Some people said things couldn’t last like this; that the territories being organized around places like Lowell, Osaka, Zerolon, and likewise the others, would expand outward bit by bit, maybe gobbling up the little guys, until their borders all met up and there wasn’t anywhere left in between; then they’d either settle down, or that would be when the really serious trouble would start. But either way, the eventual appearance of the same general pattern that had taken over Earth would be only a matter of time—but that would be far in the future as far as Solomon Leppo was concerned. And in the meantime, for those with the savvy and expertise, there was money to be made hiring out to a hundred variants of the protection, security, and enforcement business. And making the right kind of name in that department could do wonders for supplying life with the chicks and the things too.
He had just tightened the flange bolts and was starting to reconnect the sensors, when a shadow darkened the open doorway of the shop. Solomon looked up as a figure that he hadn’t heard approaching entered and stopped to look around casually. The man had dark hair, styled into a crest, that should have been showing some graying for his age—probably rejuvenated—and the kind of even, golden tan that you got in the classier gyms and spas—not blotchy from spending too long outside under the raw Martian sky. He was dressed in a dark suit that fluoresced silver ripples where it creased, and a gray turtleneck shirt. “Hi, kid,” he greeted.
Solomon used a rag to wipe the worst of the grease from his hands and straightened up. “Can I help you?”
“So how’s it going?”
The friendly approach, eh? Solomon maintained a neutral air, keeping his options open. “You mean the tractor? Nowhere till I’m done fixing it.”
The man grunted approvingly. “Quick thinker. Got humor, too. You could go a long way.”
“I plan to . . . when I’m ready. So what are you, some kind of headhunter? I didn’t know they went looking for auto mechs. Something must have happened in this business lately that nobody told me about.”
“Sorry, it’s not your turn today. But yeah, I guess you could say we’re sort of headhunting. Three days ago, a guy that we’d very much like to talk to was out at Wuhan in a car that came from this place. Kind of tall, wavy brown hair, lean, fit-looking . . . Also has a dog—kind of big, black with some light brown around the face. I was wondering if you’d seen him around, like when he was here to pick up the car. It’s a business thing. Anything you’ve got would be worth something.”
Whoever these people were, or why they were looking for the man with the dog, the message came through clearly that it was they who asked the questions. Solomon thought back, then shook his head. “Wish I could help. What kind of a car?”
“Kodiak, dark color—blue or black. The car had this place’s name in chrome on the trunk.”
“Yes, I know the car. It was rented out four or five days back. But it must have been my day off or something. I wasn’t here when it went out.” Solomon shook his head and shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you.”
The man seemed to accept it as a matter of routine. He produced a wallet from inside his jacket and extracted a calling card. His hands were strong but well manicured, with several rings that glittered expensively. The card bore the name Lee Mullen, described as a “Financial Expediter,” along with a mail drop and net code. While Solomon was studying it, a twenty slid across on top. He hesitated, then took the bill and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Everybody could use a little extra, huh?” Mullen said. “If you remember anything else, or if he shows up again, I’d appreciate a call. Like I said, it’ll be worth your while.”
“If I hear anything, you’ve got it.”
“You could go a long way, kid,” the man said again. Then he turned, and sauntered back toward the office.