'Aemos, please/
'Hmm?' He looked back at me, remembering I was there.
'The casket?'
'Indeed. My apologies. A series processor… did I say that?'
'Yes. Processing what? Data?'
'I thought that at first, then I considered some mental or mental-transference process. But I doubt either now I've studied it/
I pointed down into the casket. 'What's missing?'
'Oh, you noticed that too? This is most perturbatory. I'm still not certain, of course, but it's something angular, non-standard in shape and with its own power source/
'You're sure?'
'There are no power inlets designed to couple to it, only power outlets. And there's something curious about the plugs. Non-standard mating. It's all non-standard/
'Xenos?'
'No… human, just non-standard, custom made/
'Yeah, but what for?' asked Betancore, climbing up the ladder frame to join us. He looked sour, his unruly black curls framing a dark-skinned, slender face that was usually alive with genial mischief.
'I need to make further evaluations, Midas/ said Aemos, hunching back over the casket.
Betancore stared my way. He was as tall as me, but lighter in build. His boots, breeches and tunic were made of soft black leather with red piping, the old uniform of a Glavian pilot-hunter, and over that he wore, as always, a short jacket of cerise silk with iridescent embroidery panels.
His hands were gloved in light bllek-hide, and seemed to wait ominously near the curved grips of the needle pistols holstered on his hips.
'You took a long time getting here/ I began.
They made me take the cutter back to the landing cross at Tomb Point. Said they need the platform here for emergency flights. I had to walk back. Then I saw to Lores/
'She died well, Betancore/
'Maybe. Is that possible?' he added.
I made no reply. I knew how deep his foul moods could be. I knew he had been in love with Lores Vibben, or at least had decided he was in love with her. I knew things would get difficult with Betancore before they got better.
ЧУЬеге is this off-worlder? This Eisenhorn?'
The demanding voice rolled up from the chamber below us. I looked down. A man had entered the cryogenerator chamber escorted by four custodians in heat-gowns, carrying light-poles aloft. He was tall, with pallid skin and greying hair, though his haughty bearing spoke of self-possession and arrogance. He wore a decorative ceremonial heat-gown of bold yellow. I didn't know who he was, but he looked like trouble to me.
Aemos and Betancore were watching him too.
'Any ideas as to who this is?' I asked Aemos.