“Yes,” I called back. “Takeshi Kovacs. I was discharged this afternoon.”

“You were supposed to be met at the storage facility.” It was like an accusation. I spread my hands.

“Well. I was.”

“Not by the police.” She stalked forward, eyes mostly on Ortega. “You. I know you.”

“Lieutenant Ortega,” said Ortega, as if she was at a garden party. “Bay City, Organic Damage Division.”

“Yes. I remember now.” The tone was distinctly hostile. “I assume it was you who arranged for our chauffeur to be pulled over on some trumped-up emissions charge.”

“No, that would be Traffic Control, ma’am,” said the detective politely. “I have no jurisdiction in that division.”

The woman in front of us sneered.

“Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, lieutenant. And I’m sure none of your friends work there either.” The voice turned patronising. “We’ll have him released before the sun goes down, you know.”

I glanced sideways to see Ortega’s reaction, but there was none. The hawk profile remained impassive. Most of me was preoccupied with the other woman’s sneer. It was an ugly expression, and one that belonged on an altogether older face.

Back up by the house there were two large men with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They had been standing under the eaves watching since we arrived, but now they ambled out of the shade and began to make their way in our direction. From the slight widening of the young woman’s eyes I guessed that she had summoned them on an internal mike. Slick. On Harlan’s World people are still a bit averse to sticking racks of hardware into themselves, but it looked as if Earth was going to be a different proposition.