The desk buzzes me. Mic must be finished with St. Andrews. I tell the clerk to send him up. He greets me with a plastic grin, waving a sheaf of paper credit notes. "How much?"

"Not too shabby, fifteen hundred credits gross. Eh, A grand net, after the church's cut."

I begin a slow burn. "You gave the church how much?"

"Eh, five hundred."

"Not five hundred of my money, you didn't. This was supposed to be a pickup of our fees. I sent you to make a pick-up, not join the congregation." I rip the bills out of his hand, toss a couple back." Keep two hundred, the balance is mine."

"Hey! That's not fair."

"Write it off on your taxes. I didn't make you give it away. You did that on your own. Fifty-fifty, so your part is half of the sixteen hundred pulled in so far, minus the c-note you gave away at the office and the five hundred you donated. I owe you two hundred. Next time, ask." The plastic grin disappears. Tough.

"So what happened? Any idea how the church filtered you the cash?"

"I didn't scan anything funny. I just kept trashing the statistical odds at higher and higher levels as the game went on. I Stopped playing after I got to the 1500 Cr. point and left. No way to know what would have happened after that. Should have stayed to see, now that you bring it up. I did find out that your girl wasn't a congregation member. So anyhow, what did she say? "

I go over my conversation with Becky Randall and show Mic the list of associates she handed me. According to the note, Hospital people. Mic produces a frown.

"I still don't see how she could have known I'd win 1500 Cr. There was nothing odd about the cards. I analyzed the calls carefully. I can detect magnetic currents, weighted balls and such from their physics in play, and there was none of it. I can understand the interest in investigating her father's demise, but there's gotta be more than that going on here, Richie."

So OK, he did manage to pick up some additional information. I relaxed a little. "I think so too. Answers to all this come from the same batch of footwork though. "I'll ask around at the hospital. You see what you can dredge up online about her dad's research, and background the people on her list."

That ties things up for now. I send Mic off. Tomorrow was going to be a lot of hoofing, so I cash in early. I'll check out in the morning. Miss the clean sheets, but I cant stay away from my digs forever.

The sun isn't up early this time of year. The street is washed in shadow and fog, like an old photo. Dawn comes slow, a faded theater curtain in smoggy orange and yellow, obscured by the city's black skyline. Cold pavement. Even the street lights, still on, are small and weak--little glows lingering on inside dirty jars of cracked glass. Closer to the office, I look for Blackie. Whistle him up near Bingle Avenue, his usual turf.

"Got some steady work for you. I'm going to need a messenger couple days a week. Keep you in meat for a while. Good by you?"

The mutt hunkers down, head almost to the pavement, eyes roll up at me.

"Good Rr-ichie. Work good for Richie; meeat now?"

"I'll put a dish out front of the office every day. So you be there every morning for it. I'll want you to hang out front of the elevated train station otherwise. If you smell that girl scent from the cube, ask if she has words for me. Start tomorrow. Okay? "

"Worrk for Richie now...Meeat?"

"Okay. Come to BC's and I'll get you something on my way, but be at the office every day or you won't get fed. That's the deal."

"Everyday...good Richie." The dog's tail gets active, sweeping the street as I make my way to BC's.

After feeding myself and the mutt, I head uptown to Carse and Grove, where City-General Hospital squats. The facade of it is a good twenty stories of square glass windows and flat concrete. In front, a fourteen foot portico, above that, a marquee says "HOSPITAL" in big, faded green letters. Ugly place.

I take a few minutes to locate the set of larger sixth floor windows. There's four of them, nothing below to break the fall Becky said her dad took. The main desk directs me to the office of research. Also on six.

The"Office" is a glassed hole in the white wall of the hallway, next to an unimposing steel door. A short chat with pink jacketed blonde behind the glass gets me an interview with two leads on my list, one now, one in an hour.

The first guy, Vernon Brown, trots out from a doorway behind the offices area. Wears black rimmed glasses, thick enough to give him owl eyes. A white coat down to his shoe tops. Some kind of lab rat. He shakes my hand through the secretary's open slider. Long arms...didn't even have to bend forward.

"You wanted to ask about Dr. Randall?"

"The late Dr. Randall. Yeah. You worked with him?" Vernon blinks at me, nods and points up the hall.

"Conference room, just to your right, Mr?..."

"Wander--just some simple stuff. Only take a few minutes"

The "conference room" is even smaller than my office. A lunch table, three chairs. We settle in.

"I wasn't around when Dr. Randall fell, Mr Wander. I was already asked by the police."

"Relax--not a Cop. Just some questions for insurance purposes." That's always a good hook, when you didn't want to mention your client. "What was Dr. Randall working on? Anything dangerous?"

"Synthetic neural implants. I don't know the details, exactly. I just do the lab work, Davis handled his equipment orders, but most of Dr, Randall's work was —Cerebral." He eyes my worn coat, evaluating me. "Brain stuff. Pineal hormones, neural myelin assays, like that. He had requisitioned test animals, I saw those, and operation room time. I think he needed the Tissue Knitters for his experiment. He had one installed in the theater. Requisitioning Op time, that can be risky--sets the administration's bells off. They start expecting results. Theater time costs money. So he must have been ready to announce something, but, you'd have to ask his research assistant."

The guy seemed a little bored, kept looking at his watch. "Not the kind of dangerous I meant. Anything that might expose him to weird chemicals, or unbalance the man? Was he in competition for a contract? At odds with somebody? Nervous?"

Vernon drew his eyebrows in. "How would I know? Not that I ever heard, but I don't follow the hospital gossip. He likely published something –you should ask Mitchel."

"Mitchel Davis? He was Randall's research assistant, right?" That was my scheduled moke.

"He worked with Dr. Randall. You need to talk to him. I just did their lab tests." His eyes flickered toward the note I still fiddled with. "The next guy on your list," he smirked. "Remember?"

Ignoring this, I stuff the paper back into my jacket. "Anyone around, not normally part of the scenery, the day he fell?"

"Well, his daughter was here for some kind of exam, then. Heard that much. I really don't follow all that, like I said. There was some odd fellow in a tight suit, no tie, asking for him at the desk earlier in the day, I remember that one because Millie was at lunch, and I had to take the message, but that was hours before. Dark hair, maybe."

"Anything special about the guy?"

"Lurid suit. Wore a big flashy ring, maybe some patient of Dr. Randall. Something about a bill. That is all I can remember, except for the police, all that, afterward. It's a Hospital. People are after doctors, appointments, lab work; all day, every day".

I let the lab rat go. The description sounded like one of the creeps Mic tangled with at the office. One of the dockside syndicate's goons? There had to be some gambling connection in all this, if so. I stop Vernon just as he turns the doorknob to leave.

"One other point. You ever hear anything about gambling in connection with Dr. Randall?"

The white coat hesitates. "No. A family man by all accounts. I don't follow the gossip, like I said before. He was involved in probability research though. Did a paper on precognition once. Got a little badmouthing about that from the hospital. Too much of a para-psychology bent for the board. They didn't think it meshed well with the hospital's image...you know how it is. Tempest in a teapot though. It wasn't something the board funded. It blew over quickly."

"Okay. Thanks."

Could still be a gambling debt then. Depended on the kind of other "research" the good Doc got into, maybe. The coming jabber with the Research assistant might be interesting. I looked forward to it.

The room's clock says I have 45 minutes to kill. Enough time to check on the two mugs that crossed Mic at my office. I don't know the names but they are certainly in the trauma and burn ward by now. Nobody stays in the ER that long. Third floor. The elevator opens right across from the ward's desk. My enterprise being as it is, I am familiar with the layout.

A cracked green chalkboard behind the desk tracks new admissions for visitors. A squint shows one likely patient pulled in yesterday, couple hours after I remember the ambulance toddling off. Listed as Alphonse Dominga. The other moke likely got released from emergency directly. Room 312. Private room, but the door is half open. Big jumbo on the bed, one arm stuck up to the elbow in a burn-gel bath. I slip in.

The moke grunts. "Semperton send you?"

I keep a passive face. "Anything to say, Alphonse?"

"Tell Semperton we got the cube. Slick has it. I don't know where he is at. Dunno about the girl, I got pasted good, and woke up here."

He moans. "Get it off Slick. Off Slick..."

Guy drifts away. There's a number of bags on the infusion pole next to the bed. One small number looks to be a pain killer, or sedative. Back to the desk. I call admissions, ask about Becky Randall. Long discharged, of course, but I get a date, manage to weasel out she was admitted for a physical, two day stay. Who gets a room for a physical? Confirmed what Vernon heard though. Back to the sixth floor.

Mitchel Davis, the second name on my list, turns out to be a hawk-eyed redhead. No Lab coat on this one. White sport-jacket, tie, like that. Smiles and shakes my hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Wander. Who do you represent.?"

Tack sharp, and right to the point. Those eyes could pierce steel. Elbows tight to the sides. I can either fess up, or get escorted to the main entrance. Time to expose myself a little. I didn't want to yet, but the insurance blab wasn't going to work on this guy. "I work for Miss Randall."

Hawk-eye relaxes. "Becky? I thought maybe. You told Vern the insurance company. Got any proof?"

I fish the note out. "She gave me your name. If you know her, maybe you recognize her handwriting?"

Davis skims the note, nods. "Okay. What can I tell you?"

"Becky thinks the dockside mob may have had something to do with her dad's accident. A couple of mob goons are in the hospital right now, in fact." Hawk-eye blinks at that. I didn't mention that the goons were patients. Just fishing to see if he knew. Doesn't say anything though. I pass off his discomfort. Goons make people nervous. That's their job. "I thought I might ask you about the particulars of Dr.Randell's research. Get some idea of what they might have been after."

Davis shrugs. "No secret, of course. The work was done under a hospital grant. Dr. Randell was researching sub-structures of the Anterior Cingulate Cortex." Noting my keen recognition of the topic, he taps his skull. "A part of the brain, Mr. Wander. The hope was to develop prostheses to replace genetically damaged parts of it. I don't know what use that type of information would be to mobsters, Mr. Wander."

"I was told research had got to the point of animal surgery. The good doctor had such a replacement part in hand by the time of his death?"

Ice descends like glaciers in the mesozoic. "Some animal studies had been proposed."

"I heard that animals had already been brought in, that the surgery was scheduled for his use. No need to be coy, Mr. Davis."

A little melt softens the permafrost. "Sorry. It's a sensitive subject, a controversial research topic. That area of the cortex has to do with consciousness itself, as well as where we put together information to synthesize new ideas. Breakthroughs in that area allowed for the development of true artificial Intelligence. You may have read about the riots that caused at one time."

"So what's the Implant supposed to do, in layman's terms?"

"It doesn't replace a man's consciousness, if that's where this is going."

"So?"

"It enhances existing processes. We hoped that it might bring genetically impaired children up to the levels of association normal children have, delay certain features of dementia, support aging scientist's abilities to make new creative associations, extending their contributing years, that sort of thing."

"Creative associations? You mean like, hunches and stuff?"

Davis sighs. "Not exactly, but yes, I suppose, if that helps you in any way. We are not talking about hand calculators or switches here, Mr. Wander. The implant's function is complex. Are there any specific questions I can answer for you?"

"Were any operations actually done?"

"No."

"But the Operating Room was scheduled..."

"Yes, it was, but then there was the unfortunate fall. All the test animals are still in their cages, Mr. Wander. All of them. Our inventory is in order, there were no thefts. All the research papers are on file with the administration. I have not been approached by mobsters. Is there anything else?"

"Can I see those papers?"

"Mr. Wander...what do you imagine you could glean from such technical documents? Check the published research, if you want. For the rest, ask the administration. How is Becky? Do you know where she is? There are some of her father's personal effects here, she never came around to pick them up."

"Turns out she was here about that time. The main desk says she was released two days after her Dad died. Came in for a Physical, but ended being held on account of her shock. Funny. You'd think all that would have been handled before her release. Did you know about the exam she had then? Some rumors said..."

Davis stiffens. "I don't know anything about that. As Dr. Randall's daughter, she was treated like family here, not too surprising, all things considered. These are things best answered by Becky, yes? I must get back to work, Mr. Wander. Give Becky my best wishes. Good day, Mr. Wander."

Davis stalks out, leaving me to think on the fact he bothered to quiz Vernon before seeing me. Then again, maybe Vernon had just got chatty. Not interested in gossip, my ass. Back to the elevator. Something funny gnaws, I want to check the surgery schedule for that date.

The elevator already has a couple of guys in the back of it, one in hospital scrubs pushing an empty wheelchair, so I stay in the front and press for the lobby.

Becky's being in the hospital the same day her dad cashed out didn't sound too good. The cops decided to call it an accident though, so if she was involved, she wouldn't be in such a rush to prove otherwise. Someone in the elevator brushes up against me, there is a sting on the back of my neck, and things go black....