I'd just stepped through the gateway when the station took a power hit. All of the lights went out and I heard a sound like a side of bloody pork hitting the platform behind me as something fell against the back of my legs. I stepped away and turned around just in time to have the lights come back on and show me the sight of a man's body cut in half by the translator interruption.

Make that a woman's body.

As a professional snoop I'm trained in the aspects of forensic pathology that deal with murders but what made me sure was the purse. None of my business and I had a meeting to get to. A guy named Alfonse was supposed to be waiting for me. Now, he seperated himself from the surrounding crowd and introduced himself.

"Good day, Mister Gather." Alfonse extended his hand. He could have starred in an Arabian Knights movie. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Your bag, please." This guy was one cold character. We shook hands as I handed him my overnighter. Ignoring the gore and the horrified crowd we left the terminus.

What the propoganda says about Surly is about a half percent of the truth. Sure, you can make a fortune at the tables or just for being in the right place at the right time. Mostly, though, anyone going there arrives with a target painted in neon on his back. The advertising bureau doesn't like to let on that there are more murders per capita than in any other pleasure cone in the galaxy. They get around it by not publishing transient disappearances and deaths, dealing only with full-time residents. Only after a year is resident status givenand and you gotta figure that after the first year the "transients" have pretty much been weeded out. There, of the seventy three station worlds, Surly only ranks fifth.

I didn't visit Surly very often and only when the job would be quick and the pay was excellent. This time, a wealthy gentleman had commissioned me to find a kid. All he gave me were prints, a vid without audio, and ten grand. He promised me thirty more when the kid was returned. With fourty g's I could retire. Not real comfortably, but at thirty six that's good enough.

"Mister Brewer asked that I inform you of the progress in the case to date, Mister Gather." Alphonse breifed me as he drove. I knew the story so far. Kid runs away from home, dad wants him back but can't pay. In steps grandad with all the bucks dad needs to bring the kid home. Brian Brewer had been disked entering through the same translator as I had. The playback had confirmed it. So the kid had to be here. On Surly. The only exit was by translator or ship, except noone uses ships these days. But it bothered me.

Alphonse read as a guy who could handle the case, so why didn't he? I asked.

"I'm Mister Brewer's personal representative on Surly." is how he began. So the guy had been here for some time. Must be tougher than he looks. "As such, I am disallowed certain activities, such as entering the, how shall I say this, less reputable parts of the cone. As I was saying, the boy was last seen in the Pauper segments."

Segments. Each segment of a cone is a self contained pressure tight vessel. But, the sections have a wall in common so if the wall between is cut you have one segment. This was Pauper, except that its dangerous district is built of what used to be six or seven segments. You don't go to Pauper without protection.

"I'm wanting a gun and a sheath." I said. With the small calibers a sheath is complete protection. As you get into bigger rounds you can get bruised or broken bones, but broken bones are better than dead. "Where you got me booked to stay?"

"The Sackton. Mister Brewer had you thoroughly researched and I received your file four days ago." Alphonse said.

Four days ago Mister Brewer hadn't called me yet. I didn't know whether to be pleased or pissed so I decided to be nervous.

It isn't polite to snoop on a snoop.

The car pulled in to the hotel lobby. A bellhop was grabbing my bag out of the rack while I got out. This was a classy place with the smell of planetside air circulating around with the smell of a Juniper forest, making the air from the car smell canned.

I put Brian's file in my jacket pocket and followed the bellhop to my room and dialed the air to "Wheat field."

The dead broad at the translator should have been me. I could consider that now. Alphonse had the stare of a sensor. If I had seemed to consider the situation significant while he had been watching he would have seen and reacted. I could be dead.

Alphonse wasn't stupid. He knew that if I spent enough time to investigate I could give testimony. The better part of staying alive is caution. Anyway, I should be dead so someone's plans had gone wrong.

In the mean time, I had to find this kid.

A sheath was hidden inside the suitcase I'd brought and I put it on. The feeling as the thing conforms to my skin bugs the hell out of me, especially the way it covers my eyeballs. A friend of mine was killed when his sheath was impregnated with a general allergenic. Alphonse wouldn't know about that particular friend, I had dumped his body into a furnace translator, so he might not know about my sheath.

Anyway, down to cases. I dialed for a pot of tea and a bottle of O'Darby's cream and made myself drunk. It took three minutes to assimilate the skimpy Brian file. "Damn," I said to myself. Now, I felt really nervous because the thing was a phoney. Whoever had compiled this file had not wanted much information in it. "Damn." I said again. If I called Alphonse, he would say something like, Mister Brewer wanted a fresh viewpoint.

I fell asleep wondering what a plug nickle could buy these days.

Warm flesh. Movement. As I woke, I was moments away from orgasm. Some woman had crept into bed with me and taken me in my sleep.

"My name is Sugar," she began. Standing at the mirror, she was brushing her long, pale blue hair back from her flawless face. The rest of her was damned nice too.

"Thanks for the wakeup call. The last time I stayed here they used the phone."

Sugar smiled at my reflection as I studied hers. Golden eyes. The kind you get when a Swede and a Black get a kid, except that her skin was white and her pubes were blonde. This woman was serious class.

"How do I rate?" I wanted to know.

"Mister Alphonse said that you were working for Mister Brewer. He thought that you would be pleased." I was.

"What do you know about the Brewer kid? Or are you only the wakeup girl?" Alphonse wouldn't send a woman like this to me for no good reason. Maybe he was jittery about his boss sending someone else to work his turf. She would have noticed the sheath and would report it to her boss. Damn.

"I read his file. Mister Alfonse said that I'm supposed to help you if you'll let me." Very direct stare. Serious. Damn, damn.

"You better put one of these on." Getting out of bed and going to the delivery slot, I tossed her at random one of the two sheath packets which she caught with a grimace. She had worn them before, apparently, and immediately removed the lozenge and pressed it between her perfect breasts. I watched as it dissipated across her skin and became invisible. She blinked several times rapidly, repeating the grimace from before.

I had stepped through the clean booth and began dressing. "I hate 'em too." I thought it was a harmless statement, but for an instant she glared at me. Most people would never have noticed as the look instantly returned to the serene hair-brushing face. I wasn't as pleased as a moment before.

How does one describe Pauper? Begin with the smell of industrial production and add to it urine, feces and vimitus, subtle but pervasive. Kind of like the head in a bar too cheap or sophisticated to use self-cleaning carpet. The sound is a pervasive noise. If you find silence, you've likely found trouble, so you stay to the noisy places. And light. See, planetside or wherever else nice you got day/night variations. Here you got whatever shines from the front of the bar, whorehouse, drug pit, sensodorium, or torture house alongside you.

Don't get me wrong, even here there's the local aristocracy. The locals call it Poo-Poo Too-Too, but its proper name is Production Towers. Secure and expensive with inside catering of the occupants' whims, the Production Towers mostly just house the most exalted of the slime of Surly. Kind of the cream of the scum, if you can imagine. Ms Sugar was anything but pleased.

Grace Jonsie is a friend. It used to be named Mary. It lives in the towers and runs the station's whore network. It's been around since I can remember, though I first met It when It was simply a girl slut. I saved her life and she went on to infamy, fortune, and It-ness.

I had to pay a visit since I was in town and since It had pre-paid assassins to kill any one of several of us who came into town and didn't avail themselves of It's hospitality, or so It said. Anyone who is unstable enough to become an It is unstable enough not to second guess.

"Shall we gather at the Gather?" it quipped to some of it's sycophants. It pointed a finger at Sugar and she was ring-excluded. I walked inside. Immediately, a male and female stood up. I motioned the boy to stop, knowing better than to deny Jonsie her hospitality.

The girl led me to a cushion along the wall. Jonsie had the place decked out today as a harem tent but with walls. The girl straddled me and massaged her pelvis along my thigh as Grace and I talked. I liked the feel of the kid.

"Missing boy." I began apologetically, "Sorry I can't say I'm here purely for social reasons." I looked down at my little masseuse. She wasn't as sweet as Sugar, but much less dangerous. Grace slid into the chair across and said, "The girl." She pointed at the door.

"My boss sent her. She's supposed to work with me."

"She's had sex this day. You?"

"Yeah. Wake-up call."

Grace looked back to the door, then fixed me with a stare. Well, its nice to see you. You got important work. Come back," it paused, "when you're through with your case."

Unaccustomed to such abruptness, I left. Sugar was calm as she asked, "Old friend?"

"Yeah. From way back."

"Listen, I have to call in to the boss. Do you mind?" She was using her sweetest smile. I walked a short distance away and ducked around a corner while she talked to the air.

As a private detective you should stay in good shape. I was. Quickly, I put some distance between myself and what was probably an innocent girl, not an assassin. I talked to my thumbnail, never having liked oral surgery.

"Grace Jonsie,"

"Hello. This is Grace. Love to chat but, well, I'm busy." The voice said, "Listen, my friend gave me a look. What's with?"

"Gather? What? What do you want?" it asked.

"I ditched the broad. Good idea or bad?"

"Doesn't matter. Heard of the kiss of death?" it asked hastily then disconnected.

A rabbit has to eat. Otherwise it might never leave its hole. I wasn't hungry but eventually someone was going to check out this bum on the street. It is the easiest disguise. All you need is messed up, urine stained clothes and a wine bottle. I had bought the bottle and found a furnace translator to take care of the clothes.

The local bums welcomed me. At least, their not attacking me felt like a welcome.

Updated January 24, 1998. shawn_h@sprynet.com