“I want to use the grapevine, sir.”

“Well don’t bother me. Speak to my #2 girl. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: Why don’t you come out into the open? You parasites want Esper powers reserved for an exclusive class so you can turn the rest of the world into a host for your blood-sucking! You leeches want to—”

Powell tactfully closed the door and turned to T’sung’s second secretary, who was quaking in a corner.

“Are you really scared?”

Image of an eye winking.

Image of a question mark quaking.

“When Papa T’sung blows his top we like him to think we’re petrified. Makes him happier. He hates to be reminded that he’s a Santa Claus.”

“Well, I’m Santa Claus too. Here’s something for your stocking.” Powell dropped the official police description and portrait of Barbara D’Courtney on the secretary’s desk.

“What a beautiful girl,” she exclaimed.

“I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it. Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D’Courtney for me will have his Guild taxes remitted for a year.”

“Jeepers!” the secretary sat bolt upright. “Can you do that?”

“I think I’m big enough in Council to swing it.”

“This’ll make the grapevine jump.”

“I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I want that girl.”

Quizzard’s Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break… the only break in a gambler’s day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier’s desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.

“Your price,” Reich told Church, “you know already. And I’m warning you, Jerry. If you know what’s good for you, don’t try to peep me. I’m poison. If you get into my head you’re getting into Demolition. Think about it.”

“Jesus,” Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. “As bad as that? I don’t hanker for a Demolition, Reich.”

“Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?”

“A question.” Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. “Listen to what I hanker for.”

“Name the best price you can figure, Keno.”

“What’s it for?”

“To hell with that. I’m buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me how much I’ve got to put up to get it — guaranteed.”

“That’s a lot of service.”

“I’ve got a lot of money.”

“You got a hundred Ms laying around?”

“One hundred thousand. Right? That’s the price.”

“For the love of…” Church popped upright and stared at Reich. “A hundred thousand?”