"Shouldn't that be my question?"
Galloway raised an eyebrow, and Bach went on.
"You've got a hell of a story. I can't figure out why you didn't just run with it. Why arrange a meeting with someone you barely knew ten years ago, and haven't seen since, and never liked even back then?"
"I always liked you, Anna-Louise," Galloway said. She looked up at the sky. For a while she watched a couple pedaling a skycycle, then she looked at Bach again. "I feel like I owe you something. Anyway, when I saw your name I thought I should check with you. I don't want to cause you any trouble." Suddenly she looked angry. "I don't need the story, Bach. I don't need any story, I'm too big for that. I can let it go or I can use it, it makes no difference."
"Oh, that's cute," Bach said. "Maybe I don't understand how you pay your debts. Maybe they do it different on Earth."
She thought Galloway was going to get up and leave. She had reached for her cane, then thought better of it.
"I gather it doesn't matter, then, if I go with the story."
Bach shrugged. She hadn't come here to talk about Charlie, anyway.
"How is Q.M., by the way?" she said.
Galloway didn't look away this time. She sat in silence for almost a minute, searching Bach's eyes.
"I thought I was ready for that question," she said at last. "He's living in New Zealand, on a commune. From what my agents tell me, he's happy. They don't watch television, they don't marry.
They worship and they screw a lot."
"Did you really give him half of the profits on that... that tape?"
"Did give him, am giving him, and will continue to give him until the day I die. And it's half the gross, my dear, which is another thing entirely. He gets half of every Mark that comes in. He's made more money off it than I have... and he's never touched a tenthMark. It's piling up in a Swiss account I started in his name."
"Well, he never sold anything."
Bach hadn't meant that to be as harsh as it came out, but Galloway did not seem bothered by it. The thing she had sold...
Had there ever been anyone as thoroughly betrayed as Q.M. Cooper? Bach wondered. She might have loved him herself, but he fell totally in love with Megan Galloway.
And Galloway fell in love with him. There could be no mistake about that. Doubters are referred to Ghana de Oro catalog #1, an emotional recording entitled, simply, "Love." Put it in your trans-tape player, don the headset, punch PLAY, and you will experience just how hard and how completely Galloway fell in love with Q.M. Cooper. But have your head examined first. GDO #1 had been known to precipitate suicide.
Cooper had found this an impediment to the course of true love. He had always thought that love was something between two people, something exclusive, something private. He was unprepared to have Galloway mass-produce it, put it in a box with liner notes and a price tag of LM14.95, and hawk copies in every trans-tape shop from Peoria to Tibet.
The supreme irony of it to the man, who eventually found refuge in a minor cult in a far corner of the Earth, was that the tape itself, the means of his betrayal, his humiliation, was proof that Galloway had returned his love.
And Galloway had sold it. Never mind that she had her reasons, or that they were reasons with which Bach could find considerable sympathy.
She had sold it.
All Bach ever got out of the episode was a compulsion to seek lovers who looked like the Earthmuscled Cooper. Now it seemed she might get something else. It was time to change the subject.
"What do you know about Charlie?" she asked.
"You want it all, or just a general idea?" Galloway didn't wait for an answer. "I know her real name is Charlotte Isolde Hill Perkins-Smith. I know her father is dead, and her mother's condition is open to debate. Leda Perkins-Smith has a lot of money—if she's alive. Her daughter would inherit, if she's dead. I know the names of ten of Charlie's dogs. And, oh yes, I know that, appearances to the contrary, she is thirty-seven years old."
"Your source is very up-to-date."
"It's a very good source."
"You want to name him?"
"I'll pass on that, for the moment." She regarded Bach easily, her hands folded on the table in front of her. "So. What do you want me to do?"
"Is it really that simple?"
"My producers will want to kill me, but I'll sit on the story for at least twenty-four hours if you tell me to. By the way," she turned in her seat and crooked a finger at another table. "It's probably time you met my producers."
Bach turned slightly, and saw them coming toward her table.
"These are the Myers twins, Joy and Jay. Waiter, do you know how to make a Shirley Temple and a Roy Rogers?"
The waiter said he did, and went off with the order while Joy and Jay pulled up chairs and sat in them, several feet from the table but very close to each other. They had not offered to shake hands.
Both were armless, with no sign of amputation, just bare, rounded shoulders. Both wore prosthetics made of golden, welded wire and powered by tiny motors. The units were one piece, fitting over their backs in a harness-like arrangement. They were quite pretty—light and airy, perfectly articulated, cunningly wrought—and also creepy.
"You've heard of amparole?" Galloway asked. Bach shook her head. "That's the slang word for it.
It's a neo-Moslem practice. Joy and Jay were convicted of murder."
"I have heard of it." She hadn't paid much attention to it, dismissing it as just another hare-brained Earthling idiocy.
"Their arms are being kept in cryonic suspension for twenty years. The theory is, if they sin no more, they'll get them back. Those prosthetics won't pick up a gun, or a knife. They won't throw a punch."
Joy and Jay were listening to this with complete stolidity. Once Bach got beyond the arms, she saw another unusual thing about them. They were dressed identically, in loose bell-bottomed trousers.
Joy had small breasts, and Jay had a small mustache. Other than that, they were absolutely identical in face and body. Bach didn't care for the effect.
"They also took slices out of the cerebrums and they're on a maintenance dosage of some drug.
Calms them down. You don't want to know who they killed, or how. But they were proper villains, these two."
No, I don't think I do, Bach decided. Like many cops, she looked at eyes. Joy and Jay's were calm, placid... and deep inside was a steel-gray coldness.
"If they try to get naughty again, the amparole units go on strike. I suppose they might find a way to kill with their feet."
The twins glanced at each other, held each other's gaze for a moment, and exchanged wistful smiles.
At least. Bach hoped they were just wistful.
"Yeah, okay," Bach said.
"Don't worry about them. They can't be offended with the drugs they're taking."
"I wasn't worried," Bach said. She couldn't have cared less what the freaks felt; she wished they'd been executed.
"Are they really twins?" she finally asked, against her better judgment.
"Really. One of them had a sex change, I don't know which one. And to answer your next question, yes they do, but only in the privacy of their own room."
"I wasn't—"
"And your other question... they are very good at what they do. Who am I to judge about the other?
And I'm in a highly visible industry. It never hurts to have conversation pieces around. You need to get noticed."
Bach was starting to get angry, and she was not quite sure why. Maybe it was the way Galloway so cheerfully admitted her base motives, even when no one had accused her of having them.
"We were talking about the story," she said.
"We need to go with it," Joy said, startling Bach. Somehow, she had not really expected the cyborgthing to talk. "Our source is good and the security on the story is tight—"