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so."

    She grinned, shaking her head as she turned back to the comm.

    "Just get me that box without getting killed, okay? I'll have Murph nailed by the time you get back."

    "Okay."

    She turned in time to see the door to the hallway closing behind him.
    * * *

    THE CALL TO the residence of Mr. Angus G. Murphy III was less than satisfying. Mr. Murphy's direct-comm had been temporarily disconnected, the visual told Miri, and messages might be left at another number. She dialed that number, found it to be an answering service, and broke the blank-screen connection instantly.

    "Don't call me, I'll call you," she muttered, frowning. It would be best if he didn't know she was on-world.

    Well, it would have to be the neighbors, then, though she disliked that tack. With her luck, the next-door neighbor would be a local Juntavas boss, with her picture on his desk. She could blank the screen, of course, but who would give info to a blank screen?

    Blank screen was out, she decided. But her own face was also out.

    She snapped forward in frowning study of the commboard. Fancy, she decided, after a few minutes. Sire Baldwin had had no better in his palatial home. Leaning back and letting her eyes rest on the understated luxury of the room around her, she was reminded that money and taste were very different matters. After all, look at the lovers Baldwin would bring home.

    Suddenly grinning, she bounced to her feet and ran to her sleeping quarters.

    Standing before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the valet-room, she let down her hair and combed it straight. A few moments later the valet supplied a quantity of glittering jeweled pins and nets to confine the whirls, knots, and bunches the copper-colored mass had assumed. Likewise, she obtained cosmetics, gilded earbobs, rings of eight different sizes and metals, and a necklet of glazed silver flowers.

    After some thought, she decided the coverall was just right for the occasion, but she unsealed the neck seam a little farther—and a little farther again, after consulting the mirror. She grinned at her reflection, paused to add just a dash more emphasis under each eye, and headed back to the comm.
    * * *

    SHE CHOSE A firm with its single office in the most prestigious of high-rent facilities. Setting her face into what she hoped was simpering unease, she punched up the code.

    "Mylander and Zanthal Collections," the receptionist told her.

    Miri stretched her mouth in a closed-lip smile. "Good afternoon," she said in her best Yark accent. "I'd like to talk to somebody about—'bout this guy, see? He owes me a bundle an' won't pay."

    The receptionist blinked, then recovered. "Why, surely. I'm certain that our Mr. Farant would be delighted—"

    "Naw," Miri said. "Naw. Look, honey, this is—delicate, y'know? You got a woman up there can talk to me?" She stretched her mouth into the unsmiling rictus again. "Girl stuff, honey. You know."

    The receptionist swallowed. "Well, there is Ms. Mylander."

    "Aw, geez," Miri protested. "Not the boss herself?"

    "Not exactly," the receptionist admitted, shakily. "Ms. Susan Mylander is Ms. Lavinia Mylander's granddaughter."

    "Oh! Well, hey, that's great! I'd be real pleased to have a little girl-talk with Susan, honey. You just tell her Amabel Gleason's on the screen, okay?"

    "Certainly, Ms. Gleason," the receptionist said, falling back on the comforts of training. "If you'll hold just one moment—" The screen offered an abstract in soft pastels to soothe Miri's eyes while she waited. She moved a hand, pushed two keys, and settled back into an attitude of watchful expectation.

    The screen cleared after a time sufficient for the receptionist to have located Ms. Mylander and imparted all the details of her caller's manner, with embellishments. Miri performed her smile for the dark young woman in sober business attire.

    "Ms. Gleason?" the young woman asked. Her accent was the cultivated drawl of the elite.

    Miri ducked her head. "Ms. Mylander,