“I know that you have a troubled family history,” said Herbert. “That’s not a big secret, especially on this island. Still, I just met this John Montgomery Montalban. I see no need for any panic about him. I have to say I rather liked Mr. Montalban. He’s a perfectly pleasant bloke. Very businesslike.”
“Montalban is that stupid rich American who married Radmila. Make him go away. Hurry. He’s bad trouble.”
“Did you know that Mr. Montalban was coming here to this island? It was quite an epic journey for him, by his account. He took a slow boat all across the Pacific, he personally sailed through the Suez Canal… Making money all the way, I’d be guessing, by the look of him.”
“No. I have never met Montalban. Never. I don’t talk to him, I don’t know him. He isn’t supposed to be here, Herbert. I don’t want to know him. Not ever. I hate him. Don’t let him stay here.”
Herbert lowered his voice. “He’s brought his little girl with him.”
Vera raised her head. “He brought a child? To a neural camp?”
“That’s not illegal. It’s against Acquis policy for people in radical ex-perimental camps to have and bear children. After all, clearly, morally—we can’t put kids into little boneware jumpers and scan their brains without their adult consent. But it’s not against policy to bring children here, on a visit. So Little Mary Montalban—who is all of five years old—came here all the way from California. She’s here to see you, Vera. That’s what I’m told.”
Vera’s shock lost its sharpness in her dark, gathering resentment.
“That little girl is Radmila’s child. Radmila sent her baby here. I was always afraid it would come to this. This is all some kind of trick!” Vera caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Radmila can never be trusted. Radmila is a cheat!”
“‘Cheat’ in what sense? Enlighten me.”
“You can tell just by looking at Radmila that she has no morals.”