Marlowe and the Spacewoman by Ian M. Dudley Page A

synthetics, but hadn’t been pleased with the results – despite years and years of research, no one had been able to get synthetic hair that looked real.  Spray-on hair looked better, but still not that great, and was just too much effort and led to embarrassing stains on his hands if he stroked it too much.  Finally, his brother gave up, and took to imprisoning anyone who commented on his facial hair.
    Despite a colony of Botox that had been genetically engineered to survive indefinitely under the surface of his skin, the heavy burden of the Office of Governor had ravaged his face with deep gouges and lines.  The skin was pasty, the eyebrows sagged, and the only thing soothing about his visage were the placid gray eyes.  They shimmered, in a soothing way, the result of iris implants.
    “You’re not going to kill me.  You’ve gone to too much trouble bringing me here just to kill your only brother.”
    The Governor laughed, though the heartiness seemed forced.  “How ya doing, Spares?”
    The sofa squeezed a little in response to Marlowe’s involuntary stiffening.  “Please don’t call me that.”
    “Sorry, sorry,” said his brother, the gray eyes flashing sympathetically.  “Terribly insensitive of me.”
    “Sorry to disturb you,” piped up House’s voice in Marlowe’s ear, “but he’s most likely attempting to evoke a nostalgic response with the nickname, to soften you up.  And his eyes are flashing a subliminal message to trust him.  I have taken the liberty of employing countermeasures.  Also, I have some wonderful news to share.  But I’ll wait until you get home.  You’ll be thrilled.”
    Marlowe cleared his throat.  He couldn’t respond to House without his brother hearing, or he would have launched into a tirade about surprises and keeping things from him.  It would have to wait.
    “Marlowe, I find myself in a delicate situation, and I need your expertise to extract myself from it.”
    “One hundred Cituros a day, plus expenses.”
    “Dearest brother, I’m family!”
    “Oh, that’s right.  I forgot.  Two hundred a day.”
    “Really, dear brother, you forget yourself.  Where do you think you’d be without me  watching over you?  I think you’d find life a lot more difficult without my, shall we say, patronage.  Don’t you agree?”
    “No.  I’d almost certainly be a lot healthier.  I wouldn’t have quite so many run-ins with Gwen and Artie, for starters.  You’d think being the brother of the Governor would afford me some slack in life.  But despite your comically haphazard attempts to pretend I’m not a relation, which fools only the most dimwitted and least threatening of your opponents, the bulk of your adversaries are under the mistaken impression you care about me.  They keep trying to hurt you through me.”
    “I know.  I deliberately foster that belief so they don’t hurt the people I do care about.”
    “Well, I certainly respect your honesty.”  Not, he mentally added.
    “Listen, Gervase, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days, I need someone I can trust to handle a slight problem.  You forget to send me Xmas cards every year, I contemplate having you deported almost daily.  We have our issues.  But we both also have a common enemy.  Obedere.  A defeat for me is a winner-takes-all victory for him, and I know you’ll want to deny him that.  If not to save our lives, then just out of sheer spite.  And, as an added bonus, I pay very well.  Three hundred Cituros a day, plus expenses, plus the full backing and resources of the Office of the Governor if you’ll handle this.”
    Three hundred a day got Marlowe’s attention.  “I’m listening.”
    “Just over an hour ago, a craft of some type crashed into the Northeast Rural District One collective farm.  The crash completely wiped out the Brussels sprout crop and severely damaged the kale yield.”
    “Go on,” said Marlowe.
    “There was one survivor.  A