Senator Barin enters. His eyes flick rapidly about the room, the hunter sizing up his quarry’s lair. A sense of invasion, of impending attack hangs about the senator like the smell of gunpowder. Creases mark his face with the etched precision of battle lines scored on a soldier’s map. He pushes forth his hand. “T.K. Mann. Good to meet you. I’m Senator Lako Barin.”

T.K. grasps the hand in his own, pumps it up and down once, and unceremoniously releases it, as if he finds its touch somewhat revolting. “What can I do for you?” he asks, although, deep down, he can guess.

Seeing the glass in T.K.’s hand, Barin points to it. “I don’t suppose you have another of those?” Senator Barin has always found alcohol helps to lubricate the wheels of diplomacy.

“Sure,” says T.K. “Scotch and water all right?”

“Fine. By the way, that was some game you played yesterday. The way you pulled it out in the final hour.” Barin slaps a fist into an open hand. “My God, but you can play football.”

T.K. hands him his drink. “Thanks, but I have a hunch you didn’t come over here to talk football.”

Barin takes a sip. He is between T.K. and the glassed-in patio. The sun shining through backlights him with a flaming, almost supernatural radiance. Every time T.K. moves to block it out the glare, the senator also moves to maintain it. Finally, T.K., annoyed by the tactic, presses a button, opaquing the glass.

“Quite to the contrary,” says Barin. “A discussion of football is precisely the reason I’m here. I came at the request of a mutual friend.”

“A mutual friend?”

“Yes, a secret admirer of yours. A man with a great deal of respect for your talents and a great desire to see you enjoy life to the fullest.”

T.K. mentally shades in this impressionistic sketch. To his horror, he winds up with a full-blown study in surrealism. “You’re here as an emissary from IBC.”

“Yes.”

“They know that I’m on to what they’re doing.” That much is obvious. What they plan to do about it isn’t quite as apparent. He can’t help but remember Deutsch, although a United States Senator would seem an odd choice of assassin.

“That you’re conscious of their little ploy? Of the way they add spice to the game? Yes, they’re aware of your knowledge in that area. They’re also cognizant of the fact that you plan to reveal your knowledge publicly after the Killerbowl. That is why I’m here. To offer you a powerful incentive for not doing so.”

T.K. says nothing. Correctly, Barin takes his silence to be a tacit request for fuller disclosure.