“I’m not here to ask ghoulish questions, Mrs. Samji,” Carla said quickly. Searching for inspiration, she remembered the information she’d gleaned from the encyclopedia. “1 work the religion beat. I understand that Mr. Samji was an important member of his temple. I want to do a profile on him… a simple obituary. I think the story could help to increase awareness of the Zoroastrian faith. I’m sure your husband would have liked to see an increase in membership in the temple, and this story just might-”

The screen beside the com pad flickered to life, framing Ravinder Samji’s head and shoulders. Carla quickly focused her cybereye on the image.

Mrs. Samji proved to be a small woman with long black hair that was twisted up into a bun at the back of her neck. She wore a mauve jumpsuit that looked as if it were made out of raw silk, and gold earrings that glittered against her dark skin. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as if she’d been crying. There were dark circles under them that she hadn’t bothered to hide with makeup. Although she met Carla’s gaze, she kept glancing down.

“Farazad would have liked a story on the temple,” Mrs. Samji said softly. She gnawed at her lip with white teeth. “I do not have to talk about my husbands death?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Carla answered. She kept her fingers crossed, hoping the corn unit didn’t have a lie detection spell built into it. At the home of a mage, anything was possible.

Mrs. Samji looked down at something off-screen again, hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”

Locks clicked and the door swung open.

Mrs. Samji stood just inside the door. Carla glanced down to see what she had been looking at. It turned out to be a hazy, doglike shape-a magical spirit of some sort. As the creature trotted out from behind the door, Carla could see that it had only partially manifested on the physical plane. It had a translucent, ghostly body about the size of a terrier, with a head like a Chinese lion.

“This must be the watcher that your message board warned me about,” Carla said. “Is it one of your husband’s magical creations?”

“A watcher?” Mrs. Samji shifted uneasily. “Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s one of Miyuki’s creatures, not Farazad’s. She left it here for me yesterday, as… protection for the children and myself. She said that people might try to take advantage of a woman whose husband had recently died. It’s much more powerful than our usual-”

“That was kind of Miyuki,” Carla said, smiling. “She must be a good friend.”

A peculiar look crossed Mrs. Samji’s face. “Yes. A good friend. Of my husband.” The comment seemed to be directed as much at the lion-headed dog as it was at Carla.

Carla filed that away for future use. Clearly Mrs. Samji didn’t like this Miyuki-whoever she was. Yet she’d accepted a magical creature from her that made her nervous. Interesting.

“May I come in?” Carla asked. She braced a foot against the floor, in case Mrs. Samji changed her mind about the interview and tried to shut it suddenly.

“I suppose that would be possible,” Mrs. Samji answered, glancing down again at the creature.

The lion-headed dog backed up, but kept Carla under its scrutiny. She thought she could see tiny drops of mist dripping from its bared fangs, but that might have just been her imagination. The creature, despite its small size, projected a palpable aura of menace.

Mrs. Samji ushered Carla into a living room furnished with two overstuffed leather couches and an expensive-looking trideo home entertainment unit that took up most of one corner. Children’s toys were neatly lined up like soldiers on parade at one edge of the room. From the plush feel of the carpet, Carla suspected that it was real wool. The lion-headed dog followed them into the room, its feet leaving faint gray smudges on the white carpet. As Mrs. Samji settled onto one of the couches, it sat by her ankle. She glanced uneasily at it before beginning to talk. Carla thought she saw the creature’s head move slightly, a bobbing motion something like a nod.

“Where is your camera?” Mrs. Samji asked.

Carla settled into the opposite couch. “I don’t need one,” she said. “This is an informal interview-more like a chat.” While she spoke, she adjusted the zoom in her eyecam for a tight shot of Mrs. Samji’s hands. The woman was twisting the rings on her fingers; the shot could be edited into Carla’s story as evidence of a widow’s grief. Noticing that a vase was slightly blocking the shot. Carla reached across the table between the two couches to shift it slightly. As soon as she sat back, Mrs. Samji leaned forward to slide the vase back into its original position. It was an instinctive action, the habitual act of someone who liked everything in its proper place. Exactly in place.

“You wanted to know about my husband’s work with the temple?” Mrs. Samji asked.

“The temple, yes” Carla answered. “Please tell me about it.” Having bluffed her way in here, she decided to let Mrs. Samji talk and see what came up. She would work in questions about Mitsuhama as the opportunity arose.

Zooming out again to capture a full-length shot of Mrs. Samji as she started to speak, Carla spotted a holo image of Farazad on a side table. She shifted along the couch until it appeared in her field of view, just over Mrs. Samji’s shoulder. The holo of the mage, holding what Carla presumed was one of his infant children in his arms, would make a nice graphic element.

“Farazad often spoke at the mabad-at the temple,” Mrs. Samji began. “His father was a mubad-a priest-and his grandfather before him. My husband could have claimed the title as well, but instead he chose to study magic. He regarded his studies as a religious practice, as a way of becoming closer to his god. He often spoke of this at the temple, and encouraged others to follow the hermetic tradition. He said that magic was a manifestation of the divine spark that exists within all-”

“Let me make sure I have your husband’s history correct,” Carla interrupted. “Instead of becoming a priest, Mr. Samji worked as a mage. For which company?”

“Mitsuhama Computer Technologies,” Mrs. Samji answered, after a brief glance at the creature at her feet.

“He was employed there at the time of his death?” Carla asked.

Mrs. Samji’s lips whitened slightly as she pressed them together. “Yes.”

“Working in their magical research and development lab?”

The pause lasted longer this time, “Yes.”

“What sort of work did he do for them?”

“What does it matter?” Mrs. Samji replied. “Farazad was planning on taking a leave of absence from Musuhama, and devoting himself to the temple.”

“But if you could just tell me a little more about his work with Mitsu-”

“I thought you wanted to talk about the temple,” Mrs. Samji said, frowning.

“Of course,” Carla answered smoothly. “This is just background material-the usual sort of questions a reporter asks when doing an obit piece. Name, occupation, age, names of surviving family members, number of years spent with the corporation, the type of work he did for Mitsuhama, whether he was working on anything especially important when he died…”

“1 thought you were a religious reporter.” A hint of hostility had crept into Mrs. Samji’s voice.

“I am,” Carla said, backpedaling quickly. “I find Zoroastrianism one of the most interesting of the world’s religions. I’d like to hear more about its history. and its founder, Zarathustra. Perhaps you could start by telling me more about him. And about the significance of the eternal flame that bums in your temple.”

She seemed to have allayed Mrs. Samji’s suspicions. at least for the moment. The woman picked up a framed flatscreen portrait of Zarathustra from the table beside her and held it out for Carla to look at. It showed a young man with a full brown beard and flowing hair, wearing a white robe and hat. His eyes looked earnestly up-to heaven, Carla supposed. Mrs. Sarnji began talking about the life of the prophet, explaining how he had aided the poor and extolled the virtues of morality and justice. Carla bided her time, waiting for another lead that would allow her to ask about Mitsuliama. In the meantime, she focused her cybereye on a point just over the woman’s shoulder. A door in the wall behind her was partially open. Using her low-light boosters and image enhancers, Carla could see that it led to a study. A desk just inside it held a typical business work station. Everything in the room was neat and orderly, from the two pairs of men’s slippers lined up with perpendicular precision against the wall to the precisely aligned row of family portraits on the shelf above the desk. The only exception to this rigid neatness was the work-station itself. An interface cable lay in an untidy heap on the floor, and empty plastic memory chip cases had spilled onto the chair. A cyberdeck lay wrong-side-up on the desk, its circuitry exposed. It looked as though the decks central processing unit had recently been removed.