"You should see a doctor."

"What do they know? You can't trust them."

He smiled. "Odd comment from a man whose life was recently saved by one."

The waitress appeared with my beer, in a elaborate ceramic stein. She scurried away, I took a sip, and—

A stab of pain, like an ice pick to the head. Malcolm must have seen me wince.

"Jake? Jake, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "The beer's very cold."

The pain was dissipating. I took another sip.

"You'll feel better after you've eaten," said Malcolm.

I thought about that. I thought about food that had been prepared especially for me.

I thought about the easiest possible solution to Immortex's problem of me wanting to go back to Earth. I felt another twinge, an aftershock from the pain of a moment ago. "Actually," I said, rising, "I think I'll pass on dinner. I'm going to go lie down."

Malcolm's face was a study in concern. But, after a moment, he made a show of rubbing his belly. "Well, lucky me. Two steaks!"

I forced a laugh, and headed for the door. But I knew he'd leave the one that came with asparagus untouched. Whatever else he was, Malcolm Draper was no fool.

"Please state and spell your name for the record," said the clerk, a slim black male with a pencil-thin mustache.

A man with skin darker than mine but lighter than the clerk's was facing him, one hand on a bound copy of one of the several holy books available for this purpose.

"First name: Pandit, P-A-N-D-I-T. Second name: Chandragupta, C-H-A-N-D-R-A-G-U-P-T-A."

"Be seated," said the clerk.

Chandragupta sat down just as Deshawn stood up. "Dr. Chandragupta," Deshawn said. "You issued the death certificate in this case, correct?"

"Yes."

"Are you Karen Bessarian's personal physician?"

"No."

"Have you ever been?"

"No."

"Did you ever treat her for any malady, condition, or disease?"

"No."

"Do you know if she has a personal physician?"

"Yes. That is, I know who was treating her before she died."

"And who is that?"

"His name is Donald Kohl."

"And is Dr. Kohl a colleague of yours?"

"No."

"Where do you work, Dr. Chandragupta?"

"The Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore."

"And is that where you claim Karen died?"

"No."

"Where are you licensed to practice medicine?"

"In Maryland. Also in Connecticut."

"Did Karen die in Maryland?"

"No."

"Did Karen die in Connecticut?"

"No."

"Are you a licensed medical examiner?"

"No, I'm—"

"Just answer the questions as put to you, Doctor," said Deshawn, firmly but politely.

"Are you a licensed medical examiner?"

"No."

"Are you a state or county coroner?"

"No."

"And yet you issued a death certificate in this case, did you not?"

"Yes."

"Where did you issue this death certificate — not where you claim Karen died, but where did you generate the paperwork?"

"In Baltimore."

"Did you do this of your own volition?"

"Yes."

"Really, Dr. Chandragupta, let's try that question again: did you issue the so-called death certificate of your own volition, or did you do it upon someone's request?"

"Well, if you put it like that … the latter. At someone's request."

"Whose?"

"Tyler Horowitz's."

"The defendant in this case?"

"Yes."

"He asked you to issue a death certificate?"

"Yes."

"Did he initiate contact with you, or did you initiate contact with him?"

"I contacted him first," said Chandragupta.

"Were you aware that Tyler stood to inherit tens of billions of dollars when you contacted him?"

"Not as an absolute fact, no."

"But you suspected it?"

"It seemed logical, yes."

"Did you charge him anything to issue that certificate?"

"Naturally there is a fee for such a service."

"Naturally," said Deshawn, his voice dripping venom. He looked meaningfully at the jury box. The jurors looked back, but I couldn't tell what they were thinking.

"Mr. Draper, please," said Chandragupta, spreading his arms. "I know Canada is just across the river from here, and that we have some Canadians in the courtroom.

But, honestly, there is nothing immoral or unusual about a doctor making money for services rendered."

"No," said Deshawn. "I'm sure there isn't." He walked over to the jury box, and stood beside it, as if he had somehow become an eighth juror. "Tell us, though, exactly what fee you charged."

"I admit that Mr. Horowitz was most generous, but—"

"The dollar amount, if you please."

"I was paid one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for this service."

Deshawn looked at the jurors, almost inviting them to whistle. One of them did.

"Thank you, Dr. Chandragupta. Your witness, Ms. Lopez."

"Dr. Chandragupta," she said, rising from her seat next to Tyler, "you said you are a medical doctor?"

"I am."

"And what is your medical specialty?"

"I am a surgeon, specializing in cerebrospinal circulatory issues."

I shifted in my seat. I wondered what, if anything, he knew about Katerinsky's syndrome.

"Where did Ms. Bessarian die?"

Deshawn was on his feet. "Objection, your honor. Assumes facts not in evidence.

We have not determined that Ms. Bessarian is, in fact, dead. Indeed, we assert exactly the opposite."

Judge Herrington did his small-mouthed frown. "Mr. Draper, Detroit is not your home turf. Most lawyers in this town know that I hate picayune semantic distinctions." My heart sank, but Herrington went on. "However, I concede that you do have a point in this instance. Sustained."

Lopez nodded graciously. "Very well. Dr. Chandragupta, do you personally believe that Karen Bessarian is dead?"

"I do, yes."

"And where is it that you personally believe that Karen Bessarian died?"

"In Heaviside Crater, on the far side of the moon."

"And how do you know this?"

"Because I was there." I could see several members of the jury sitting up straight at this.

"What were you doing on the moon?" asked Lopez

"I had been flown there to perform surgery — they were requiring my expertise."

That was a comforting thought, I suppose. Nice to know that Immortex really did look after its charges.

"So there are no other doctors at Heaviside?" continued Lopez.

"Oh, but no. There are several — perhaps a dozen. Good ones, too, I might add."

"But they lacked your particular skills?"

"Correct."

"The patient you had gone to the moon to treat was not Ms. Bessarian, was it?"

"No."

"Then what contact did you have with Ms. Bessarian there?"

"I was on hand at her death."

"How did that circumstance arise?"

"I was in the medical facility at Heaviside when the Code Blue sounded."

"Code Blue?"

"A standard hospital code for cardiac arrest. Recall that I am a circulatory specialist.

When I heard it announced, I ran into the corridor, saw other doctors and nurses running — indeed, fairly bouncing off the walls in the low lunar gravity. I joined them, reaching the hospital room containing Ms. Bessarian at the same time her personal physician did."

"That would be the Dr. Donald Kohl you mentioned during direct?" asked Lopez.

"That's right."

"Then what happened?"

"Dr. Kohl tried defibrillating Ms. Bessarian."

"And the result?"

"The results were negative. Ms. Bessarian passed away then and there. I must say, Dr. Kohl performed admirably, doing everything he should. And he seemed quite genuinely saddened by Karen Bessarian's passing."

"I'm sure he was," said Lopez. She looked meaningfully at the jury, "As are we all."

Her voice wasn't one that carried sympathy well, but she was trying. "Still, wouldn't it normally be Dr. Kohl who would have issued a death certificate?"