t back, past two doors which bore pictured half-doors
revealing, respectively, masculine-trousered and feminine-stockinged
ankles, and opened the unmarked office door beyond. The bartender, he
knew, had pushed the signal button; the door was unlocked, and,
inside, O'Reilly--baptismal name Luigi Orelli--was waiting.

"Chief wants to see you, right away," the saloon keeper said.

The brewer nodded. "All right. Keep me covered; don't know how long
I'll be." He crossed the room and opened a corner-cupboard, stepping
inside.

The corner cupboard, which was an elevator, took him to a tunnel below
the street. Across the street, he entered another elevator, set the
indicator for the tenth floor, and ascended. As the car rose, he could
feel the personality of Frank Cardon, Illiterate brewer, drop from
him, as though he were an actor returning from the stage to his
dressing room.

The room into which he emerged was almost that. There was a long
table, at which two white-smocked Literates drank coffee and went over
some papers; a third Literate sprawled in a deep chair, resting; at a
small table, four men in black shirts and leather breeches and field
boots played poker, while a fifth, who had just entered and had not
yet removed his leather helmet and jacket or his weapons belt, stood
watching them.

Cardon went to a row of lockers along the wall, opened one, and took
out a white smock, pulling it over his head and zipping it up to the
throat. Then he buckled on a Sam Browne with its tablet holster and
stylus gas projector. The Literate sprawling in the chair opened one
eye.

"Hi, Frank. Feels good to have them on again, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Clean," Cardon replied. "It'll be just for half an hour, but--"

He passed through the door across from the elevator, went down a short
hall, and spoke in greeting to the leather-jacketed storm trooper on
guard outside the door at the other end.

"Mr. Cardon," the guard nodded. "Mr. Lancedale's expecting you."

"So I understand, Bert."

He opened the door and went through. William R. Lancedale rose from
behind his desk and advanced to greet him with a quick handshake,
guiding him to a chair beside the desk. As he did, he sniffed and
raised an eyebrow.

"Beer this early, Frank?" he asked.

"Morning, noon, and night, chief," Cardon replied. "When you said this
job was going to be dangerous, I didn't know you meant that it would
lead straight to an alcoholic's grave."

"Let me