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. The only footprints we trace are electronic. We don't tail beautiful mysterious women in mink stoles. We do file-searches until we find some tiny little discrepancy in her personal finances which proves she's a spy or an embezzler or whatever. We study psychological profiles, sociological patterns."
The young man stopped, eyed Xris quizzically. "But you know all this, don't you, sir? I've read up on your case," he added in explanation. "You used to work for the investigative branch of the old democracy."
"I was a Fed." Xris nodded. "But we wore holsters."
Baldwin shook his head, obviously sympathetic. "Mr. Wiedermann's office is at the end of the corridor." "The younger," Xris clarified.
"Right. The elder's almost fully retired now. Through this door."
Through a door, into an outer office that appeared to be used as a storage room for boxes of computer paper, stacks of file folders, stacks of plastic disks, old-fashioned reels of magnetic tape, mags, actual bound books, all thrown together in no particular order.
"Mr. Wiedermann doesn't like secretaries," Baldwin explained in a low tone, pausing in front of the closed door of the inner office. "He says he's seen too many ruin their bosses. The staff takes turns running his errands for him. He's a genius."
"He must be," Xris observed, glancing at the clutter. "Either that or Daddy owns the company
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