There was a change in Alfano’s eyes, as if the mention of his security chief indicated that there was some hope for me. He pointed toward the more homely of the two women. “Yes, where the big picture is concerned. But your job is to guard my eldest daughter. That’s why I chose to interview you myself.”

  The words rattled like stones on concrete. They sounded false, but I couldn’t say why. I nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. We leave in the morning so you won’t be able to go home. Find Andre and draw anything you need. He will introduce you to Pru.”

  “Pru?”

  “Prudence, my daughter.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Alfano nodded, examined the end of his cigar, and stubbed it out. The interview was over.

  I showed myself out of Alfano’s office, requested directions from the desk Nazi, and proceeded down the hall. Now, left to my own devices, I realized how empty the building was, with lots of dark empty offices, unpopulated work cubes, and sterile common areas. The place felt haunted, as if the ghosts of a million laid-off workers still roamed the corridors, taking meetings, kissing ass, and when things went well, making products that people needed and used.

  The security chief was where you might expect him to be, on the same floor with the boss, but comfortably removed. To provide the alpha male with some privacy? Or to escape the blast in case a bomb went off? I put my money on number two.

  I stepped through the door, and entered a completely different world. Steel, plastic, and vinyl had replaced the brass, wood, and carpeting that typified the rest of the building. Security monitors, literally hundreds of them, tiled three long walls. A rack of radios, lights rippling, murmured to one side, while weapons, at least half a million credits’ worth, waited in racks.

  Andre, assuming he and the man in front of me were one and the same, was a surprise. Rather than the hulk I had expected to see, he was small, very small, standing no more than about four feet tall, not counting the power-assisted stilts. Most people would have assumed that he was the victim of a hereditary birth defect, but I knew better. The Mishimuto Marines included an entire battalion of gene-manipulated men and women, so called “specialists” designed to function as crew for exotic weapons systems. “Normals” tended to look down on them, to refer to them as “freaks,” and I was no exception. Not till I became one myself. Maybe that’s why I took a liking to him. He had a pretty good build for a little guy, brown hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and level green eyes. “So, who the hell are you?”

  I shrugged. “Max Maxon. Mr. Alfano hired me to protect his daughter.”

  Andre’s eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

  “Prudence.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Interesting.”

  “How so?”

  The security chief ran his eyes the length of my frame, brought them back, and met mine. “Tell me something . . . How good are you? Compared to the very best?”

  I didn’t care for the question and decided to stall. “Like what? On a scale of one to ten?”

  “Sure,” the security chief answered easily. “On a scale of one to ten.”

  I swallowed. It was tempting to exaggerate, to build myself up, but something held me back. The look in Andre’s eyes? The knowledge that I couldn’t back it up? It didn’t matter. I went with the truth. “Maybe a five.”

  Something changed deep within his eyes. Something subtle but important. He was silent for a moment. When he spoke there was respect in his voice. “That took courage, Maxon . . . more than most people have.”

  He looked around as if to verify that the room was empty. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Tell me something, Maxon . . . if your daughter was in danger, and you could afford the very best, would you hire a five?”

  “No,” I said slowly, “I guess I wouldn’t.”

  “Neither would I,” Andre replied softly. “So a word to the wise: Watch your six. Who knows? You might live long enough to get paid.”

  Pay! Something I should have asked Alfano about but had failed to do so. “So,” I said casually, “how much is the pay? Assuming I live to collect it?”

  “Five hundred credits per day,” the security chief replied cheerfully, “plus expenses. Not bad, huh? You need anything?” He gestured to the weapons racked along the wall.

  I tend to carry at least two backup mags for the .38, but ammo is damned expensive, so why not? “You got any boxes of .38 super hollow-point express lying around?”

  Andre nodded. “Yeah, not much though, most of the team prefer .9mm. Let’s take a look.” The power-assisted stilts made a whining noise as he crossed the room. The security chief checked the shelves, and, like so many things in life, found the stuff he was looking for on the top shelf. There were four boxes of fifty. A nice little bonus. I took every single one of them.

  “So,” Andre inquired. “You ready?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “All right, then. Let’s pay a visit to Miss Prudence. We leave at oh-dark thirty . . . so you should get acquainted.”

  Servos whined as the security officer made his way down the hall. Now, viewed from the back, I saw Andre had stuffed a .9mm down the back of his pants. Tried it once but damned near blew my ass off. Stuck with holsters ever since.

  We entered an elevator, dropped two levels, and got off. The first thing I noticed was the change in decor. The almost sterile feel of the floors above had been replaced by a beige sort of beauty replete with thick off-white carpets, beautifully crafted wood trim, carefully chosen brass fixtures and paintings. Lots of paintings, abstract things mostly, executed in bright primary colors. I liked the one that fronted the elevators, but hey, part of my brain is missing. Andre must have noticed my interest because he nodded toward the jumble of brightly colored shapes. “Miss Pru likes to paint.”

  The tone was neutral, and his face was blank, but there was no denying the underlying judgment. Andre considered painting to be a waste of time, and judging from the fact that Alfred Alfano’s office boasted bare walls, the old man did, too. The security chief pointed toward the far end of the hall. “Both Miss Pru and Miss Linda have suites at the far end of the hall.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What? You’re bailing out?”

  Andre smiled. “She’s all yours, Maxon . . . use the radio if you need reinforcements.”

  “Will anyone come?”

  The little big man laughed. “Maybe, if we’re in the mood.” Servos whined, doors closed, and the security chief was gone.

  I grumbled to myself as I trudged the length of the hall, still finding time to make note of the side doors, exits, windows, and the building across the street. It was a big hummer, equal in size to the one I was in, and just as empty. A few rectangles of white light showed where some poor slobs were working late, but most of the offices were dark.

  The hall ended in what amounted to a small lobby. There were two sets of white-enameled doors, one to the left and one to the right. It might have been confusing except for the fact that some extremely thoughtful soul had mounted brass plaques next to both. The one on the left read, “MISS LINDA,” and the one on the right said, “MISS PRU.” I rang the bell and spoke into the intercom. “Max Maxon here to see Miss Prudence.”

  The voice sounded tinny. “Come in.”

  I tried the door, found it was unlocked, and shook my head in disgust. I mean doors won’t stop the poppers, not the more determined kind, but they do slow ’em down. And seconds, even a few, are damned nice to have. I entered the suite, secured the door, and went looking for my client. The color scheme was very much like that found out in the hall, complete with more splashy paintings, and Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor beckoning me on. How did I know that? Good question. I wish I knew.

  I passed through an entry hall, entered a sparsely furnished sitting room, and followed the hardwood flooring. It led me past a nicely equipped kitchen, some doors that might have led to bedrooms, and out into a solarium. That’s where Miss Prudence was, sitting behind a baby grand, eyes out of focus.

  She sensed my presence, or I thought she did, but kept on playing. Her hair was dark, her nose was too large, and her mouth was small and determined. There was nothing wrong with her body, however, which appeared to be in good shape and featured bumps in all the right places. Her clothes were simple but stylish. A white blouse, some nice jewelry, and black slacks. Finally, after the last note had died away, Miss Pru looked up. She started to smile, gave a start, and turned white as a sheet. “Are you the man Father hired to protect me?”

  I’m used to some double takes, what with the skull plate and all, but this seemed excessive. “Yes,” I replied cautiously, “I am. Is there some sort of problem?”

  Slowly, as if afflicted by old age, she stood. “I wanted to be sure that’s all . . . I had hoped, well, it hardly matters what I had hoped. It’s over now.”

  My eye was drawn to the building across the street.

  I ran toward the piano, launched myself into the air, and yelled, “Dork Nop!” at the top of my lungs.

  It was supposed to be “Watch out!” but I don’t suppose it made much difference as she heard the shout, saw me hurtling straight at her, and threw herself backwards. Glass shattered a fraction of a second later.

  Having established themselves in the building across the street, and gone to the trouble of setting up tripods for their custom-made rifles, the poppers had been presented with an irresistible opportunity. Here was their mark sitting in what amounted to a well-lit bubble. What more could any assassin want?

  Popper number one, who was almost certainly an apprentice, had the relatively easy job of breaking the glass. Glass, which, if left intact, might deflect the second shot by the journeyman, thereby giving the victim a second to escape. Now, as I harvested that second by landing on top of my already-supine client, I grabbed and rolled her toward the wall.

  Frustrated, and blessed with twenty- or thirty-shot clips, the assassins began to hose the area down. The piano jumped and made strange thrumming sounds as armor-piercing slugs tore through the highly polished wood and buried themselves in the floor.

  Prudence, who was understandably frightened, wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me close. This turned out to be a rather pleasant experience since she was not only well put together but smelled divine. That’s when I realized that it had been her perfume that I had detected in the limo and elevator.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled explosion. The firing stopped. Five or ten seconds passed. Her tone was dry. “Thank you, Mr. Maxon . . . but you can release me now.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose I can. I’ll check. Please keep your head down.”

  I sat up, rolled onto my knees, and poked my head up over the sill. Smoke poured out of a rather sizable hole in the building across the street. That’s when I remembered the woman up on the roof. She, or one of her camo-clad mercenaries, had detected the attack, prepped a rocket launcher, and nailed the poppers with one shot. Prudence stirred at my side.

  “You save my life. How did you know?” she asked.

  “No big deal,” I said as I stood and offered my hand. “Some idiot turned a light on. They turned it off two seconds later but the damage was done. I saw the tripods, guessed what they were for, and took to the air.”

  “You’re not much of a bird,” she said while brushing little beads of safety glass off her clothes.

  “No? Well, you make one helluva landing pad.”

  Prudence laughed. Not a little chuckle, but the sort of gut buster you don’t hear very often, but tend to remember. She was still laughing when Andre plus a couple of his security people entered the room. They looked at me, and I shrugged. Women. Who can understand ’em?

  The better part of three hours had passed before the window was boarded up, the broken glass was removed, and the two of us were left alone. The first thing I did was to ensure that the steel shutters that Prudence hated to use were extended and locked in place. Once that was accomplished I headed for the entry and a semicomfortable chair. Comfortable chairs are a bad idea since I tend to fall asleep in them. Especially when I’m tired . . . which I was. Prudence intercepted me. “Got a minute? I’d like to talk.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, but I’m not much of a talker.”

  “We were talking before the shooting started.”

  I nodded and followed her into the sitting room. She pointed toward a chair and asked if I wanted a drink. I shook my head no, and waited while she built one for herself. Ice clinked as she sat down. I watched her chose the words. “No offense, Maxon, but in spite of what you did for me earlier, you are what Andre would call second or third rate talent.”

  This was the second time within the last five or six hours someone had told me how pathetic I was, and I was getting tired of it. She must have seen it in my face because she raised a hand. “No, I haven’t forgotten who saved my butt, so put your ego in neutral. I have something to say.”

  I nodded, wondered why I was holding the short end of the stick again, and tried to look attentive. Pru frowned, summoned up an expression that made her look a lot like her father, and started to talk. It seemed that she and her father had never been close, especially after her mother’s death and his subsequent remarriage.

  Though brilliant during his youth, Alfano had made some mistakes of late, picked the wrong deals, and lost a substantial amount of money. No, the empire wasn’t about to crumble, not yet, but repairs were in order. Serious repairs, the kind that require millions of credits, and, depending on where you get them, can result in a loss of control. Something the old man wasn’t willing to consider.

  That left the other possibility, an alliance, or a merger that left him in control. It seemed that there were numerous ways to structure such a relationship, including the ever-popular arranged marriage, which, given some time, would almost certainly create blood ties. Kind of like European nobility used to do hundreds of years before. Anyway, what with a whole room full of disappointed shareowners to deal with, the old man needed a fix.

  Pru sipped her drink and I remembered sitting in her father’s study while he discussed what? A potential husband? Who didn’t want “her?” Whoever she was? Now I thought I knew.

  “So,” Prudence said flatly, “I think we can assume that my father tried to arrange some sort of marriage, couldn’t find anyone who would take me, and made the obvious decision. Kill me, market Linda, and close the deal.”

  I remembered the picture of Linda, figured there’d be plenty of takers, and wondered how she felt about all this. I’m a gentleman though, well sometimes, and tried to soften the blow. “You’re being too hard on yourself. It’s a business deal, remember? If you’re correct, and that’s a mighty big if, chances are that the numbers didn’t compute.”

  Pru shook her head. “Thanks, Maxon, but no thanks. You took your medicine, and I’ll take mine. You’re a five . . . and so am I. Have you seen my father since the poppers attacked? No? Neither have I. Let’s be real. He hired the poppers or had someone do it.”

  She had me there. “Still,” I replied, “why kill you when he has your sister?”

  “She’s pretty,” Pru responded, “but I’m the one with the stock.”

  “Stock?”

  “Yes, stock in the company given to my mother on their wedding day, and passed to me. He needs my block to negotiate a deal—and I won’t give it to him. Not without some sort of insurance policy.”

  “But not your sister?”

  “No, because she has a different mother. Or had, since Elaine was killed by a car bomb two years back.”

  “You could change your beneficiary,” I said brightly, “so there’s no reason to kill you.”

  There was pity in her eyes. “You really don’t get it, do you, Maxon? There would be no one to protect me if I did that . . . greed makes a pretty good motive.”

  “So,” I said doubtfully, “what’s left?”

  Pru took a long hard pull on her drink and looked out over the glass. “Beats the hell out of me. Your job is to keep me alive until I find an answer.”

  “What about the meeting?”

  Prudence looked thoughtful. “I think we’d better go. It’s dangerous, but no worse than sitting here all by ourselves.”

  I got to my feet. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be ready.”

  I napped till dawn, got my hands on enough stuff to make myself presentable, and reported for duty. The entire household mustered on the roof at 0800. There was Alfano, puffing on a cigar, Prudence, with circles under her eyes, Linda, who no one thought to introduce, whining about how early it was, and Andre scanning the skies.

  Prudence and her father seemed determined to stay as far away from each other as possible, and not a word passed between them. She looked at him, though, as if hoping for some sort of communication, which I found to be surprising until I realized what it was. In spite of what he’d done, or tried to do, Prudence still loved him. And in her own corpie way, understood his motivations. After all, he had tried to make a match, had tried to make it work, but been unable to do so. It was then and only then that the contract went out. Sweet, huh?

  The Alfanos traveled in separate aircars, so one missile couldn’t kill them all, and so they wouldn’t have to spend any time with each other. Though slow when compared to real aircraft the limos took only three hours to reach SF Urboplex. Prudence produced a com set, dialed a number, and caused a partition to drop between our seats. I tried to think of something useful to do, failed, and took a nap. It ended when the car settled onto the Hilton’s roof. The partition had been raised and Prudence stared out the driver’s side window. It was a busy place, thick with parked vehicles, and people wearing sunglasses, weapons, and a lot of attitude. Most of the shareowners were corpies—and the meeting was about to begin.

  It got a little weird after that as Alfred Alfano, Linda Alfano, and a dozen bodyguards all made for the elevator lobby leaving Prudence and me to fend pretty much for ourselves. Androids handled the luggage. I maintained a sharp lookout as we checked in via the rooftop lobby, made our way down to the twenty-seventh floor, and entered her suite. I searched the place and found three listening devices and two vid cams but no bombs, booby traps, or homicidal robots.