The Swagman took one look around, seemed satisfied that this was precisely the type of place where Poor Yorick was likely to reside, and walked up to the registration desk.

The unshaven clerk, his left elbow peeking out through a hole in his tunic, looked up at his visitor with a bored expression.

“Good afternoon,” said the Swagman with a friendly smile. “Terrible weather out there.”

“You tracked all the way across my lobby to tell me that?” replied the clerk caustically.

“Actually, I’m looking for a friend.”

“Good luck to you,” said the clerk.

“His name’s Yorick,” said the Swagman.

“Big deal.”

The Swagman reached out and grabbed the clerk by the front of his soiled tunic, pulling him halfway across the counter.

“Poor Yorick,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I hate to rush you, but we are in a hurry.” He twisted the tunic until the seams started to give way.

“Room three seventeen,” muttered the clerk.

“Thank you very much,” said the Swagman, releasing him. “You’ve been most helpful.” He looked around. “I don’t suppose any of the elevators are in working order?”

“The one in the middle,” replied the clerk sullenly, pointing toward a bank of three ancient elevators.

“Excellent,” said the Swagman. He nodded toward Cain, who walked across the lobby and joined him in front of the elevator. “If there’s one thing I hate,” he said, “it’s a surly menial. You are protecting my back, aren’t you?”

“He’s not going to do anything,” replied Cain.

“How do you know he hasn’t got a weapon hidden behind the counter?”

“If there ever was a weapon back there, it’s long since been stolen or pawned,” said Cain as the doors slid shut and the elevator began ascending. “Still, I think we’ll take the stairs down, just to be on the safe side.”

The elevator lurched to a stop and swayed somewhat unsteadily as Cain and the Swagman emerged onto the third floor, which was in even worse repair than the lobby. Some of the rooms had no doors at all, scribbled graffiti covered the others, and the dominant smell had changed from mildew to urine.

“Three seventeen,” announced the Swagman, gesturing to the last door on the floor. “Things are obviously looking up for friend Yorick; he has a corner view.”

He knocked once, and when there was no answer he punched the number 317 on the computer lock.

“I always admire a complex security system, don’t you?” he commented with a grin as the door slid back into a wall.