Werry glanced back at Hasson, who had managed to draw himself into a standing position with his arms along the top of the car door. “Now you listen to me, Buck,” Werry said. “What makes you…?” “They were up there last night again,” Morlacher cut in. “Having one of their dirty parties — violating my property — violating it, do you hear? And what do you do about it? Nothing. That’s what you do — nothing!” Morlacher scowled, pulling his colourless eyebrows together, and directed his mirrored gaze towards Hasson as though becoming aware of him for the first time. Hasson, still trying to establish whether or not he could stand up unsupported, looked away into the distance. He detected a movement at the upper edge of his vision and raised his eyes to see a flier swooping down from the hotel.

“There might be one or two of them still holed out up there,” Morlacher went on, “and if that’s so, Starr and I are going to flush them out and deal with them ourselves. The old way.”

“There’s no need for that sort of talk,” Werry protested. He was staring, perplexed, at Morlacher when the descending flier closed in on him from above and behind. He was a wispy- bearded youngster, wearing a blue flying suit and carrying a pump-action shotgun slung across his back. As Hasson watched, he moved a hand to his belt and deliberately switched off his counter-gravity field while still three metes in the air. He dropped instantaneously, but the momentum remaining from his curving descent brought him into a thudding collision with Werry’s shoulder. Werry sprawled on the ground, his face driven into the snow.

“Sorry, Al. Sorry. Sorry.” The young man helped Werry to his feet and began brushing show from his uniform. “It was a pure accident — the glare from the snow blinded me.” He was winking at Morlacher as he spoke.