“If you had just said, ‘Mr. Sokol, I think you’re wrong about Santiago’s being dead, and I’d like any information you might have that could help lead me to him,’ I’d have been happy to talk to you. But I don’t like being bullied and blackmailed, especially when all you’ve got are lies and slander.”

She stared at him for a moment, then spoke:

“Mr. Sokol, I think you’re wrong about Santiago’s being dead, and I’d like any information you might have that could help lead me to him.”

He smiled at her. “That being the case, I’ll be more than happy to help you in any way that I can. The man you want to see is a bandit out on the Frontier.”

“What’s his name?”

“I have no idea what his real name is—but he calls himself the Jolly Swagman.”

“Where do I find him?”

“He makes his headquarters on a planet called Goldenrod, out in the Jolain system.”

“What’s his connection to Santiago?”

“He used to work for him.”

“So did a lot of people,” Virtue pointed out. “What makes him unique?”

“He knows Santiago personally.”

“You’d better be telling the truth,” she said ominously.

“Do what you want with your tape,” he said casually. “The truth can’t harm me, and lies can’t help you.” He walked to the doorway, waved his hand before a hidden sensor, and the door slid into the wall. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing the interview after it’s been edited.”

“That’s the very least I’ll be showing you,” she replied, walking through the reception foyer to the elevator.

Sokol stood staring at the spot where she had been standing, lit another cigar, and walked back to his supply of liquor, where he poured himself another cognac.

“Did you hear all that?” he said in conversational tones.

“Yes,” replied a disembodied voice.

“I want her followed.”

“Just followed?” asked the voice.

“Until we find out where she’s got the tape, or decide that she was bluffing. And I don’t want her leaving the planet until I know one way or the other. In the meantime, I want a complete dossier on her. Not the crap they dished out at the network this morning, but the real stuff.” He paused. “You’ve got four hours.”

“It might take a little longer.”

“Four hours,” repeated Sokol.

In point of fact, it took only three hours and ten minutes, during which time Sokol gave out another interview, this one to a local reporter, and began preparing a speech he was to give at a political fund-raiser the next evening. Finally a blond man of indeterminate age entered the room, a small notebook in his hand.

“Have a seat,” said Sokol. It was not a request.