“She didn’t give me one, Les.” Tony rolled the carbon lamp into position and picked up the coil of cable. “She just said she wants it done now.”

The head carpenter scratched at an armpit and sighed. “Whatever. You going to be long enough for me to do a little research?”

“I doubt it.” He flipped the cover off the light board. “How’s the dissertation going?”

“Not good. ‘Pastoral Imagery in Late Eighteenth Century Amateur Poetics’ just isn’t enthralling me like it used to.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“Yeah. And the thought of teaching freshman English gives me hives.”

“You could always commit to a career in show business.”

Les snorted. “At the rates CB pays, it’s not a career, it’s a job. So, Sorge know you’re using the board?”

“I have no idea.” Tony checked that the big lamp was the only thing plugged in, then stepped away, casting a critical eye over his work. With only one connection to get right there were limits on how badly he could screw it up. On the other hand, if he did screw up, he’d not only blow all the power to the building and destroy a very expensive piece of equipment he shouldn’t be touching, not to mention an equally expensive light—resulting in him being unemployed at the very least—but also grant the Shadowlord unopposed use of the gate. So, no pressure. Without a clear line of sight, he squatted to peer under the loops of cable to check that the board was plugged into the grid and that this particular junction was live. When he straightened, Les was still standing there, clearly waiting for him to expand on his answer. “Look, if Sorge has a problem, he can talk to Arra. I’m just doing what I’m told; it’s safer that way.”

“You getting paid for this?”

“No.” 11:07. Eight minutes, give or take, until the gate opened. Les, go the fuck away! “Just a little free on the job training. You know, learning the business.”

Les rolled his eyes. “Because some day you want to be a director.”

That pulled Tony’s gaze up off his watch. “How did you know that?” He didn’t think he’d ever mentioned it.

“Jesus, Tony, I’m hardly psychic; everyone from the meat on up wants to be a director. I got three guys in my crew working on scripts as a means to that end. Although one of them isn’t looking past being a writer, God knows why.”

“Says the guy working on ‘Pastoral Imagery in Late Eighteenth Century Amateur Poetics.’ ”

“Yeah, well . . .”