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potent gristle ever created by God and Texas Aggies, but he is not invulnerable.
    No more than Ted, who is perfectly correct in claiming that his work is vital. And that no one is better suited to it than he. But sooner or later, if I do not stop him, a bullet must. And I, who cannot even bear to think of poor Espinel's killer lying dead on my property: what will I do when it is Ted who is consigned to the worms? Ah, God, how will it end? For it will end, I know… .

Chapter Eight
    The villa of Judge Anthony Placidas shared the breeze off Lake Medina on Monday morning with a dozen other homes, all postwar country residences of neodobe, the envy of those in SanTone whose high-rise windows faced the west. Judge Placidas had done very well for himself while still an attorney; was known in the ringcity as a man sympathetic to the rights of defendants. He was also known as an ardent sportsman; though well into his sixties, he could still shoot an ibex while in the saddle and was not averse to bucking the tiger at the Faro gaming tables—both legal entertainments on the half-million acres of Wild Country Safari. Somewhat less well known were his occasional meetings there with men he would not dream of entertaining anywhere else. The money that changed hands during those meetings had little to do with gambling. It had a lot to do with the rights—and the gravest wrongs—of some defendants.
    It was not that Judge Placidas had expensive tastes, but his daughter Marianne was another matter. On this Monday morning, the judge was berobed, earning his money in SanTone. Marianne Placidas had ordered a breakfast for one sent to the villa; chorizo sausage and eggs, fresh orange juice, a double daiquiri, and a slab of butter for the villainous acorn-flour bread that still disgraced the menus of even the rich. (As wheat harvests improved, the acorn content of flour dwindled.)
    Marianne slipped off one low-heeled glove-leather sandal by toeing it with the other foot, then shucked the other sandal and stared through the polyglass table. Something would have to be done about those feet, and soon! They were attached to slender ankles, the calves wonderfully long with muscular convexities. The knees seemed too narrow for the demands she made on them, her tanned thighs highly developed. Any dullard knew by staring at the Placidas legs—and who didn't?—that the rest of her was equally athletic and well cared for. Marianne was the perfect image of the synchronized swimmer, but she scorned both the strict discipline and the public titillation involved. Hers were elite sports.
    It was only those feet with the heavy veins and prominent sinews that hinted at approaching middle age. Marianne never wore heels before dinner, never wore flats afterward; that was the rule her mother had followed while she was alive. Whether gifted by genes or by constant attention to her body, Marianne had to admit that the regimen hadn't hurt those gorgeous limbs any. She pushed the eggs aside, sipped the daiquiri, and pondered throwing out her dozen pairs of footwear that showed too much sinew. Perhaps a few pairs of ankle-strap pumps? The high straps would draw men's eyes upward. Eyes, and importunate fingers, and perhaps a suitor would not pause to read the message of those treasonous feet as they marched Marianne away from her youth.
    Her diet would have swollen the waist of a less active woman, but she was not her father's only daughter for nothing. She eyed the windsurfer sails on the lake, wondering if she would have time for an impromptu race before her tennis date. Her wide smile brought faint crinkles to the corners of her eyes; she could lose at tennis, but rarely did at windsurfing. Usually she won on superior balance. Now and then she relied on the tiny hydrazine propulsion system hidden inside her foam platform. In her lifelong pursuit of admiration, she had found no advantages in fairness. To Marianne Placidas, "fair" was strictly defined as a condition