"Fairlights?" Serrin was astonished, not least by the plural. Any decker he knew would have killed his own mother to get his hands on just one of the most advanced cyberdecks on the market. To even dream of owning more than one was somewhere between hallucinatory and criminal hubris.

"Not the standard variety," Michael replied airily. "I had to spend a year upgrading them. Excuse me a moment." He headed for the bathroom of his suite.

"He's too clever," the troll grumbled as the door clicked behind the Englishman.

"I need that cleverness," Serrin said defensively, thinking that the troll felt inferior to the racing-car speed of Michael's thoughts. Again, Tom sensed his feelings.

"I mean that he doesn't have much of a heart, that one," the troll said quietly. "I'm not sure I would trust him. It's all a game to him."

"Tom, if he finds out who's trying to get me, I don't care too much how he does it." Serrin replied drily. The troll shrugged his shoulders and picked up his porcelain coffee cup, scowling in disdain at its ridiculously small size. Very carefully, he filled two cups and set them out for Serrin and Michael. Then he flipped up the top of the silver coffeepot, poured some milk into it, and raised it to his lips.

"Will you come with me, Tom?" Serrin asked again. "I'll probably have to go back to New York with him, but I'm still shaken up and scared. It's not that I distrust him, but I've only just met him. You, I know. Please."

The troll finished the contents of the coffeepot and licked his lips. "You gonna pay me?"

"Three hundred nuyen a day. If we get into real danger, we can renegotiate."

"It's not for me," the troll added. "It'll all go back into Redmond."

"I know. Thanks."

There wasn't time to say more before Michael re-emerged, fastidiously wringing his freshly washed hands.

"There is a problem with going back to New York," Serrin said to him. "I mean, I'd like to, but "

"Definitely," Michael interrupted him. "I'll need you there to answer all kinds of questions when the data starts coming in. You're worried about being recognized, right?"

"Maybe it won't be a problem. Hopefully, I'm not news anymore," the elf said.

"Well, no. But with all that stuff in Newsday, think of the options! The book! The trid! The smisense well, no, not that, I shouldn't think. But we can't ignore the New York media's desire to wring dry every last dollar from something before they go on to exploit something else. Some little chancer may still find you a worthwhile target for harassment, but I've got an idea." He beckoned and Serrin followed, uncertainly. Michael threw open the doors of an absurdly large closet.

"I only have what I threw into a suitcase," Michael said apologetically. Staring at the number of suits and shirts, Serrin thought that this was excessive if Michael thought he was only going to be gone from home for a single day. This collection looked more like the traveling wardrobe of some bubble-brained simsense star.

"I know," the Englishman grinned. "It's my only vice. I can't be bothered with fast cars, I don't fry my brain with chips, drink, or dope, and since you seps think Englishmen don't know how to have fun, I don't bother with women either. Better for the image, old boy. Now, I must say I think you would look ritzy in those tweeds. You're the same height as me and even thinner. And, I think, the fedora would be a nice eccentric touch. The deerstalker would be a safer bet, though. No one would ever recognize you in that!"

A deep rumbling chuckle came from the huge frame lurking in the doorway behind them. By the time Serrin had placed one uncertain hand on the lapel of the tweed jacket, Tom was almost helpless with laughter.

Kristen was awakened at ten, having seriously overslept. Thundering blows on the door told her she'd have to pay fifteen rand for another night if she didn't get her butt out of the room within five minutes. She also realized to her dismay that she wouldn't even have time to wash up before getting kicked out. She pulled on her sweaty clothes and hissed at the ork as she opened the door. He raised an arm as if to cuff her, but she ducked under and scooted into the street.

As she started on her way, the first thing she remembered was the little computer, or whatever it was. She hoped she hadn't totally slotted it up while playing around with it, but all she could do now was try to get it to Manoj. She bent down to rub at a bug-bitten ankle, yawning in the sunshine. She needed kaf and this would, after all, be a good time to scrounge some from Manoj. He wouldn't be busy yet.

By the time she reached the Longmarket warren, the streets were crawling with tourists. Walking here, she'd done a lot of thinking about what had happened the night before. There were certainly enough maybe's. Maybe she'd left a fingerprint on the wallet before dumping it. Maybe the police already had a lock on her for the killing. They'd certainly fingerprinted her enough times. Oddly, it wasn't the uniformed police who worried her. It was the plainclothes stinkers hunting pickpockets and muggers among the crowds who did. Keeping her head down among the throng, she shuffled down the refuse-strewn back alley to the rear door of Manoj's shop. She knocked once, then pulled at the doorknob and stuck her head around the side of the door.

The usual mix of smells greeted her: sweat, incense, the residue of the oil lamps Manoj burned to save electricity, a bundle or two of lemongrass or drying proteas. The shop's owner was behind the counter, using his mix of subtle harassment and persuasion to extract a few extra rand for some trinket or other.

"From the San people, the real bushmen, madam. They exist in only a few enclaves near Namibia these days and it's very difficult to obtain such fine work now. They allow so few of these fertility charms to leave their lands."

The obese white woman in the horribly inappropriate pink-checked gingham elbowed her equally overweight husband, who was mopping sweat from his lobster-complexioned brow. "Oooh, Chuckle," she cooed in an American accent. "Look it's a fertility charm!"

Kristen smiled and slipped past them, heading for where Manoj kept the kettle and coffee in a tiny room no bigger than a wall cupboard. He wouldn't be able to bag her out now, not in the middle of a sale that was obviously going well, so she got cheeky and slid a hand across his rump as she went by. His eyes widened a little, but otherwise he didn't react at all.

By the time the couple had waddled to the door and squeezed their way out, clutching their worthless piece of junk, Kristen had two cups of scalding soykaf ready. Manoj had probably paid some sweatshop worker a few rand to stitch up the fertility doll as part of a batch of fifty or so, which he'd then sell for forty, fifty rand apiece. He was clever, yet he never managed to get rich. His shop was always being broken into, three times in the last year alone. And who could get insurance in this district? Once, the premiums had simply been too high, but now the insurance companies simply refused to issue it. That was why Manoj was careful not to leave any money on the premises after he closed up for the night. And after the last beating, he'd found himself a cheap room where he slept rather than risk being here when the tsotsis called.

"You got a nerve, girl," he growled at her, accepted the offered cup and taking a sip of the dark bitter liquid.

"Got something this morning," Kristen said brightly.

"Huh. Is it curable?"

She chuckled and took the tiny computer from her bag. Manoj looked interested in spite of himself.

"Can I go upstairs and wash up?" she asked as he turned the little box over in his hands. Taking his grunt for a yes, she clambered up the rickety steps to the dusty, disused room with its cracked washbasin. The pipes groaned as they always did whenever anyone turned on the faucet. Manoj had been letting Kristen use the place for freshening up ever since he'd quit living here, and so she kept some clean clothes here as well. He wouldn't let her sleep in the shop, though, but she didn't blame him for that. He'd never be fool enough to let someone stay here who could just as easily run downstairs to unlock the door for any thieves who might slip her a few rand for the favor.