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thirty gunnars—and I thought the money was gone for good.”
    The waif looked from the heavy to the robot and back again. Then she nodded, scraped the wax off the tip of a wooden match, and lit a slender cinnamon stick. The moment a tendril of smoke appeared, the girl blew some of it into the sensitive’s nostrils. The distinctive odor served to stimulate Dyson’s physical body—which sought to bring the rest of him back. The sensitive shivered, blinked his eyes, and frowned. “Myra? Hobar? What’s going on?”
    “You will come,” the metal man said tactlessly. “Omar Tepho has need of your services.”
    “I don’t know who this Tepho character is,” Hobar put in, “but he’s willing to pay two cronos.”
    Dyson looked up at the robot. “Is that true?”
    “Yes,” the automaton replied gravely. “It is.”
    “Okay,” the sensitive agreed reluctantly. “I wasn’t able to satisfy Tepho’s needs last time. Let’s hope this session is different.”
    It took the better part of an hour for the robot and the sensitive to make their way through the laser-straight streets, past the weatherworn pylons that marked the path of a once-glorious transportation system, and up to the seemingly decrepit building from which Omar Tepho ran the Techno Society. The unlikely twosome followed a narrow passageway back to the point where an iron gate blocked further progress. There was an audible click as the automaton inserted a metal finger into the receptacle located next to a print-sensitive identification pad.
    The variant had been through the process before, so he wasn’t surprised when the gate swung open, and the robot led him to a metal door. There was a momentary pause while a guard inspected the pair through a peephole followed by a nudge, as the door swung inward. Council member Ron Olvos was there to greet Dyson. He was a small man, but a hard worker and a skilled politician. Those qualities, plus the care with which he always put Tepho’s interests ahead of his own, accounted for his presence on the board. Olvos ignored the machine but extended a hand to the sensitive. “Welcome! Thank you for coming.”
    Though not altogether certain that his presence was entirely voluntary, the variant smiled agreeably and wondered if he should demand three cronos rather than two. But he couldn’t muster the necessary courage, the moment passed, and Dyson found himself in a spotless corridor. “The council was in session all morning,” Olvos explained. “The chairman raised the possibility of bringing you back—and will be extremely pleased to learn that we were able to do so.”
    “Really?” Dyson inquired doubtfully. “I didn’t meet with much success last time.”
    “Ah, but that wasn’t your fault,” the smaller man replied soothingly. “ This session will go more smoothly. . . . Do you remember Jevan Kane?”
    The sensitive nodded. Kane was the operative who sought him out the first time. He was a cold man with blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin. All in an age when more than 90 percent of the population had black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. “Yes, of course,” Dyson replied politely. “How is he?”
    “Dead,” Olvos replied emotionlessly. “Which is where you come in. It’s our hope that, unlike the founder, Kane continues to support the Techno Society’s goals and will provide us with some much-needed assistance from the other side. If so, we could have an ongoing need for your services, and that could be quite profitable for you.”
    Dyson was desperately poor, but there are worse things than poverty, and the process of being co-opted by the highly secretive and possibly sinister Techno Society filled the sensitive with misgivings. But there was no opportunity to consider the long-range implications of the day’s activity as servos whined and double doors opened into what had once been a vat. Those days were gone however, and the onetime tank had been transformed into a circular