That’s my girl. Always ready with tender wisdom. I found myself actually breathless with anticipation, getting close to her at last. Beyond just missing Clara, I also knew she’d have insights about my predicament with Kaolin, Maharal, and Universal Kilns. Anyway, I wanted to reach her before word got through that I’d been killed in my home by a terror missile. Maybe she’s been too distracted to watch any news, I hoped. The last thing I wanted was for her to be worried or in mourning while she still had a job to do for team and country.

“Oh my,” Ritu Maharal commented while peering into the arena at a maelstrom of bellowing carnage transpiring within. “I never realized all this could be so—” She fell short, breathless, unable to find words.

I was peering, too. Not at the fight but the surroundings, seeking a particular entity. The object of my quest wouldn’t have fangs. It wouldn’t be an archie, either. Professionals have better things to do with realtime than attend this amateur exhibition in person.

“You never realized all this could all be so what?” I asked, making conversation absently. There were some big forklift-type dittos on the other side of the ring, assigned to haul away losers before their smoldering bodies could turn into slurry. But no. That was a lot of pseudoflesh to invest. I was betting on something more compact, economical.

“So exciting! I always felt a kind of aloof superiority toward this kind of thing. But you know, if I imprinted one of these combat dittos, I bet I’d actually stay interested in the same thing for a day … both of me, I mean.”

“Hm, great … unless your monstrous alter ego turned around and bit you in half,” I commented. Rita blanched but I continued to scan. The one I sought would need a good vantage point, yet shouldn’t be obvious to all the aficionados flocking round this place. What if they don’t send anybody? I worried. Maybe the professionals just use some hidden camera to keep an eye on -

Then I spotted the guy. I felt sure of it. A small figure, shambling about the edges of the arena, poking at each fallen warrior, reading their pellets with a narrow stick-probe. He looked like a chimp or gibbon. You see little fellows like him all over town, so common they almost fade into the background.

Of course, I thought, the tax collector.

“Come on,” I told Ritu, pulling at her when she tried to stay and watch the end of a bout. I swear, I almost left her right there, so anxious was I to move on. Fortunately, one contestant struck the other a fatal blow just then, sending its massive body crashing with a thud that set the whole amphitheater vibrating and the crowd frenetically cheering.

“Let’s go!” I shouted.

This time she came.

The ape grunted and spat when I called to him from behind the arena. He squatted on his haunches atop a wooden pillar, idly watching the next event.

“Go ’way,” he muttered, in a voice only a little more clear than a real chimp’s.

Naturally, I wasn’t the first to have figured out his guise. It must be a nuisance when amateurs come over and try to influence him with direct appeals.

“I need to talk to a member of the 442nd,” I said.

“Sure. You an’ every other fan, after the assault on Moesta Ridge. But sorry, no autographs till after the war, pal.”

“I’m no fan. This message is personal and urgent. She’ll want to hear it, believe me!”

The chimp spat again, brown slip with a touch of arsenic glaze. “And why should I believe you?”

Frustration boiled inside, but I kept my voice even.

“Because if Sergeant Clara Gonzales finds out that you kept me from getting through to her, she’ll grab you by the archie and give you a memory you’ll never get rid of.”

The ape blinked at me a couple of times.

“You do sound like you know Clara. Who are you?”

It was a dangerous moment. But what choice did I have?

I told him … and those dark eyes stared at me. “So, you’re the ghost of poor Albert the ditective, come all this way to bid her good-bye. Damn shame what happened to you, man! Getting torched by a hoodoo missile always hurts. I can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like in person.”

“Uh, right. I kind of hoped to reach Clara before she found out about it.”

The pseudochimp tsked and shook his head. “I wish you had, fellah. ’Cause you wasted your remaining span coming out here. The minute Clara heard the news, she took off!”

It was my turn to stare in surprise.

“She … went AWOL? In the middle of a war?”

“Not only that, she snatched a guv’ment copter and flew straight to the city. Our team commander’s in a funk over this, let me tell you!”

“I can’t believe it.” My legs felt weak and my heart beat hard.

“Yeah, ironic. She drops everything rushing to town, only to miss your ghost who rushed out to console her.”

The observer-scout leaped off his perch to land next to me and held out a hand. “I’m Gordon Chen, corporal in the 117th Support Company. We met once, I think, when you came down for last year’s playoffs.”

An image came to mind, of a rather tall half-Oriental fellow with perfect posture and a gentle smile … about the least simian-looking human being I ever saw. Yet he wore this body with ease. “Yeah,” I answered absently. “At a party after the Uzbek semi-final match. We talked about gardening.”

“Uh-huh. So it really is you.” His ditto-teeth looked formidable when he grinned. “Gautama! I often wondered how it must feel to be a ghost. Is it weird?” He shook his head. “Forget I asked. Is there’s anything I can do for you, Albert? Just ask.”

There was something he could do for me. But asking could wait a few seconds. Or minutes. I still had to let it all sink in. My disappointment at having missed Clara. Plus surprise that she could be so impulsive. But above all, one transfixing fact.

I always knew she cared for me. We’re great friends, good in bed. We make each other laugh.

But for her to pull a crazy stunt like this! Dropping everything to go sift the ashes of my house, hoping and praying that I wasn’t there when it blew up … Why, she must actually love me!

Over the course of the last two days I had learned that I was both a crime suspect and a target for assassins. I’d been ambushed, left for dead, then endured a harsh desert trek, and faced even more disappointing setbacks. Yet, despite all that, I suddenly found myself feeling rather … well … happy.

If I survive the efforts of my enemies, and don’t wind up a corpse or in jail, I’m going to have to talk to her. Rethink our reluctance to -

Just then, the ongoing background noise of grunting combat gave way to a loud sizzle, followed by a wet-heavy swatting sound. The crowd of ecstatic archies stood up all at once, roaring and setting the spiderweb grandstand jiggling as a spiky round object soared out of the arena in a high arc, dripping trails of gore behind it.

“Sherds!” Corporal Chen cried, leaping back with apelike agility. Ritu and I hurried after, barely dodging as a fanged and glowering head struck just meters away, rolling to a stop near my feet.

Rapid golem-dissolution was already setting in as smoke and slurry poured out both ears, staining the moist sand. The owner of this head better fetch it quick, if he wanted a complete inload. All those barbs and horns and stingers might be part of a hobbyist’s loving, homemade combat design, but I sure wasn’t bending over to touch the huge, snaggle-toothed thing!

And yet, even after what it had just been through, the head still clung to consciousness. Crocodillian eyes blinked for a few seconds, focusing briefly with an expression more disappointed than tragic. The jaw moved. Trying to speak. Against my better judgment, I bent closer.

“Wow …” the head whispered, while light still glinted in those feral eyes. “What … a … russshhh … !”