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mothballed, I understand. Maybe we'll even find one or two of the Colossus missiles still in their silos. I made an air recon a few years back before my chopper broke down—"
    "I think two silo doors are still in place. But why the interest in armament?"
    Mallon snorted. "You've got a few things to learn about the setup, Jackson. I need that stuff. If I hadn't lucked into a stock of weapons and ammo in the armory cellar, Jersey would be wearing the spurs in my palace right now!"
    I drew on my cigar and let the silence stretch out.
    "You said something about conquering the world, Toby. I don't suppose by any chance you meant that literally?"
    Mallon stood up, his closed fists working like a man crumpling unpaid bills. "They all want what I've got! They're all waiting." He walked across the room, back. "I'm ready to move against them now! I can put four thousand trained men in the field—"
    "Let's get a couple of things straight, Mallon," I cut in. "You've got the natives fooled with this Baron routine. But don't try it on me. Maybe it was even necessary once; maybe there's an excuse for some of the stories I've heard. That's over now. I'm not interested in tribal warfare or gang rumbles. I need—"
    "Better remember who's running things here, Jackson!" Mallon snapped. "It's not what you need that counts." He took another turn up and down the room, then stopped, facing me.
    "Look, Jackson. I know how to get around in this jungle; you don't. If I hadn't spotted you and given some orders, you'd have been gunned down before you'd gone ten feet past the ballroom door."
    "Why'd you let me in? I might've been gunning for you."
    "You wanted to see the Baron alone. That suited me, too. If word got out—" He broke off, cleared his throat. "Let's stop wrangling, Jackson. We can't move until the Bolo guarding the site has been neutralized. There's only one way to do that: knock it out! And the only thing that can knock out a Bolo is another Bolo."
    "So?"
    "I've got another Bolo, Jackson. It's been covered, maintained. It can go up against the Troll—" He broke off, laughed shortly. "That's what the mob called it."
    "You could have done that years ago. Where do I come in?"
    "You're checked out on a Bolo, Jackson. You know something about this kind of equipment."
    "Sure. So do you."
    "I never learned," he said shortly.
    "Who's kidding who, Mallon? We all took the same orientation course less than a month ago—"
    "For me it's been a long month. Let's say I've forgotten."
    "You parked that Bolo at your front gate and then forgot how you did it, eh?"
    "Nonsense. It's always been there."
    I shook my head. "I know different."
    Mallon looked wary. "Where'd you get that idea?"
    "Somebody told me."
    Mallon ground his cigar out savagely on the damask cloth. "You'll point the scum out to me!"
    "I don't give a damn whether you moved it or not. Anybody with your training can figure out the controls of a Bolo in half an hour—"
    "Not well enough to take on the Tr—another Bolo."
    I took a cigar from the silver box, picked up the lighter from the table, turned the cigar in the flame. Suddenly it was very quiet in the room.
    I looked across at Mallon. He held out his hand.
    "I'll take that," he said shortly.
    I blew out smoke, squinted through it at Mallon. He sat with his hand out, waiting. I looked down at the lighter.
    It was a heavy windproof model with embossed Aerospace wings. I turned it over. Engraved letters read: Lieut. Commander Don G. Banner, USAF. I looked up. Renada sat quietly, holding my pistol trained dead on my belt buckle.
    "I'm sorry you saw that," Mallon said. "It could cause misunderstandings."
    "Where's Banner?"
    "He . . . died. I told you—"
    "You told me a lot of things, Toby. Some of them might even be true. Did you make him the same offer you've made me?"
    Mallon darted a look at Renada. She sat holding the pistol, looking at me distantly, without expression.
    "You've got the wrong idea, Jackson—" Mallon