Cain and Terwilliger followed it through a trio of large storage rooms and up to a small door.

“She is in here, said the Orange Monkey.

“Thanks,” said Cain. He opened the door and stepped into a cluttered office, followed by Terwilliger.

Sitting behind a chrome desk that no longer gleamed, wearing a metallic gold outfit that no longer glistened, was a rather plain woman. Her hair was a dull brown, her eyes a lackluster green, her nose prominent, her chin weak. She was neither fat nor thin, but if she had ever possessed an attractive figure, that time had long since passed. Attached to her hair was a small white rose, which Cain took to be artificial.

She stared directly at the bounty hunter.

“You wished to see me, Mr. Cain?”

“You know my name?”

She smiled. “I know many things about you, Sebastian Nightingale Cain. What I don’t know is who referred you to me.”

“A man called Stern, back on Port étrange.”

“Jonathan Jeremy Jacobar Stern,” she said. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in years.” She gestured to a pair of chairs. “Please be seated.” She turned to Terwilliger. “I understand ManMountain Bates is looking for you.”

“You have excellent sources,” replied the gambler uneasily.

“Indeed I do,” she agreed. “Not much goes on in this part of the Frontier that I don’t know about.”

“Then I assume you know why I’m here,” said Cain.

“I know you’re a bounty hunter,” she said, “and you’ve told me that Stern sent you, so I can make a pretty good guess as to why you’re here.” She paused. “But Stern wouldn’t send you to me. He would have told you to hunt up Duncan Black.” She turned back to Terwilliger. “You told Mr. Cain to come here, of course. Stern doesn’t know Duncan is dead, but you do.”

“Well, there wasn’t much sense trying to have a conversation with Duncan, rest his soul,” explained Terwilliger defensively.

“And doubtless he has promised to protect you from ManMountain Bates in exchange for this information.” She scrutinized Cain for a moment. “You made a poor trade, Mr. Cain. You should have stayed on Keepsake.”

“What makes you think I come from Keepsake?” he asked.

She smiled again. “I’ve known your ship’s registration number since I started tracking you two days ago. In the intervening forty-eight hours I’ve found out things about you that even you may have forgotten. I know the date and planet of your birth, I know why you left the more populated worlds of the Democracy, I know how many men you have killed and who they were—and here you are, practically denying that you work out of Keepsake. If you want my honesty, I should think the least you can do is offer me your own.”

“I apologize,” said Cain.