“I’ve had dealings with him before,” replied the Swagman. “And I make it a habit to learn everything I can about my business associates. I know he’s on Roosevelt Three, and I know that there’s only one city on Roosevelt Three; finding his exact location is just a mechanical exercise.”

They reached the terminal, rented a vehicle, and drove into the nearby city, which, like the planet, was named Roosevelt. Someone—an architect, a city planner, a corporate head, someone—had had big plans for Roosevelt once upon a time. The spaceport was built to support ten times the traffic it actually handled, the city was crisscrossed by numerous broad thoroughfares, the central square boasted two skyscrapers that wouldn’t have been out of place on Deluros VIII—but some centuries back the Democracy had paused to consolidate its holdings, and when it expanded again it had been in a different direction, leaving Roosevelt III just another unimportant cog in the vast human machine, neither abandoned nor important. The proposed megalopolis became a city of diminished expectations, as modest apartment buildings, nondescript stores, unimpressive offices, and unimaginative public structures gradually encircled the two enormous steel-and-glass buildings like jungle scavengers patiently waiting for some mighty behemoth to conclude its death throes so they could partake of the feast.

The Swagman drove once around the city, then homed in on the most dilapidated area with an unerring instinct and brought the vehicle to a stop.

“I’d say we’re within four hundred yards of him right now,” he said, handing a rainshield to Cain and activating one himself.

“It can’t get much more rundown than this,” agreed Cain, dispassionately eyeing a number of drunks and derelicts who peered through the driving rain at them from their safe havens inside seedy bars and seamy hotels.

“I have a feeling that I’m not properly dressed for the occasion,” remarked the Swagman, looking down at his satin tunic, carefully tailored pants, and hand-crafted boots.

“You’re not the only one who thinks so,” commented Cain, staring at an exceptionally large, barrel-chested man who was scrutinizing them from a distance of fifty feet, oblivious of the rain that was pouring down upon his unprotected head.

“Well, we certainly don’t want the riffraff rising above their stations,” said the Swagman, unperturbed. “I think we’ll make them your responsibility.”

“What do you do when you find yourself in a situation like this and there isn’t a bounty hunter around?” inquired Cain dryly.

“I’m not totally without my own resources,” replied the Swagman, withdrawing a device the size of a golf ball. He tossed it casually in the air, caught it, and replaced it in his pocket.

“A fire bomb?”