Identity Theft

Well, it didn’t seem to make any sense to deny it. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I’ve been checking you out over the last few days,” said Pickover. “I’d been thinking of, ah, engaging your services.”

We continued to walk along, little clouds of dust rising each time our feet touched the ground. “What for?” I said.

“You first, if you don’t mind,” said Pickover. “Why did you come to see me?”

He already knew who I was, and I had a very good idea who he was, so I decided to put my cards on the table. “I’m working for your wife.”

Pickover’s artificial face looked perplexed. “My… wife?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Sure you do. You’re Joshua Wilkins, and your wife’s name is Cassandra.”

“What? No, I’m Rory Pickover. You know that. You called me.”

“Come off it, Wilkins. The jig is up. You transferred your consciousness into the body intended for the real Rory Pickover, and then you took off.”

“I — oh. Oh, Christ.”

“So, you see, I know. Too bad, Wilkins. You’ll hang — or whatever the hell they do with transfers — for murdering Pickover.”

“No.” He said it softly.

“Yes,” I replied, and now I pulled out my revolver. It really wouldn’t be much use against an artificial body, but until quite recently Wilkins had been biological; hopefully, he was still intimidated by guns.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Back under the dome, to the police station. I’ll have Cassandra meet us there, just to confirm your identity.”

The sun had slipped below the horizon now. He spread his arms, a supplicant against the backdrop of the gathering night. “Okay, sure, if you like. Call up this Cassandra, by all means. Let her talk to me. She’ll tell you after questioning me for two seconds that I’m not her husband. But — Christ, damn, Christ.”

“What?”

“I want to find him, too.”

“Who? Joshua Wilkins?”

He nodded, then, perhaps thinking I couldn’t see his nod in the growing darkness, said, “Yes.”

“Why?”

He tipped his head up, as if thinking. I followed his gaze. Phobos was visible, a dark form overhead. At last, he spoke again. “Because I’m the reason he’s disappeared.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“That’s why I was thinking of hiring you myself. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“Turn for what?”

Pickover looked at me. “I did go to NewYou, Mr. Lomax. I knew I was going to have an enormous amount of work to do out here on the surface now, and I wanted to be able to spend days — weeks! — in the field, without worrying about running out of air, or water, or food.”

I frowned. “But you’ve been here on Mars for six mears; I read that in your file. What’s changed?”

“Everything, Mr. Lomax.” He looked off in the distance. “Everything!” But he didn’t elaborate on that.

Instead, he said. “I certainly know this Wilkins chap you’re looking for; I went to his store, and had him transfer my consciousness from my old biological body into this one. But he also kept a copy of my mind — I’m sure of that.”

I raised my eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“Because my computer accounts have been compromised. There’s no way anyone but me can get in; I’m the only one who knows the passphrase. But someone has been inside, looking around; I use quantum encryption, so you can tell whenever someone has even looked at a file.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he did it — there must be some technique I’m unaware of — but somehow Wilkins has been extracting information from the copy of my mind. That’s the only way I can think of that anyone might have learned my passphrase.”

“You think Wilkins did all this to access your bank accounts? Is there really enough money in them to make it worth starting a new life in somebody else’s body? It’s too dark to see your clothes right now, but, if I recall correctly, they looked a bit… shabby.”

“You’re right. I’m just a poor scientist. But there’s something I know that could make the wrong people rich beyond their wildest dreams.”

“And what’s that?” I said.

He continued to walk along, trying to decide, I suppose, whether to trust me. I let him think about that, and at last, Dr. Rory Pickover, who was now just a starless silhouette against a starry sky, said, in a soft, quiet voice, “I know where it is.”

“Where what is?”

“The alpha deposit.”

“The what?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Paleontologist’s jargon. What I mean is, I’ve found it: I’ve found the mother lode. I’ve found the place where Weingarten and O’Reilly had been excavating. I’ve found the source of the best preserved, most-complete Martian fossils.”

“My God,” I said. “You’ll be rolling in it.”

Perhaps he shook his head; it was now too dark to tell. “No, sir,” he said, in that cultured English voice. “No, I won’t. I don’t want to sell these fossils. I want to preserve them; I want to protect them from these plunderers, these… these thieves. I want to make sure they’re collected properly, scientifically. I want to make sure they end up in the best museums, where they can be studied. There’s so much to be learned, so much to discover!”

“Does Wilkins know now where this… what did you call it? This alpha deposit is?”

“No — at least, not from accessing my computer files. I didn’t record the location anywhere but up here.”

Presumably he was tapping the side of his head.

“But you think Wilkins extracted the passphrase from a copy of your mind?”

“He must have.”

“And now he’s presumably trying to extract the location of the alpha deposit from that copy of your mind.”

“Yes, yes! And if he succeeds, all will be lost! The best specimens will be sold off into private collections — trophies for some trillionaire’s estate, hidden forever from science.”

I shook my head. “But this doesn’t make any sense. I mean, how would Wilkins even know that you had discovered the alpha deposit?”

Suddenly Pickover’s voice was very small. “I’d gone in to NewYou — you have to go in weeks in advance of transferring, of course, so you can tell them what you want in a new body; it takes time to custom-build one to your specifications.”

“Yes. So?”

“So, I wanted a body ideally suited to paleontological work on the surface of Mars; I wanted some special modifications — the kinds of the things only the most successful prospectors could afford. Reinforced knees; extra arm strength for moving rocks; extended spectral response in the eyes, so that fossils will stand out better; night vision so that I could continue digging after dark; but…”

I nodded. “But you didn’t have enough money.”

“That’s right. I could barely afford to transfer at all, even into the cheapest off-the-shelf body, and so…”

He trailed off, too angry at himself, I guess, to give voice to what was in his mind. “And so you hinted that you were about to come into some wealth,” I said, “and suggested that maybe he could give you what you needed now, and you’d make it up to him later.”

Pickover sounded sad. “That’s the trouble with being a scientist; sharing information is our natural mode.”

“Did you tell him precisely what you’d found?” I asked.

“No. No, but he must have guessed. I’m a paleontologist, I’ve been studying Weingarten and O’Reilly for years — all of that is a matter of public record. He must have figured out that I knew where their fossil beds are. After all, where else would a guy like me get money?” He sighed. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

“Well, Mensa isn’t going to be calling you any time soon.”

“Please don’t rub it in, Mr. Lomax. I feel bad enough as it is, and—” His voice cracked; I’d never heard a transfer’s do that before. “And now I’ve put all those lovely, lovely fossils in jeopardy! Will you help me, Mr. Lomax? Please say you’ll help me!”

I nodded. “All right. I’m on the case.”

* * *

We went back into the dome, and I called Raoul Santos on my commlink, getting him to meet me at Rory Pickover’s little apartment at the center of town. It was four floors up, and consisted of three small rooms — an interior unit, with no windows.

When Raoul arrived, I made introductions. “Raoul Santos, this is Rory Pickover. Raoul here is the best computer expert we’ve got in New Klondike. And Dr. Pickover is a paleontologist.”

Raoul tipped his broad forehead at Pickover. “Good to meet you.”

“Thank you,” said Pickover. “Forgive the mess, Mr. Santos. I live alone. A lifelong bachelor gets into bad habits, I’m afraid.” He’d already cleared debris off of one chair for me; he now busied himself doing the same with another chair, this one right in front of his home computer.

“What’s up, Alex?” asked Raoul, indicating Pickover with a movement of his head. “New client?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Dr. Pickover’s computer files have been looked at by some unauthorized individual. We’re wondering if you could tell us from where the access attempt was made.”

“You’ll owe me a nice round of drinks at the Bent Chisel,” said Raoul.

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll put it on my tab.”

Raoul smiled, and stretched his arms out, fingers interlocked, until his knuckles cracked. Then he took the now-clean seat in front of Pickover’s computer and began to type. “How do you lock you files?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the monitor.

“A verbal passphrase,” said Pickover.

“Anybody besides you know it?”

Pickover shook his artificial head. “No.”