HE’S STILL IN HIS spotless grey suit, his grey hair still immaculate, his grey eyes staring at Justus unapologetically. His hands are clamped around the ends of the armrests and his legs are uncrossed, so that in posture at least he resembles the Lincoln Memorial statue.
“I apologize if I have surprised you, sir.”
Justus lowers his zapper. “How did you get in?”
“As Mr. Brass’s valet, I have access to everywhere in Sin.”
“Everywhere?”
“Everywhere.”
“That’s interesting,” Justus says.
“Why is it interesting, sir?”
“Never mind.”
Grey gestures at the water stain. “Would you like me to clean up the mess?”
“Is that part of your valet programming too?”
“I am an excellent janitor, sir.”
“I’m sure you are,” Justus says. “But it’s only tonic water—it shouldn’t stain.” He lowers himself onto a faux-leather sofa. “Is this some sort of emergency?”
“It is not an emergency, sir—it’s a matter of courtesy. Mr. Brass has sent me to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Mr. Brass wishes to apologize for not meeting you in person.”
“He does, does he?”
“Mr. Brass understands that you were informed that the gentleman whom you met this morning, and who was introduced to you as Fletcher Brass, was, in fact, an impersonator.”
“How does Mr. Brass know that?”
“I am not able to answer that, sir.”
Justus wonders if his meeting with QT Brass was recorded somehow—if it was overheard, for that matter, by Leonardo Brown. “Well, is there a good explanation for the deception?”
“There is an excellent explanation, sir. Mr. Brass is currently preoccupied with the preparations for his trip to Mars. Due to the synodic period of Mars there is a favorable launch window only—”
“Yes, I’ve heard all that.”
“—only every 779 days, sir. If the rocket is unready, then more than two years will elapse before—”
“I know, I know.”
“—before the launch can be achieved again. Clearly Mr. Brass can ill afford to miss that target, as he considers the Mars mission the summit of his life’s achievements.”
“Is your master building the rocket personally?”
“He is not, sir, but he is supervising every aspect of the fitting and victualing, and undergoing intensive training procedures with the rest of the crew.”
“Well, that’s all very well and good, but I’ll still need to speak to him personally at some point.”
“That is not possible, sir.”
“It has to be possible, if I’m to do my job thoroughly.”
“It is not possible, sir.”
“This is a murder case. If I need to speak to Fletcher Brass, I will.”
“You will not, sir.”
“And I’m telling you I will. Is Fletcher Brass above the law here?”
“He is, sir.”
It’s such an obvious answer, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone, that Justus is genuinely surprised. And surprised that he is surprised. But he shakes his head. “Surely I can’t be expected to keep speaking to that actor?”
“That is the way it is, sir,” the droid says. “The impersonator is very well versed in all aspects of Mr. Brass’s life, and can answer as adequately as Mr. Brass himself.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“It is not a joke, sir.”
“A couple of minutes ago you told me you were sent to apologize for deceiving me. Now it doesn’t seem that you’re apologizing at all.”
“I was apologizing for the misunderstanding, sir—not for the deception itself.”
For a moment Justus looks at the view outside the window: the glowing neon, the hypnotically slow-falling rain. Then he refocuses on Grey, as if to refresh the whole scene. As if to make sure he’s not dreaming. “How long has this been going on?” he asks.
“How long has what been going on, sir?”
“How long has this actor been filling in for Fletcher Brass?”
“It has been going on for over three years now. The arrangement is well understood here in Purgatory, and it is a matter of some regret that you did not know about it.”
Justus thinks about it. “The rocket hasn’t been under construction for three years.”
“That is true, sir.”
“Then why has the deception been going on for so long?”
“For security reasons, sir.”
“Fletcher Brass fears for his safety?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Why? Why does he fear for his safety?”
“Mr. Brass is the ultimate authority in Purgatory, and as such he is sometimes forced to make decisions that are not well received.”
“What sort of decisions?”
“Decisions that make him seem ruthless, sir, but which are best for the territory as a whole.”
“Decisions that might provoke a violent response?”
“I am not in a position to comment on that, sir.”
“You do realize that a terrorist group has now claimed responsibility for the bombing?”
“I did not know that, sir.”
“Well, I’m telling you now. What do you make of it?”
Leonardo Grey sits silent and unmoving for several seconds, face blank, eyes unblinking, as if indulging in some relayed communication. Which, if radio communication is truly prohibited in Purgatory, Justus knows is impossible—or at the very least illegal. And finally the droid says, “There has certainly been much systematic agitation of volatile sensibilities, sir.”
He sounds like he’s reciting lines from a script. “Agitation?” Justus says. “By whom?”
“Irresponsible persons. People who foment rebellion for their own purposes.”
“Terrorists?”
“I am not in a position to say that, sir.”
“QT Brass?”
“I am not in a position to say that, sir.”
“Nevertheless, you must see that what you’re talking about is the very reason I need to speak to Fletcher Brass personally.”
“That is not possible, as I have said, sir.”
“Why? He’s not dead, is he?”
“He is not dead.”
“He’s not ill?”
“He is only, as I have said, preoccupied.”
“No one is so preoccupied that they can’t spare a few minutes.”
“Mr. Brass is so preoccupied, sir, that even if he were able to spare a few minutes he would not be very accommodating to you.”
“You’re saying he’s got a powerful temper?”
“Mr. Brass is a passionate man.”
Justus snorts. “Well, I know all about powerful and passionate men. I’ve dealt with plenty of them before. And I can deal with them again.”
“I’m not sure you understand, sir. Mr. Brass is under such stress that the man you meet would not be the—”
“No, I’m not sure you understand.” Justus has had experience with androids before too—on Earth he once instructed one in detective procedures—and he knows you have to be as firm with them as you might be with a stubborn child. “The Brass I met this morning—the actor—assured me of his full cooperation. He said he encouraged me to rummage through his drawers. And if what you say is true, then I’m satisfied that those are the sentiments of the genuine Fletcher Brass. So I not only prefer to speak to the real Brass, I insist upon it. It’s my duty as an investigating officer. And it’s crucial to the integrity of the investigation. It’s in everyone’s best interests, and may, in fact, be the difference between life and death. So it’s simply not negotiable. Do you understand that?”
Leonardo Grey sits in silence for a few seconds, again as if engaged in some secret communication. And eventually he says, “I understand, sir.”
“Very good,” says Justus. “Then please arrange a meeting as soon as possible. You know how to contact me.”
“I do, sir.”
For a few moments Grey continues staring—Justus knows it’s a stretch to read any malevolence into the look—and then gets to his feet in one fluent movement.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, sir,” the droid says. “I apologize again for my unannounced intrusion. And for any misunderstanding.”
“Perfectly okay.” Justus ushers him to the door. “But one last question before you go.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You’re the same model as Leonardo Brown, are you not?”
“That is correct, sir. We all are.”
“All?”
“Myself, Leonardo Brown, Leonardo White, and Leonardo Black.”
“Uh-huh,” says Justus. “What happened to Leonardo Green?”
“There is no Leonardo Green, sir.”
“Then why ‘Leonardo,’ may I ask?”
“We were named in honor of Leonardo da Vinci, who in 1495 designed the first known android.”
“Fascinating. So you’re sort of like brothers?”
“We were all constructed as part of the Daedalus Project, sir.”
“I see.”
Justus makes a mental note to check it out as soon as possible, and lets Leonardo Grey out the door.