Celia tried to comfort him. "Mother wants to go home too, dear one, but we can't go home just now." We sure can't, I thought grimly. I maneuvered past the petal-shaped peak of Tribune Tower with its banner--100% COMPETITION MEANS 100% AMERICAN, past the upper stories of the Prudential Building ("WE'RE COMPETING--ARE YOU?"), past the squat old Bible Federation building (COMPETER, REMEMBER ST. PETER!), and at last settled with a sigh behind the museum. "I want to go home," Freddie whimpered, his eyes starting to tear again. He was a thin, rather bony little boy, with light brownish eyes like Celia's, and a forceful jaw that was quivering now at the point of a sob. Celia caressed his curly brown hair. "We're going to spend the entire day together, darling. We're going to look at some wonderful pictures." I was irritated, but I guess you can't expect too much understanding of a kid. We entered the building from the rear, parking lot entrance. The Art Institute was one of those wild, non-geometric creations of the Twenty-first century reconstruction period. It was a flat, one-storied building. The outside was partially circular, with a pearly transparent roof. Inside it formed a spiral, with galleries partitioned off like the chambers of nautilus shell. At the eye of the spiral stood a small sunken garden and tea room. I looked at my watch. Ten-fifteen. "We can stay here until five, if need be," I told Celia. "Don't leave the building until I return." "Where are you going?" Celia was calm outwardly. Only her eyes registered alarm. "To see my lawyer. Then to the office. Then to the bank. I have a hunch that ten thousand won't be enough for our present needs." "Bart, I--" "Let's not discuss it now. First I want to find out how we stand legally." I patted Freddie's cheek. "Bye, son. I'll try to get back in time for lunch with you and mother." I strode off, pausing at the main entrance to call the law offices of Devron, Beach and Feldman. Beach was my man and he was in. I hailed a coptercab and we lumbered over to the gold-black, ellipsoid Richmond Building opposite City Hall. Beach was a Top Competitor, a slim, trim, fit, fighting individual with graying black hair, and a smiling suntanned face underscored by hard lines of determination. He was humorless, busy and abrupt in all his dealings, but he'd never yet lost a case for me. "I have to be in court in ten minutes, Bart. Can you give it to me briefly?" "I don't know if I can. There are so many aspects. To begin with, I assaulted a man. Knocked him unconscious." "Government official? Top Competitor?" "No, just a private school principal." "Injure him badly?" "I don't know. He was still out when I left." Beach's eyes flickered with surprise. "You're not a violent type. He must have provoked you?" "Called my son non-competitive." Beach dismissed the matter with a gesture. "You've nothing to worry about." He paused, his shrewd eyes surveying. "Is that all?"