said Malone. “What did you talk about?” “World politics,” said Lisa. “Women's rights. Public transport.” “Neither of you ever travel by public transport.” They were in the kitchen, she at the stove, he sitting at the table sipping a light beer. It was a very modern kitchen, refurbished a year ago at what was, by Malone's standards, great expense; but it was a workplace, not a sterile display of kitchen furniture. Lisa's touch, that of home, was in every room in the Federation house. The house was a hundred years old and year after year it had survived, under various owners, as a home. “Did Russ ask you to ask me what we talked about?” “No. I left him at the Aurora building—they've got a stake-out there. What did you talk about?” “Stupidity. Men's. Open the wine, give it some time to breathe. Why on earth did Russ risk all that money?” “He's admitted it. Greed. What are we having?” “Chicken stroganoff. The whites are in the fridge. Sixty thousand dollars.
