Har Li-Quat, recently promoted to the status of Rectifer-First, allowed a pleased smile to surface as he floated at his desk. The changing hues of his cubicle walls reflected his good humor. He was no longer a probationer, but a full-fledged member of Computer Central's Rectification Bureau.

Foxy-faced, with red hair and a bristling moustache, he wore his full-organic soma with the ease of long practice. Only a few of his closest confidants knew his secret; that he hadn't been decanted in an organic body. Styles had cycled around to favor traditional somas. The one he'd chosen wouldn't have looked too unusual to his Earth-bound predecessors, other than for its orange-tinted skin and bushy tail. Closing the infra-eye in the middle of his forehead, he cut off the flow of incidental data from Computer Central. Still at ease, he stabbed the tip of an index finger into a desk slot, initiating deep-link.

Swimming through an endless sea of information, Har dove beneath the surface of the data-banks. This was his hobby, the only relaxation he allowed himself from his duties. He loved tracing down obsolete terminology and obscure phrases that related to his job, pursuing their derivation whenever he had a moment to spare from his duties. Back and forth through time, past layers of archaic phraseology, he persisted until he reached his goal.

/MURDER; The deliberate and malicious termination of another's persona-facet./ Detection and proof... / Punishment and rehabilitation... /

He re-opened the infra-eye in the center of his forehead, receiving further data in surface-mode. The holo-wall of his cubicle paged slowly from one frame to the next, bringing him scenes of possible trouble from Sol-System's twenty-four orbital eco-rings. The Rectification Bureau itself was a self-contained structure, floating freely in space in a narrow elliptical path around the sun, deliberately not associating itself with any one ring.

This incident held promise! Har seized on it, flagging it with his own personal symbol before a higher-ranked Rectifer could grab it away from him.

Subject: Seven-Designate Impler Faz-Bvelt, Controller and X-T Data Correlator for the powerful Impler Combine, headquarters Orbit Eighteen, Sector Gamma.

Location: ImplerMansion, Orbit Twelve, Sector Omega.

Critical Data: Incident of violence, possibly serious, no further data available at this time.

That meant that he would have to investigate this incident in person, always a dangerous procedure. He would have to project a persona-facet into a local mech soma, and Orbital Ring Twelve was more than an hour away, even at light-speed. It mustn't stay away too long, or it would split off to form another persona. There were already four of him, though he'd long ago lost track of his earlier selves. He needed the exact coordinates of the incident. His infra-eye widened as the necessary data flowed into his memory. Blinking his eyes in rotation, left, right, center, he deep-linked with Computer Central and initiated transfer.

Har-2 blinked as his vision adjusted. The light was dimmer, here on the ring called Orbit Twelve, and the sun was a tiny dot of brightness in the hazy sky. It dimmed further, then brightened as the inner ring that had momentarily occulted it moved away. He raised a hand to finger his spiky moustache, then swore under his breath as plasta fingers clicked against plasta cheek. Just one more reminder that he would have to hurry, and not spend too much time in this mech soma. He could end up stranded here, with no job and no prospects, while his original persona continued in its organic soma. He opened the door of the transfer booth and stepped out, savoring the smooth movements of this mechanical body. Sector Omega was a high-status complex, and everything here got the best of maintenance.

Within the Rectification Bureau his organic soma was going about its duties, unaware of this persona's actions. Har-2 moved a little faster. With too many different memories, their personas would soon diverge to the point where merger and re-absorption would no longer be possible. Though statistically insignificant, persona-splits were the foremost cause of population growth among Sol-System's four hundred billion citizens. New personas were a prime source of Out-migrants, and he had no desire to leave Sol-System for some half-built frontier system with only one or two eco-rings in place.

Discordant voices, ahead and to his left. Port-spinward. Transfer booths always faced spinward. Tradition? Perhaps. Nobody really remembered why. The eco-form of this sector was Jura-rural, holos of giant reptiles picking their clumsy way among fern trees and mossy boulders. ImplerMansion was cleverly disguised as an isolated cluster of boulders, hung about with vines. Har-2 thrust aside a mossy hanging and surveyed the scene of the 'incident'. Within a high-arched dome, a soft, a lumpy and several hards clustered about the wreckage of an expensive hard, of much finer workmanship and materials than the mech body he presently wore. A random wisp of greenish vapor still eddied about the shattered plasta skull, though the incident was more than an hour in the past. Even a transfer-booth couldn't shift a persona at more than the speed of light.

They looked up as he entered, picking up his ident from the ambient data-flow. He held a slight advantage there, since he already knew quite a bit about them from their records in Central Computer's memory banks. They were Liot Em-Tieller and Tjoller Flyn-Dec, the deceased's colleagues.

"Well? Who did it? You're supposed to know!" The lumpy, Liot, dropped down onto a convenient floater, mech extensors incongruous against her golden-furred torso. She glared at him as though he was personally responsible for this disruption in her life.

"I'm just a Rectifer, not Woden or Yahweh. Seven-Designate Impler Faz-Bvelt had requested a privacy-blank on her dwelling." Har-2 deliberately gave the victim her full title.

"Seven-Designate!" The soft was Three-Designate Tjoller Flyn-Dec, whose carefully sculpted organic body contrasted sharply with Liot's mechanically augmented form, his hair and skin a symphony in shades of blue. Har-2 suppressed his instinctive preference for 'soft' over 'lumpy', reminding himself that he was a 'hard' for the time being. Nor could he admit into his computations that Tjoller was fem and Liot bi at the moment.

"The rank did count for something," he finally answered, studying them as though they were in-smuggled specimens of contraband Outie life forms. "Suppose you tell me just what did happen here while the privacy-blank was on."

"Why don't you ask them?" Liot broke in waspishly before Tjoller could answer, writhing an extensor in the general direction of the other three members of the household.

"You know better than that, or you should." Har-2 pointedly ignored the three limited-mechs. Though their bodies were outwardly similar to his own, their mech brains were rudimentary. They were mere extensions of Computer Central with no memories of their own. "Now, Tjoller. Your version of what happened here."

"We were threeing, if you must know." He looked uncomfortable at the admission, as well he might. Though not illegal, threeing between soft, lumpy, and hard was frowned on socially. "This is under seal?"

"Nothing will be released without cause."

"We were almost at peak, when I blacked out. I vaguely remember that there was some kind of loud noise. When I revived, Impler was like... like that!"

"And you?" Har-2 turned to Liot.

"I was being central, plugged in both ways. Yes, Impler had her mech body modified to male. She was proud of her body, always spending credits on it, but she started out as a cloned soft and some of the habits stayed with her. We were just peaking when she sparked, or at least that was what it felt like to me. I don't remember any loud noise, though I might have been the one who made it."

Har-2 routinely flashed the three mechs, but they registered null for the interval in question. Requesting a momentary blank on Tjoller, he turned all of his attention to Liot. It took only moments to draw forth her entire history, his flashing questions designed to draw out unplanned responses.

"Why would Tjoller terminate her? Why would you? Who else would have? What enemies had she made recently? What was your category with Impler Combine?"

"Neither of us had any reason!" Liot drew her extensors closer to her body, as though to protect the too-soft flesh behind limbs of metal and plasta. "No reason at all. Nobody had! We were her associates, importing Outie data from Gal-Fed Region 16/22, 28/40, 58/65."

"A rich region," he nodded agreement. "Old and well established colonies. Just what did the two of you do to justify your salaries with the Combine?"

"Impler controlled, of course. I sorted input for value-plus items, and he," she darted a feral glance at Tjoller's frozen figure, "directed distribution. Not a very demanding job, but still just barely within his capabilities. Impler was always having to send him off-orbit to sort out problems of one kind or another."

Har-2 blanked Liot and freed Tjoller, putting him through the same catechism. "Why would Liot have terminated Impler?"

"Why not? Oh, I suppose there could be any number of reasons, none of them very important by themselves. Impler got her highs from controlling, and Liot has this idiot compulsion to please. A frown from Impler, and you'd have thought that it was a dark orbit. One word of praise, and she'd practically give off sparks. Impler never has been all that generous with her praise, and it's been worse, lately. Then, too, there was the threeing. Impler suggested, strongly, that Liot accept bi-sex implants at the same time she got her mech extensors. Liot agreed, though she refused to accept a full mech soma. That was right about when Impler decided to have her mech body modified to male."

"You didn't mind threeing?"

"It isn't really my orbit, but it wasn't that important. Impler's rank permitted privacy-blanking, and sex is sex."

Har-2 released Liot, and stood looking them over moodily. Their statements only confirmed what he'd already gotten from Computer Central. He reluctantly decided to try a long shot. "You'll both give confirmation, of course? Full deep-link to Computer Central?"

Liot huddled even smaller, shaking her head in near-panic while Tjoller only smiled sardonically.

"I won't... I can't!" she whimpered. "You can't force me to!"

"No, Rectifer Li-Quat." Tjoller's lips curved sardonically, but it wasn't really a smile. "She isn't pretending. She has this phobia about direct contact with any form of mech intelligence. Since she really can't, I won't, either. It's fairer that way, you must admit. Now, we have business to attend to. There are several urgent matters that must be taken care of, and while we've enjoyed your visit... Please flash us when you've determined who the culprit is. Aren't I right? Isn't 'culprit' the correct word?"

"Exactly the right word. No, there's no way that I can force you to accept deep-link. Not unless they were to suddenly change the privacy statutes, but until there is sufficient proof to support a charge with Computer Central, I'm placing a transfer-blank on the two of you."

"But you can't!" Liot's extensors clashed as she leaped to her feet. "Our business demands..."

"I can, and I have. There'll be no dispute over which persona is responsible, unless you both agree to submit all future personas to whatever penalty is computed."

"No need for that." Tjoller laughed, shaping his full lips into that almost-smile. "We can carry on our business from this point well enough, can't we, Liot?"

"I guess so." She moved unsteadily on her extensors to where a cluster of comp-links blended with the outer wall of the eco-bubble. "Tjoller, you wanted to disto our holdings on Orbit Three, Lambda."

"It's done, remember?" He ignored Har-2's presence, seating himself on a relaxo. "What's new from the Outies?"

"There's that new gene-map of a spice plant from Vantage, Orbit Nineteen, Alpha. Pardel Bez-Nult flashed us to be on the lookout for something of the sort."

Har-2 watched them for a few moments as they worked together, answers and decisions flowing with the ease of long practice. No, they didn't have to accept deep-link, and he couldn't blame them. Full deep-link, with memory sharing, could damage a persona if it wasn't too well integrated to start with. They ignored the limited-mechs as Impler's crunched soma was finally cleared away. Shrugging, he blinked his eyes in rotation and cut the link with this body, signalling for a merge. There was a familiar moment of disorientation as the two memory tracks came together in one soma, then he was back together. From long habit he touched his spiky moustache, as though for reassurance that he was truly back in his own body.

He floated quietly at his desk for several minutes, deep in thought as he correlated what he'd learned on Orbit Twelve with the information he'd gathered here in his cubicle. Its walls were mottled with flowing patterns of palest green, reflecting the tranquility of his thoughts. Touching a sensor pad on the smooth surface before him, he proceeded to set up a memory file that couldn't be accessed by Computer Central. Not strictly according to regulations, of course, but this way no spurious correlations would be entered into the ordering of Sol-System affairs.

ITEM: The deceased had been much occupied recently with the problem of garbled transcriptions from her out-system sources. There had been distorted gene-maps, as well as various unsalable works of art and music. Her status had been threatened by the resultant credit losses, and in a few more turns she might have been reduced to the rank of Five-Designate or even lower.

ITEM: Liot Em-Tieller was a fairly new persona, decanted normally. She had been employed by Impler Combine since leaving creche-schooling, but had only in the last few turns opted for lumpy soma. She had agreed to the cyborg attachments at Impler's suggestion that they would be convenient in her work, which was unlikely, but had refused conversion to full mech soma.

ITEM: Tjoller Flyn-Dec had been in Impler's employ for nearly twenty turns, and until a few turns ago had been one of her ace trouble-shooters. There was a rumor among his underlings that he had resented continued postings to field tasks that carried a high risk of persona-splits, since most of the resulting new personas had ended up registered for out-migration.

Har opened his eyes as a holo built up across from his desk. The image melded perfectly with his cubicle, and it was as though his ambient space had suddenly tripled. He schooled his features to an expression of polite interest at the sight of Four-Designate Grondriss Jarr-Duan, his immediate superior in this Rectification sequence, and locked the color patterns of his cubicle walls so that they wouldn't reflect his true emotions.

"You've stirred up a real bowl of worms this time, Har!" The tone was flatly accusing, his agitation betrayed by his misuse of the archaic phrasing he affected.

"Oh?" Show no emotion! "How is that?"

"This Impler thing! Why you had to go trampling in like a gjadder-beast in heat... ! You've been around long enough to know better than to cross orbits with that kind." The richly customized hard soma across from Har scowled, its central infra-eye almost closing. "I've had three complaints land on my desk already!"

"I'm not too surprised." For a moment Har wished that he too was wearing a hard soma, but he was sure that his face revealed nothing of his feelings. Least of all, his contempt for this political time-server that Computer Central had placed him under. "I ordered a transfer-blank on the two most likely suspects. The only suspects at this point. The destruction of Impler's persona-facet took place under a privacy-blank, of course. No one else could have entered Impler's dome while it was on. Nor left."

The eye in his superior's forehead widened almost imperceptibly, and Har knew that Grondriss was checking his statement against Computer Central's record banks.

"All right, but I want fast results on this one. The news-links are onto it already. The first crime of its kind in almost fifty turns... Flash me as soon as you know..."

The holo dimmed to nothing, and Har permitted himself the luxury of a snarl.

"Fool mech! No, blank that." He certainly didn't need to have that comment appear in his file! "I'll have to get more data."

He surface-skimmed what Computer Central offered, but there was nothing in those files that he didn't already know. Another field trip, then. Another sojourn in the soma of a transfer-mech, something he hated with a passion that would have surprised his fellow Rectifers. Few among them knew that his persona had ignited in the soma of a transfer-mech. Some off-orbit numb-wit had transferred out too far from an empty transfer booth. By the time the untenanted mech had made its automatic way back to the nearest empty booth, it had accumulated enough experiences to seed a new persona.

Those were his earliest memories, of wandering across the endless desert of a recreation complex while his mind had slowly built into a pattern of its own. He had avoided having to register for the Outie-draft, but it had taken him more than forty turns of hard, menial jobs for him to earn a name of his own. A name, and a place in society where he was safe from the Outie-draft.

Where to go? He reviewed his data, and blinked his eyes in rotation. Left, right, center.

The inside of this transfer booth was worn and dusty. So was the mech. Har-2 was buffeted by artificial winds as he stepped out into a blaze of sunlight, moving with a trace of stiffness until he'd stopped long enough to flex his solenoids a few times. Orbit Three was positioned about where the ancient planet Venus had circled Sol, ideal for the cultivation of tropical plants.

Across a broad and level plain, purple-leaved plants stretched in even rows. At intervals their symmetry was broken by ditches of fuming liquid, adding a pungent tang to the scent of growing things. There would be none but mech somas in this sector, since the effluvium from the unprocessed plants was deadly poison to anything organic. Every kilometer or so, fences divided off plots at different stages of readiness for harvest. Har-2 winced inwardly as the scene brought back memories long suppressed.

Here and there among the rows, industrious workers hoed and raked. Some were limited-mechs, leased from Computer Central for a fee only fractionally higher than the pay of a true persona. Others were brought here by the pitiless forces of society. Most were the lazy, the idle, the fractured personas or born losers who make up a substratum of every society. Others were as he had been, new-formed and without resources or talents that would have allowed them to be something better.