Naive woman; she'd probably thought the same thing about her husband — until he'd run off. “Now, what can you tell me about your husband? Joshua, is it?”

“Yes, that's right. His full name is Joshua Connor Wilkins — and it's Joshua, never just Josh, thank you very much.” I nodded. Guys who were anal about being called by their full first names never bought a round, in my experience. Maybe it was a good thing that this clown was gone.

“Yes,” I said. “Go on.” I didn't have to take notes, of course. My office computer was recording everything, and would extract whatever was useful into a summary file for me.

Cassandra ran her synthetic lower lip back and forth beneath her artificial upper teeth, thinking for a moment. Then: “Well, he was born in Calgary, Alberta, and he's thirty-eight years old. He moved to Mars seven mears ago.” Mears were Mars-years; about double the length of those on Earth.

“Do you have a picture?”

“I can access one,” she said. She pointed at my desk terminal. “May I?”

I nodded, and Cassandra reached over to grab the keyboard. In doing so, she managed to knock over my coffee mug, spilling hot joe all over her dainty hand. She let out a small yelp of pain. I got up, grabbed a towel, and began wiping up the mess. “I'm surprised that hurt,” I said. “I mean, I do like my coffee hot, but…”

“Transfers feel pain, Mr. Lomax,” she said, “for the same reason that biologicals do. When you're flesh-and-blood, you need a signaling system to warn you when your parts are being damaged; same is true for those of us who have transferred. Admittedly, artificial bodies are much more durable, of course.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Sorry,” she replied. “I've explained this so many times now — you know, at work. Anyway, please forgive me about your desk.”

I made a dismissive gesture. “Thank God for the paperless office, eh? Don't worry about it.” I gestured at the keyboard; fortunately, none of the coffee had gone down between the keys. “You were going to show me a picture?”