gently, Jones reached into an inside pocket and drew out a small plastic case.

“They got the confirming code, so we’re done with work for the day. A little boost?"

“Don’t mind if I do,” Smith smirked as a bead of sweat ran down from his pallid forehead. His bulbous nose twitched slightly in anticipation, emphasizing the tiny broken red veins. He took the tiny chip greedily, turning it over and over in his hand. "Morpheus hallmark. That’s what I like, a little class."

Back in the hotel, Serrin wrapped a muffler around his throat and buttoned up the baggy woolen coat he always brought with him to London, even in what the Brits laughably termed summer. Striding through the hotel lobby, he hailed one of the voluminous black trollcabs, London’s finest, yanking open the passenger door as the grinning driver screeched the vehicle to a halt.

"Serena’s, and be sharp about it," Serrin snapped as the cab jerked into motion. Inside his coat he clutched his credstick for comfort. As long as he was in London he was going to get some decent talismongering out of this deal. Liverpool Street station and tickets for Cambridge could wait.

3

“The Greens need all the votes they can get for the Regeneration Bill in the House of Nobles?" Geraint’s voice was rough with surprise and too many cigarettes smoked into the wee morning hours.

"We’re going to need you, Llanfrechfa." When the Earl of Manchester addressed him by his formal title, it meant the matter was serious. ‘‘It’s the elven faction, I’m afraid. They’re out to cause trouble because they think Wales isn’t getting a big enough slice of government money, the greedy bastards. Damn it, they’ve got less pollution and toxic waste down there than anywhere else in the country. What are they whining about? Probably Glendower’s doing, damn woman.” The Earl of Manchester’s antipathy toward women, in general, and the Countess of Harlech, in particular, was legendary. “We have to vote down their amendments."

“How close is it?"

“We could go down on this one. Winstanley will be sure to take note of who supported us at a difficult time.” If the earl was implying the Prime Minister’s interest, Geraint knew it meant the promise of a favor sometime in the future. Opportunities for stashing favors were Geraint’s specialty. ‘‘I know you’re a Welshman yourself, Geraint, old man, but you can be sure no one will forget your support.”

“Of course," Geraint said. “I’ll be at the House at two o’clock sharp. Perhaps we can meet in the smoking rooms for a brandy after lunch, sir." Geraint tried for just the right amount of willingness, with a terminal grovel in the “sir.” He grinned inwardly.

“Good man. Show the woman who’s boss!” The earl’s heavily lined face turned to a wash of static as Geraint cut the telecom.