But there was something more important than breakfast, something Pete had to do first.

Clicking on the vidphone he said, "I'd like Walter Remington in Contra Costa County."

"Yes, Mr. Garden," the vidphone said. And the screen, after a pause, lit up.

"Hi." Walt Remington's dour, elongated features appeared and he gazed dully at Pete. Walt had not shaved yet this morning; stubble coated his jowls, and his eyes, small and red-rimmed, were puffy from lack of sleep. "Why so early?" he mumbled. He was still in his pajamas.

Pete said, "Do you remember what happened last night?"

"Oh yeah. Sure." Walt nodded, smoothing his disordered hair in place.

"I lost Berkeley to you. I don't know why I put it up. It's been my bind, my residence, you know."

"I know," Walt said.

Taking a deep breath, Pete said, "I'll trade you three cities in Marin County for it. Ross, San Rafael and San Anselmo. I want it back; I want to live there."

Walt pointed out, "You can live in Berkeley. As a non-B resident, of course; not as Bindman."

"I can't live like that," Pete said. "I want to own it, not just be a squatter. Come on, Walt; you don't intend to live in Berkeley. I know you. It's too cold and foggy for you. You like the hot valley climate, like Sacramento. Where you are now, in Walnut Creek."

"That's true," Walt said. "But—I can't trade Berkeley back to you, Pete." The admission was dragged out of him, then. "I don't have it. When I got home last night a broker was waiting for me; don't ask me how he knew I'd acquired it from you, but he did. A big wheeler and dealer from the East, Matt Pendleton Associates." Walt looked glum.