A pity, and I said so.

"Maybe worse than a pity, Garrett. He's taken a turn for the worse. I think he's dying. And I think somebody is helping him along."

Suspicion became certainty. "You didn't just happen to be in the neighborhood."

He was direct. "No. I'm here to collect."

He didn't have to explain.

There was a time when we'd gotten caught with our pants down on one of the islands. A surprise Venageti invasion nearly wiped us out. We survivors had fled into the swamps and had lived on whatever didn't eat us first while we harrassed the Venageti. Sergeant Peters had brought us through that. I owed him for that.

But I owed him more. He'd carried me away when I'd been injured during a raid. He hadn't had to do it. I couldn't have done anything but lie there waiting for the Venageti to kill me.

He said, "That old man means a lot to me, Garrett. He's the only family I've got. Somebody's killing him slowly, but I can't figure out who or how. I can't stop it. I've never felt this helpless and out of control. So I come to a man who has a reputation for handling the unhandleable."

I didn't want a client. But Garrett pays his debts.

I took a long drink, a deep breath, cursed under my breath. "Tell me about it."

Peters shook his head. "I don't want to fill you up with ideas that didn't work for me."

"Damnit, Sarge... "

"Garrett!" He still had the whipcrack voice that got your attention without being raised.

"I'm listening."

"He's got other problems. I've sold him on hiring a specialist to handle them. I've sold him your reputation and my memories of you from the Corps. He'll interview you tomorrow morning. If you remember to knock the horse apples off your shoes before you go in the house, he'll hire you. Do the job he wants done. But while you're at it, do the real job. Got me?"

I nodded. It was screwy but clients are that way. They always want to sneak up on things.