"Where we going?" I said to our new escorts.

"Not far," Fourfingers replied.

They guided us across the mall toward the express upchute to the roof parking lot. We glided up in silence for eighty floors. A luxury model Ortega Scarlet Breeze idled a half meter off the roof, waiting. A third fellow sat at the controls. We settled in and zoomed off toward where the late afternoon sun was sinking in the haze.

"Who wants to see us?" I said in a nice relaxed tone.

Fourfingers must have been the spokesman for the trio. He gave one of his involved, long-winded answers.

"Yokomata."

"Ah," I said through a suddenly tight throat. "Yokomata. How perfectly bloaty."

Yokomata. Big name in the Bosyorkington megalops underworld. Not superbig like Esterwin or Lutus, but she ran a glossy operation that was a long way from ground level.

Glanced pointedly at the clone as I spoke. "All this comes as a big dregging shock to you, I suppose."

The clone said nothing, but her frightened eyes spoke volumes.

— 4-

I gathered from the medium-size Tyrannosaurus rex running loose in her yard that Yokomata discouraged drop-in company.

The house itself was a miniature Taj Mahal — holographic, of course. Could see a slight shimmer around the edges. No telling what the actual building looked like. Probably a steel box.

As the pilot came in low and slow over the wall, the ten-meter-long dinosaur came for us, its powerful hind legs kicking up clumps of grass as it charged. When it was almost on us, its big red wet mouth open and salivating, six-inch teeth glinting in the reddening sun, the driver kicked up the altitude in a stomach-tugging lurch. The snap of those jaws closing on air was audible through the insulated walls of the flitter.

Rednose gave the driver a none-too-gentle tap on the back of his head.