Peter J. Paxton marveled as he moved his old body through the brand-new offices of Interstellar Business Advisers. He had played no small part in the genesis of the organization, but in the old days he and Joe Finch had operated out of a small, rented office on the far side of the city. IBA now owned the building in which it was located and many others. The firm had come a long way.

He was on his way to the top office to see Josephine Finch. She had been a teen-ager the last time he had been on this side of Ragna; she’d be in her late twenties by now.

“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked politely from behind her pearly desk.

“Yes. Is Miss Finch busy at the moment?”

She answered his question with another. “Do you have an appointment?” Her day book was open and her pencil was poised to check off his name.

“No, I’m afraid not. You see-”

“I’m very sorry,” she said, closing the book with an air of finality. “Miss Finch can see no one without an appointment.”

Paxton rested a gnarled hand on the desk and leaned toward the girl. “Listen, dearie. You just tell her Old Pete is here. We’ll worry about appointments later.”

The receptionist hesitated a second or two, then shrugged and pressed a button. A simple click acknowledged her call.

“Someone named Old Pete demands to see you, Miss Finch,” she said.