A good-lookin’ gal, all battered and broken — that would have played big-time with the viewing public. But if you’re still alive and kicking, what can I sell to the network news?" He kicked at the rusty hunk of debris lying in the street. "You think they want pictures of this boring old junk? They’ll flash it on the screen for five seconds, tops; then they’ll move on to some interesting story, like a dachshund who juggles goldfish."

"But it is better me being alive," I said. "I will play with the viewing public very big-time indeed, for I shall describe all the awful things that were done to me. I am excellent at Sensationalized Descriptions Of Emotional Trauma."

"Uh huh." He looked me over from head to toe. "I have to admit, toots, you’d wow ’em on the news. And the nets will be much happier putting your face in the headlines than Festina Ramos."

I nodded sympathetically. Festina is a very nice person, but she does not have a Dazzling Regal Beauty.

"The more I think about it," Uclod said, still gazing at me, "this could work. It really could. I’ve got the footage I need from this world — pictures of the city, the Explorer equipment, the missile crater in the roof. That’ll be fine for the courts. But for the media, you’d add that extra level of authenticity to make this story zing."

"I am most zingfully authentic," I assured him. "I am an extremely credible witness."

"Yeah, I can imagine Mr. and Mrs. Slack-jawed Viewer saying, Look at the credibility on that babe!"

He paused and his face grew more somber. "Now, toots, I gotta warn you: this could get pretty ugly. Those buggers on the High Council are vicious bags of shit — that’s damned obvious from reading York’s files — and if they decide murdering you will solve more problems than it creates, they’ll hire some dirt-wad to shatter your glass caboose."