If so, that could mean many things, none of them particularly good, several of them very bad.

His mood seemed to grow fouler as he helped the increasingly drunk secretary finish their late night treats among the wistful smells and pulsing sounds of Flickers nightclub.

"Mr. Grant!" she said, giggling at some stupid sarcastic statement he'd made about some politico. "You are sofunny!"

"I think we've had a little too much champagne, Mabel."

"But not too much caviar. I never could have believed that I ever would like fish eggs, but this stuff is just delish! I really am enjoying myself."

"I hope you've saved some for friends," said a cold voice from the darkness. A swath of mist swirled away, and there stood a husky man with a scar riding along his bald pate like a bolt of lightning. He wore good clothes and he smelled of good cologne.

"Gee! Another competitor, Mr. Grant?"

Grant froze. "Not exactly."

Fisk. Morton Fisk.

What was this, old home night for demons from hell?

"Good evening, Grant." The man did not even look at Mabel. His piercing eyes just hooked on to Grant and hung on. "I don't usually visit people personally. However I do have a tradition. I like to make sure that my face is branded on the retinas of dying men."

"Fisk. What are you talking about?"

Grant had a suspicion, but he didn't even want to think about the possibility.

"Who is this guy, Mr. Grant? What's going on?" said Mabel.

"I told you, Grant, when you got me to bail you out, that I was a patient man ... until I wasn't patient." The scar on the head seemed to glow a livid pink. Pulsing with contained rage. "And I haven't been. You're months overdue, and you haven't even had the dignity to send partial payments. I am truly offended."

"Fisk! I'm not sure what you're talking about. You've been getting regular installments!"

A big fist grabbed a handful of his shirt, lifted him up so that Grant began to gasp for air. "Lie! He lies to my face! You well know that I haven't gotten a penny for months."

Indeed, Grant did know.

All too well.

In the scrabble for solidity and power after the Alien-Earth War, not all of the fortresses of fiduciary control were entirely legal. And often as not, to get the leverage you needed for truly inspired buyouts, you had to go to these underground people for liquid assets.

Unfortunately, they were criminals.

Violent criminals.

Self-confidence was always the antigrav stuff for Daniel Grant, the by-your-bootstraps talent that hoisted him above the rest. Unfortunately, self-confidence could also be a blindfold. He well knew that he personally owed millions to Fisk and company, but since for Daniel Grant manana was always golden—well, he'd pay them manana, when he had the money.

Alas, he saw no manana in Morton Fisk's eyes.

"Look, Morty. Sit down, pull up a glass of the warm south, get to know this delightful creature ... and for heaven's sake, let's jaw awhile, huh?" Grant patted a comfortable cushion.

"Sorry."

The big man spun on his heel, and was swallowed up by the stylish mists and the nightclub gloom.

"Mr. Grant ... Daniel ..." said Mabel. "What kind of gorilla was that?"

"Notthe gorilla of my dreams!" said Grant, scooting over to the end of the booth. "Look, I'll be right back, Mabel. Got to visit the little boys' room!"

What had happened here? Had Foxnall tipped Fisk off to his presence here? That bastard! That must have been what had happened.

Geez! There were such sharks in business these days!

He was at the edge of the booth, when he heard aclick. Instinctively he dived for the floor.

An explosion of bullets whacked over the top of him like lateral hail. He could feel their heat. He hit the floor and rolled, the sound of the machine gun echoing in his ear, the scream of his secretary joining in.

He got a glimpse of the poor brunette, jerking amid the passion of the bullets, blood yanked from that sweet body, making a mess of her dress. Glass and champagne and caviar spattered every which way, in a fantasmagoric slow-mo fountain.

The will to live turned Grant away from this death dance, and he scrambled away, like a rat from a pack of cats.

7

A month of her life, just getting this show on the road.

Colonel Alex Kozlowski took a swig of her coffee, and watched as the last batch of supplies got loaded into the shuttle. She managed to get down to a quarter capsule a day of Fire, but she'd already taken that now, and damned herself for wanting more. The stuff wasn't like booze, you didn't see creepy crawlies if you went dry. It was like cigarettes. And just as hard to kick. She wanted to kick it, to show her own superiority to herself. Which was why she felt bad now, wanting another hit.

In just a few hours they'd be boosted up to theRazzia, stored away with the rest of the stuff Daniel Grant and his scientists wanted on this mission—along of course with the rest of the marines, her own hard ass included.

Alex Kozlowski was sitting on the apron of the ramp, the lip of which sided a wing of the shuttle that would soon trundle out of the hangar and wing up through the atmosphere. To the other side of her was a warehouse-sized security checkpoint and storage room. Dawn had just shouldered through a cloudy horizon.

She slouched in the chair, watching the crates being loaded.

Hell of a lot of stuff going up there.

She'd been in charge of everything her crew was going to need. She'd wanted to be in charge of the whole shebang. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards.

A bored-looking deliveryman walked over and handed her a piece of paper on a clipboard. "Sign please, Colonel."

Alex took the clipboard.

SUPPLIES, said the checklist. That was all.

"How can I check 'em in, if I don't know what they are?"

"Look, Colonel," said the man, "I'm just doing my job. I'd like it a lot if you could just take a crowbar and prize open a couple and have yourself a gander. I'm afraid, though, that it's all pretty insulated and locked up and you'd be pretty hard-pressed to lock the stuffing back in."

The guy was a civvy, probably worked for the government. Kozlowski could tell by his attitude. She didn't like any man she couldn't give orders to, or take orders from, and the man annoyed her. What could she do, though? Make him clean the latrines? He was the equivalent of a third-rate, truck-driving, trolley-pushing bureaucrat.