Verwoerd tried to keep the surprise off her face. The sneaking bastard has been keeping me under surveillance!
“You bugged his quarters,” she said coldly.
Grinning, Humphries said, “Would you like to see a replay?”
It took her a moment to get her emotions under control.
Finally she managed to say, “He’s an interesting man. He quotes Persian poetry.”
“In bed.”
Still standing, Verwoerd stared down at him for a long moment, then conceded the point with a curt nod, thinking, He probably has my apartment bugged, too! Does he know about Bandung Associates?
But Humphries seemed more amused than annoyed. “I have a proposition for you.”
Guardedly, she asked, “What kind of a proposition?”
“I want you to bear my child.”
She could feel her eyes go round. “What?”
Laughing, Humphries leaned back in the cushioned dining room chair and said, “You won’t go to bed with me, the least you can do is carry my child for me.”
She pulled out the chair closest to her and sank slowly into it.
“What are you saying?” she asked.
Almost offhandedly, Humphries said, “I’ve decided to have a child. A son. My medical experts are picking the best possible egg cells for me to inseminate. We’re going to clone me. My son will be as close to me as modern biological science can make him.”
“Human cloning is outlawed,” Verwoerd murmured.
“In most nations on Earth,” Humphries conceded. “But even on Earth there are places where a man of means can have himself cloned. And here in Selene, well—why not?”
Another little Martin Humphries, Verwoerd thought. But she said nothing.
“The cloning procedure is still a bit dicey,” he went on, as casually as a man discussing the stock market, “but my people should be able to produce some viable fertilized eggs and get a few women to carry them.”
“Then why do you want me?”
He waved a hand. “You’re a very good physical specimen; you ought to make a good home for my clone. Besides, it’s rather poetic, don’t you think? You won’t have sex with me, but you’ll bear my son. That boy-toy of yours isn’t the only one with a poetic soul.”
“I see,” Verwoerd said, feeling slightly numbed by his cheerful arrogance.
“What I need is several wombs to carry the zygotes to term. I’ve decided you’d be perfect for the job. Young, healthy, and all that.”
“Me.”
“I’ve gone through your medical records and your family history,” Humphries said. “You might say that I know you inside out.”
She was not amused.
“You carry my son to term,” he said, his smile fading, his tone more commanding. “You’ll get a very sizable bonus. I’ll even transfer a couple more of my asteroids to your Bandung Associates.”
The pit of her stomach went hollow.
“Did you think you could embezzle three very profitable asteroids from me without my finding out about it?” Humphries asked, grinning with satisfaction.
Verwoerd knew it was hopeless. She felt glad that she had Dorik on her side.
CHAPTER 37
As they pulled up their convoy of four minitractors to the entrance of the Helvetia warehouse, Harbin saw that there were only two people on duty there, and one of them was a woman, gray-haired and grandmotherly, but with a hard, scowling face. She was stocky, stumpy, built like a weight-lifter.
“What do you guys want?” she demanded as Harbin got down from the lead tractor.
“Don’t give us a hard time, grandmother,” he said gently. “Just relax and do what you’re told.”
A face-to-face job like this was far different from shooting up spacecraft in the dark emptiness of the Belt. That was like a game; this was blood. Be still, he commanded silently. Don’t make me kill you. But he felt the old rage building up inside him: the manic fury that led to death.
“What are you doing here?” the woman repeated truculently. “Who the hell are you assholes?”
Working hard to keep his inner rage under control, Harbin waved his undisciplined team into the Helvetia warehouse. They all wore breathing masks, nothing unusual in the dusty tunnels of Ceres. They also wore formfitting shower caps that had been ferried in all the way from Earth; with the caps on, no one could see a man’s hair color or style. Harbin also made certain none of his crew had any name tags or other identification on themselves. If Tracy Buchanan had taken that simple precaution he would undoubtedly still be alive now, Harbin thought.