trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbow, trousers tucked up to the knee. Once again Dreyfus was struck by the paleness of her eyes and the doll-like simplicity of her features.
“How much did Vernon tell you?” she asked.
“Enough to know that someone called through and that was enough to remove Dravidian’s offer from consideration. I’d really like to know who that mystery caller was.”
“A representative of some other group of Ultras, intent on undermining Dravidian. Does it really matter now?”
“Play along with me,” Dreyfus said.
“Assume for a minute that Dravidian was set up to make it look as if he intentionally fired on you. What reason might there have been for someone to want to hurt your family?” Her face became suspicious.
“But it was revenge, Prefect. What else could it have been?”
“I’m simply keeping an open mind. Did you or your family have enemies?”
“You’d have to ask someone else.”
“I’m asking you. What about Anthony Theobald? Had he crossed swords with anyone?”
“Anthony Theobald had friends and rivals, like anyone. But actual enemies? I wasn’t aware of any.”
“Did he leave the habitat often?”
“Now and then, to visit another state or go down to Chasm City. But there was never anything sinister about his movements.”
“What about visitors—get many of those?”
“We kept ourselves to ourselves, by and large.”
“So no visitors.”
“I didn’t say that. Yes, of course people came by. We weren’t hermits. Anthony Theobald had his usual guests; I had the occasional fellow artist or critic.”
“None of whom would have had any pressing reason to see you dead?”
“Speaking for myself, no.”
“And Anthony Theobald—what were his guests like?” He caught it then: the tiniest flicker of hesitation in her answer.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, Prefect.” Dreyfus nodded, allowing her to think he was content to let the matter stand. He knew he’d touched on something, however peripheral it might prove, but his years of experience had taught him that it would be counterproductive to dig away at it now. Delphine would be conflicted between her blood loyalty to Anthony Theobald and her desire to see justice served, and too much probing from him now might cause her to clam up irrevocably.
He would have to earn her trust.
“The point is,” she went on, “I really wasn’t interested in family or Glitter Band politics. I had—have—my art. That was all that interested me.”
“Let’s talk about your art, then. Could someone have been jealous of your success?” She looked stunned.
“Enough to kill nine hundred and sixty people?”
“Crimes aren’t always proportionate to motive.”
“I can’t think of anyone. If I’d been the talk of Stoner society, we wouldn’t have been dealing with a second- rate trader like Dravidian.”
Dreyfus bit his tongue, keeping his policeman’s poker face fixed firmly in place.
“All the same, someone wanted you all dead, and I’ll sleep easier when I know the reason.”
“I wish I could help.”
“You still can. I want you to tell me when that call came through.”
“While Dravidian was visiting us.”
“If you could narrow it down, that would help.”
The beta-level closed her eyes momentarily.
“The call came in at fourteen hours, twenty-three minutes, fifty-one seconds, Yellowstone Standard Time.”
“Thank you,” Dreyfus said.
“Freeze—” he began.
“Are we done?” Delphine asked, cutting him off before he had finished issuing the command.
“For now. If there’s anything else I need from you, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
“And now you’re going to put me back in the box?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about art.”
“We did.”
“No, we discussed the possibility of my art being a motivating factor in the crime. We didn’t discuss the art itself.” Dreyfus shrugged easily.
“We can, if you think it’s relevant.”
“You don’t?”
“The art appears to be a peripheral detail, unless you think otherwise. You yourself expressed doubt that jealousy could have been a motivating factor.” Dreyfus paused and reconsidered.
“That said, your reputation was building, wasn’t it?” Delphine looked at him sourly.
“You make it sound as if my life story’s already written, down to the last footnote.”
“From where I’m standing…” But then Dreyfus remembered what Vernon had told him concerning Delphine’s belief in the validity of beta-level simulation.
“What?” Delphine said.
“Things will be different. Won’t they?”
“Different. Not necessarily worse. You still don’t believe in me, do you?”
“I’m trying my best,” Dreyfus replied.
“The last time we spoke, I asked you a question.”
“Did you?”
“I asked you if you’d ever lost a loved one.”
“I answered you.”
“Evasively.” She fixed him with a long, searching stare.
“You have lost someone, haven’t you? Not just a colleague or friend. Someone closer than that.”
“We’ve all lost people.”
“Who was it, Prefect Dreyfus? Who did you lose?”
“Tell me why you chose to work on the Lascaille series. Why did you care about what happened to a man you never knew?”
“Those are personal questions for an artist.”
“I’m wondering if you made any enemies when you picked that theme.”
“And I’m wondering why you find it so difficult to acknowledge my conscious existence. This person who died—did something happen that made you turn against beta-levels?” Her eyes flashed an insistent sea-green, daring him to look away.
“Who was it, Prefect? Quid pro quo. Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”
“I’ve got a job to do, Delphine. Empathising with software isn’t part of it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“No,” Dreyfus said, something inside him snapping, “you aren’t ’sorry’. ’Sorry’ would imply the presence of a thinking mind, a sentient will capable of experiencing the emotion called ’regret’. You’re saying that you are sorry because that’s what the living Delphine would have said under similar circumstances. But it doesn’t mean you feel it.”
“You really don’t think I’m alive, in any sense of the word?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Delphine nodded coolly.
“In which case: why are you arguing with me?”
Dreyfus reached for an automatic answer, but nothing came. The moment dragged, Delphine regarding him
