Identity Theft

We were casting long shadows; the sun, so much tinier than it appeared from Earth, was sitting on the horizon; the sky was already purpling, and Earth itself was visible, a bright blue-white evening star.

“Who do you think I am?” I asked.

His answer surprised me, although I didn't let it show. “You're Alexander Lomax, the private detective.”

Well, it didn't seem to make any sense to deny it. “Yeah. How'd you know?”

“I've been checking you out over the last few days,” said Pickover. “I'd been thinking of, ah, engaging your services.”

We continued to walk along, little clouds of dust rising each time our feet touched the ground. “What for?” I said.

“You first, if you don't mind,” said Pickover. “Why did you come to see me?”

He already knew who I was, and I had a very good idea who he was, so I decided to put my cards on the table. “I'm working for your wife.”

Pickover's artificial face looked perplexed. “My… wife?”

“That's right.”

“I don't have a wife.”

“Sure you do. You're Joshua Wilkins, and your wife's name is Cassandra.”

“What? No, I'm Rory Pickover. You know that. You called me.”

“Come off it, Wilkins. The jig is up. You transferred your consciousness into the body intended for the real Rory Pickover, and then you took off.”

“I — oh. Oh, Christ.”

“So, you see, I know. Too bad, Wilkins. You'll hang — or whatever the hell they do with transfers — for murdering Pickover.”

“No.” He said it softly.

“Yes,” I replied, and now I pulled out my revolver. It really wouldn't be much use against an artificial body, but until quite recently Wilkins had been biological; hopefully, he was still intimidated by guns.

“Let's go.”

“Where?”

“Back under the dome, to the police station. I'll have Cassandra meet us there, just to confirm your identity.”

The sun had slipped below the horizon now. He spread his arms, a supplicant against the backdrop of the gathering night. “Okay, sure, if you like. Call up this Cassandra, by all means. Let her talk to me.

She'll tell you after questioning me for two seconds that I'm not her husband. But — Christ, damn, Christ.”

“What?”

“I want to find him, too.”

“Who? Joshua Wilkins?”

He nodded, then, perhaps thinking I couldn't see his nod in the growing darkness, said, “Yes.”

“Why?”

He tipped his head up, as if thinking. I followed his gaze. Phobos was visible, a dark form overhead. At last, he spoke again. “Because I'm the reason he's disappeared.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“That's why I was thinking of hiring you myself. I didn't know where else to turn.”

“Turn for what?”

Pickover looked at me. “I did go to NewYou, Mr. Lomax. I knew I was going to have an enormous amount of work to do out here on the surface now, and I wanted to be able to spend days — weeks! — in the field, without worrying about running out of air, or water, or food.”

I frowned. “But you've been here on Mars for six mears; I read that in your file. What's changed?”

“Everything, Mr. Lomax.” He looked off in the distance. “Everything!” But he didn't elaborate on that.

Instead, he said. “I certainly know this Wilkins chap you're looking for; I went to his store, and had him transfer my consciousness from my old biological body into this one. But he also kept a copy of my mind — I'm sure of that.”

I raised my eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“Because my computer accounts have been compromised. There's no way anyone but me can get in; I'm the only one who knows the passphrase. But someone has been inside, looking around; I use quantum encryption, so you can tell whenever someone has even looked at a file.” He shook his head. “I don't know how he did it — there must be some technique I'm unaware of — but somehow Wilkins has been extracting information from the copy of my mind. That's the only way I can think of that anyone might have learned my passphrase.”

“You think Wilkins did all this to access your bank accounts? Is there really enough money in them to make it worth starting a new life in somebody else's body? It's too dark to see your clothes right now, but, if I recall correctly, they looked a bit… shabby.”

“You're right. I'm just a poor scientist. But there's something I know that could make the wrong people rich beyond their wildest dreams.”

“And what's that?” I said.

He continued to walk along, trying to decide, I suppose, whether to trust me. I let him think about that, and at last, Dr. Rory Pickover, who was now just a starless silhouette against a starry sky, said, in a soft, quiet voice, “I know where it is.”

“Where what is?”

“The alpha deposit.”

“The what?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Paleontologist's jargon. What I mean is, I've found it: I've found the mother lode. I've found the place where Weingarten and O'Reilly had been excavating. I've found the source of the best preserved, most-complete Martian fossils.”

“My God,” I said. “You'll be rolling in it.”

Perhaps he shook his head; it was now too dark to tell. “No, sir,” he said, in that cultured English voice.