She then opened a bottle of Camorian vodka, filled a cup from the bathroom, pretended that there was an olive in it, sipped it thoughtfully, and decided upon her next step, which was to access the local library’s main computer. She had it scan the past five years’ worth of news reports, keying on Acosta’s name, and came up absolutely empty. She then tried to find some similarity between his murder and other killings that had taken place in the same area, and discovered that of the thirty-nine murders in Hektor during the past year, thirty-two of them had occurred within a mile of where Acosta had been found, and nineteen were the result of stabbings. It was quite possible, she concluded unhappily, that Acosta simply had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; at any rate, there was no reason to assume that he had died because of his association with Santiago.

Dead end followed dead end, and finally she was faced with two alternatives: start questioning people who might have known Acosta, or give up and go after the methane-breather. She made her decision, then instructed the computer to patch in a visual connection to Leander Smythe’s office.

A moment later a portly, middle-aged man with a sightly uneven hair transplant appeared on the small screen just above the speaker.

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” he said when he had recognized her, “but what can I do for you?”

“I’m up against a blank wall, Leander,” she said.

“Who are you trying to kid, Virtue?” replied Smythe. “You’ve only been on the damned planet for four hours.”

“That’s all the time it takes to know I’m not going to get what I want through normal channels.” She paused. “I hate calling in favors,” she added insincerely, “but I need your help.”

“You already collected your favor this morning,” he reminded her.

She smiled. “You owe me a bigger one than that, Leander. Or would you like me to refresh your memory?”

“No!” he said quickly. “This isn’t a secure channel.”

“Then invite me to lunch and we’ll talk face to face.”

“I’m busy.”

“Fine.” She shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to hunt up someone else from your network who’ll do me a favor in exchange for a very interesting story about a local journalist.”

She reached out to sever the connection.

“Wait!” he said urgently.

She withdrew her hand and grinned triumphantly.

“There’s a restaurant on the top of my building,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

“Your treat,” she said. “I’m just a poor working girl.”