hard-jawed man dressed in a jacket tailored to half-conceal the shoulder holster he wore. Farradyne blinked.

"Farradyne?"

"So?" said Farradyne. He tried to think, but all he could cover was the idea that someone was now playing games with guns.

"Hear tell you're running blossoms, Farradyne."

"Who says?"

"People."

"People say a lot of things. Which people?"

"Well, are you?"

"Who, me?"

"Can it and label it," snapped the newcomer.

Farradyne shrugged angrily. "What do you want me to do?" he asked in a mild tone. "You've got the jump on me. You slide into my seat and bar my exit and without introducing yourself you start asking questions that could get me twenty years in bad company, poor surroundings, and no pay."

"Pardon me. You may call me Mike. Michael Cahill is the name."

"Maybe I'm glad to meet you, Mike. Have you any identification that doesn't bark for itself?"

"It's usually good enough."

"Probably. But the numbers on its calling cards are someone else's."

Mike laughed. "That's not bad, Farradyne. But so far as I know, your number isn't among those present."

"I'll bet you could change a number fast enough."

"Could be," nodded Cahill. He turned around over his shoulder and called at the waitress: "Hey, Snooky. Make it two instead of one."

"Mine's White Star."

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