Something about her name reminded him of an old song and a girl in an old-fashioned covered-top swimsuit. But Brenda didn’t look like that at all. She seemed to be that indeterminate age between twenty and forty, when women used style and cosmetics before resorting to surgery and Vitaform Processing. She had the slight, slim body of the standard corporate executive female who spent most of her money on whatever style of clothing was fashionable that week and got most of her nutrition on dates with overeager young stallions. Good legs, though. Flat chested, probably: it was difficult to tell through all the ribbons and flouncy stuff on her blouse. But she had good legs and the good sense to wear a miniskirt, even though it wasn’t in style this week.

Behind those overlarge green glasses, her face was knotted into a frown of concentrated worry.

“Don’t get upset,” Oxnard said generously. “The laser system works like a charm. Finger and his New York bankers will be completely impressed. You won’t lose your jobs.”

Montpelier laughed nasally. “Oh, B.F. could never fire us. We’ve been too close for too many years.”

“What he means,” Brenda said, “is that we know too much about him.”

Pointing a lean finger at her, Montpelier added, “And he knows too much about us. We’re married to him—for better or for worse.”

Oxnard wondered how far the marriage went. But he kept silent as they reached the elevator, stepped in and dropped downward.

“It must make for a nerve-wracking life,” Oxnard said.

“Oh, no… the elevator’s completely safe,” Montpelier said over the whistling of the slipstream outside their shuddering, plummeting compartment.

“I didn’t mean that,” Oxnard said. “I mean… well, working for a man like Finger. He treats you like dirt.”

Brenda shrugged. “It only hurts if you let him get to you.”