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the Confed Rep to go home and come back tomorrow, even if the sucker showed up unannounced. Not a man who could shut down your business on this world with a wave of his hand, were he so disposed. Not that he would—big money didn’t fuck with other big money, generally speaking, but he could, so power respected power.
    So Shaw had settled for a quick shower and clean clothes and headed back to his office.
    It was a beautiful late-spring afternoon. A big thunder-storm gathered itself a few miles out from Chim City, flashing and grumbling, working its way toward the metroplex. The air was warm, but not overly hot, and the smell of mtawbi blossoms, that cedar-trunk-and-musk scent, wafted over him as he walked across the company courtyard. The gardeners did a good job here; everything was trimmed and neat, a man-made and -maintained riot of color and pleasing odors.
    His staff knew he was coming, and the security cams made certain they knew when he’d reached the building. Everybody was alert, doing their jobs, attentive. They smiled and nodded as he passed.
    Being the boss did have its perks.
    He met Randall as he entered the outer office.
    “Ah, Newman. Good to see you again.”
    “And you, Ellis.”
    Of course they were on a first-name basis, the richest man on-planet and the Confed’s highest-ranked rep on this world, who was also considerably well off. Randall’s family was old money, and he had gone into the diplomatic corps as had his father, uncles, aunts, and sibs before him; it was part of what one did if one didn’t have to take over the family business. One served.
    “Come in, come in,” Shaw said. “Lillie has offered you a drink, some smoke or dust?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
    “Not to worry. I should have called for an appointment. I just happened to be in the area and thought I’d stop in.”
    Shaw fought the urge to smile. Just happened to be in the area? There would be a cold day in the tropical regions of Hell.
    Once they were in the inner office and his assistant had come and gone with tea and silver trays bearing tiny spirals of kick-dust, a legal version made in his own labs, Shaw smiled and they made small talk. How were Newman’s spouses and children?—he was in a group marriage, five men and three women—matters of Confederation concern, the state of business and the markets. He did not look at his chrono, but Shaw knew that this chitchat would last four minutes. That was enough to be polite, not so much as to waste time.
    When the niceties had been covered, Shaw got to it: “So, what can I do for you, Newman?”
    “Sorry to hear about the rock apes,” he said.
    Shaw’s smile didn’t falter. He inclined his head in a slow nod. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate your concern.”
    To admit surprise at Randall’s knowledge or his revelation thereof would have been a weak move. To pretend he didn’t know what the man was talking about would have been impolite—and useless anyhow. If you are caught, his father had taught him, at least have the good grace to acknowledge it like a man.
    Inwardly, he cursed. Randall was adept at diplo-speak, a kind of verbal fugue in which much was meant while little was actually said . His comment about the apes spoke volumes. The research involving those creatures was secret—nobody outside of the labs was supposed to know anything about it, save for Cervo and Shaw himself. It was his private project. So Newman Randall had a spy in the labs, possibly bioelectronic, but more likely one of Shaw’s employees had been socially engineered.
    That Randall knew of the project and what it was meant also that the Confederation was interested in it, and not just because Shaw’s particular line of research was technically not quite legal. Such an interest of course, Shaw would expect. A drug that would speed human reaction time and physical movement without major side effects? The Confed military would drool. A