Free Manhattan in Reverse by Peter F. Hamilton Page B

straight away, and we were due to stay at Jupiter for six months. There was plenty of time.
    ‘Then we’re all done bar the details,’ I said. ‘I’ll get my AI to link to your AI. I’m sure they can organize schedules and personnel rosters between them.’
    He raised his cup in happy salute. ‘I’m sure they can. I’ll authorize a link to the Kuranda immediately.’
    ‘There is one other thing. A small matter.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘I’d like to see someone while I’m here. One of your deputies, in fact. It relates to an old investigation of mine. There are one or two points I need to clear up with her.’
    ‘Who are we talking about?’
    ‘Bethany Mary Caesar. I gather she’s on Io.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘She runs the science team there.’
    His abrupt shift in attitude was fascinating. It was as though I’d suddenly won a point in our game of words and nuances. If only I could have worked out how I’d done that. All I’d said was her name. ‘You don’t object to me talking to her, do you?’
    ‘Not at all. If it isn’t confidential, what is this old investigation, exactly?’
    ‘A murder.’
    ‘Good Lady Mary. Really?’
    ‘As I say, it’s an old one. However, I have a new theory I’d like to run past her.’
    *
     
    The Io science outpost was nothing like New Milan. It consisted of two dozen cylindrical compartments resting on concrete cradles sunk deep into the carmine-coloured crust; they were all plugged into each other like some array of antique electronic components. For years they’d suffered from the exhalations of the volcano. Its furious sulphur emission clouds had gently drizzled down, staining their metallic-white casings with a thin film of dirty amber colloid which dribbled round the exterior to drip from the belly. But for all its functionalism, the Caesars had certainly chosen a location with a view. One of the compartments had an observation gallery, aligned so that its curving windows looked directly out at the distant sulphur volcano, which appeared as a dark conical silhouette rising out of the horizon.
    I waited for Bethany Maria Caesar at one of the refectory tables in the gallery, staring straight out at the volcano through the gritty, smeared windows, hoping I would get to see an eruption. The only evidence of any seismic activity was the occasional tremor which ran through the compartment, barely enough to create a ripple in my teacup.
    ‘Hello, Edward, it’s been a long time.’
    I would never have recognized her. This woman standing before me bore only the faintest resemblance to that beautiful, distraught girl I’d sat with through innumerable interviews eight decades ago. She looked, for want of a better word, old. Her face was lined with thick wrinkles that obscured the features I once knew; nor was there any more of that flowing blond hair – she’d had a crew cut so severe it barely qualified as stubble, and that was greyish. The tunic she wore was loose-fitting, but even that couldn’t disguise her stooped posture.
    She put both hands on the table and lowered herself into a chair opposite me with a slight wheeze. ‘Quite a sight, aren’t I?’
    ‘What happened?’ I asked, appalled. No briefing file had mentioned any sort of accident or chronic illness.
    ‘Low gravity happened, Edward. I can see your face is all puffed up with fluid retention, so you already know a fraction of the suffering possible. Content yourself with that fraction. Low gravity affects some people worse than others, a lot worse. And after thirteen years constant exposure, I’m just about off the scale.’
    ‘Dear Mary! I don’t know what you Caesars want with Jupiter, but nothing is worth abusing yourself like this. Come home, back to Earth.’
    Her smile alluded to a wisdom denied me. ‘This is my home. Jupiter is the frontier of humanity.’
    ‘How can you say that? It’s killing you.’
    ‘Life!’ The word was spat out. ‘Such a treacherous gift.’
    ‘A