The Swagman nodded. “It’s more powerful than it looks. It can take out a city block, and spreads like crazy on detonation, even in weather like this.” He smiled. “Still, I’d much prefer not to use it. It wouldn’t do to fry Yorick to a crisp before we have a chance to talk to him.”

“According to you, we’re within four hundred yards of him,” said Cain, looking up and down the street. “That narrows it down to fifteen or twenty beat-up hotels and boarding houses. How do you choose which one?”

“Why, we ask, of course,” said the Swagman, walking into a tavern. He spent a moment exchanging low whispers with the bartender, then returned to Cain, who had been waiting just inside the door.

“Any luck?”

“Not yet,” admitted the Swagman. “Not to worry. The day’s still young, if a little moist.”

He sloshed through the rain to two more taverns, also without success.

“Ah!” he said with a smile as they approached yet another barroom, which had a watercolor of a large-breasted nude in the window. “We’re getting close! I recognize the style.”

“You collect Yorick’s paintings?”

“The better ones.”

The Swagman entered the building, spoke to the bartender, passed a five-hundred-credit note across the scarred wooden bar, said something else, and stepped out onto the sidewalk a moment later.

“He lives at the San Juan Hill Hotel, just up the street,” announced the Swagman. “When he hasn’t got enough cash for alphanella seeds, he trades paintings for drinks.”

“He’s not bad,” commented Cain, staring at the nude.

“He’s damned good, considering that he probably didn’t even know his own name when he painted it. I offered to buy it, but the proprietor wouldn’t sell. I got the distinct impression that it’s a pretty fair representation of his girlfriend.”

“Or his business partner.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” said the Swagman, heading off toward the San Juan Hill. “Especially around here.”

Only one man seemed intent on stopping them, but something in Cain’s face convinced him to reconsider, and they made it to the hotel without incident.

It had been a long time since the lobby of the San Juan Hill had been cleaned, and even longer since it had been painted. The floor, especially around the entrance, was filthy, and the whole place smelled of mildew. There was a small, inexpensive rug in front of the registration desk, surrounded by a light area from which a slightly larger rug had been removed at some time in the past. Miscolored rectangles on the walls marked the spots that had formerly been covered by paintings and holographs. The few chairs and couches were in dire need of repair, and the camera in the sole vidphone booth was missing.