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Scanner over the club door stirs in the cool breeze, swiveling a conical search back and up and forth and down—enzyme sniffing, searching the pheromones, checking to see who's clean and who's not. Crude first approximation, not a true sample, but good enough to keep out the riff. Inside the club is air hot enough to bring out the sweat with the good pheros. All the pretties, male and female and not-reporting, dance and drink and search for the perfect other.

Pulse-beat rhythms make the floor quake underfoot—noise, above all, to fool and foil the eavesdroppers, meat and metal both. In a booth near the back, two drinkers lean heads together, speaking low.

"I know he's out there," Enid says. She's blonde and girly, with money to throw away. What she doesn't have is a butch named Fremont, gone missing from her life with no warning. She's supporting him still, hoping he'll return. Sending non-traceable money every month. "Found him once, find him again."

"Got an address?" asks Dol. Dol's not-reporting, dark-haired and pretty enough to pass as a she if neh tries, which neh usually doesn't. No point to it, in nis line of work

"Only remailer."

"Give it to me." Dol takes the address, written on a napkin. "What's mine when the job's over?"

"Fifteen thousand, non-t." Enid pauses, looks at Dol. "Maybe more, if you want. We were planning, make offspring—had started looking for a third. Could be you."

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