“But these women, these girls, these do not,” Jay said, restarting the video. “Watch them carefully. They are enjoying themselves. They have no fear of the stares, of the shouts, of the attention. Oh, a few do. That mousey girl on the left, brown hair and nipples. She is afraid of the attention. Basically introverted I suspect or just raised in a prudish environment. Generally not a problem unless you’re in a situation like that. I have no clue why she is up there having ice water dashed on her. A dare from friends? A boyfriend who has psychological power over her? Drink? But she fears. Could you be her? You would have to wrap yourself around your fear, show it, use it, let it blossom in your eyes? Could you do that? And still be the predator you truly are?”

“No,” Katya said.

“Then, again, you are not the person you must be,” Jay said, stopping the video again. “When you can be that girl, up there on stage in a wet T-shirt contest, on TV no less, afraid of all the consequences, the men suddenly charging the stage, her parents seeing the video, her friends back at college whispering behind her back, guys figuring she’s a slut and only after her body, then, padwan, you will be on the road to perfection. But we will concentrate on the blonde in the striped bathing suit again. Now, in character… Whoop!”

“Mike, open the damned door,” Adams said. The damned wood was hurting his knuckles.

He stepped into the room and looked around. He hadn’t been up to Mike’s sanctum before but it was pretty cozy. A radiator kept it warm, it had nice paneled walls, the chair looked comfortable. On the other hand, it smelled. Stank, really. Booze — the bottles were all over the place — and just the reek of a person who hadn’t washed enough holed up in a small room too long.

“I gotta ask,” Adams said. “What’s behind the steel plate? Everybody is dying to know. A black hole? A TV? What?”