Ritchie also had a well-developed sense of fairness. It didn’t seem right for him to bring about the death of the man whose presence had helped him meet Leiber, a man who, if he was a real agent, could change his life.

Despite that, he hated the idea of Grelich being in his head with him. Was he maybe even snooping on Ritchie’s memories?

Grelich was acting correctly, however. He didn’t stop them from going to the MMT office to find out about his aborted death, even though with his superior control of the body—after all, he was the original occupant—he could have prevented the move, could have made them both stay in the apartment all day, or walk in the park, or see a movie.

Instead, they taxied down to 23rd Street.

Grelich, with Ritchie aboard, entered the offices of MMT and told the receptionist that he wanted to see Sven Mayer, the president.

They waited while the receptionist whispered into the phone. Ritchie was expecting they’d be told Mayer wasn’t in, they would have to talk with some flunky who would tell them he knew nothing about this but would get back to him “as soon as possible.”

But no such thing happened. The receptionist told them that Mr. Mayer was in his office, expecting them—last on the left at the end of the corridor.

Mayer was a short, stocky white-haired man. “Come in,” he called when they knocked at the door. “Mr. Grelich! And Mr. Castleman is in there with you?”

“I am,” Ritchie said. “And I demand an explanation.”

“Of course you do,” Mayer said. “Come in, have a seat. Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Coffee, black, no cream,” Grelich said.

Mayer said a few words into the phone. “It’s on its way. Gentlemen, I am so sorry... “

“You didn’t return our calls,” Ritchie said.

“I apologize. Miss Christiansen, our regular receptionist, left early when Nathan didn’t show up at the lab. She didn’t come in today. The one outside is a temp. When I reached Miss Christiansen today by phone, she claimed she didn’t know anything about the situation.”