r whisked them up to the penthouse which topped it, and they landed on
the terrace.

Seated in beach chairs, an autobar between them, were two men. They were
both in their middle years. The impossibly corpulent one, Don Mathers
vaguely recognized. From a newscast? From a magazine article? The other
could have passed for a video stereotype villain, complete to the
built-in sneer. Few men, in actuality, either look like or sound like
the conventionalized villain. This was an exception, Don decided.

He scowled at them. "I suppose one of you is the boss," he said.

"That's right," the fat one grunted. He looked at Don's two escorts.
"Scotty, you and Rogers take off."

They got back into the car and left.

The vicious-faced one said, "This is Mr. Lawrence Demming. I am his
secretary."

Demming puffed, "Sit down, Lieutenant. What'll you have to drink? My
secretary's name is Rostoff. Max Rostoff. Now we all know each other's
names. That is, assuming you're Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers."

Don said, "Tequila."

* * * * *

Max Rostoff dialed the drink for him and, without being asked, another
cordial for his employer.

Don placed Demming now. Lawrence Demming, billionaire. Robber baron, he
might have been branded in an earlier age. Transportation baron of the
solar system. Had he been a pig he would have been butchered long ago;
he was going unhealthily to grease.

Rostoff said, "You have identification?"

Don Mathers fingered through his wallet, brought forth his I.D. card.
Rostoff handed him his tequila, took the card and examined it carefully,
front and back.

Demming huffed and said, "Your collar insignia tells me you pilot a
Scout. What sector do you patrol, Lieutenant?"

Don sipped at the fiery Mexican drink, looked at the fat man over the
glass. "That's military information, Mr. Demming."

* * * * *

Demming made a move with his plump lips. "Did Scotty give you a
thousand-unit note?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You took it. Either
give it back or tell me what sector you patrol, Lieutenant."

Don Mathers was aware of the fact that a man of Demming's position
wouldn't have to go to overmuch effort to acquire such information,
anyway. It wasn't of particular importance.

He shrugged and said, "A22-K223. I fly the V-102."

Max Rostoff handed back the I.D. card to Don and picked up a Solar
System sector chart from the short-legged table th