Petersen cocked an eyebrow, then poured another round. "You followed him into a bad spot," he said slowly. "This whole town is be-jittered. He's doing about what he likes and nobody says boo." "Why?" Petersen frowned. "'Cause they're scared, it looks. Scared of the Junta. Talk is there are Junta men around. I wouldn't have to remind you, I guess, of what Woller can say about you if he sees you." Nolan nodded. "He won't see me--in time for it to do him any good." Petersen shivered. "You're building up trouble," he repeated. "Woller's pretty near running this place." "'A louse,'" Nolan quoted, "'enthroned in luxury, will still a loathsome insect be.' That's Woller." Petersen's wizened little troll-face gaped at him. "Lice bite," he said succinctly. Nolan said soberly, "Live ones do. After tonight Woller may not be able to bite anybody. Dead lice have no friends." II Steve Nolan was deceptively slender in his open-necked, black military shirt and trim khaki slacks. In the half-hearted illumination thrown by Avalon's old gasglow lights, he looked almost boyish. But he didn't look like the pale youth he'd been three years before. The good-natured roundness of his face had contracted to show the hard bone underneath. There was the ghost of a scar close to an eye, and the seared mark of a pyro burn where neck joined his right shoulder. The long fingers that once had twirled the toggles of a field newscaster's walky-talky now were better acquainted with the groves of a pyro butt. "For the last time," he said, "you're better off home in bed. I think there may be trouble." Petersen looked sour. "Good thinking," he said. "I have a hunch that way, too. I'm going to stick around." Nolan shrugged. He eyed the Hotel Elena, towering almost up to the crystal dome, directly across the street from him. "It's your neck," he said. "You can catch me when I fly out." He glanced quickly at a wrist-chrono. "A quarter after four," he said. "If I'm not out in half an hour don't wait up. I may be detained." Before Petersen could answer he was crossing the street, entering the hotel. The Elena was large, and the night clerk couldn't be expected to know every guest. He glanced up as Nolan entered, then went back to nodding over his magazine. Nolan walked to the grav-well and stepped in. Nolan let the curiously soothing grav-currents flow over him, carrying him up till he'd ascended twelve floors. That was where Woller was, by the best information Petersen had been able to give him. He reached out a hand and swung himself out of the flow, into a silent corridor. Not quite silent. Nolan listened and smiled. There was a party somewhere overhead; a vise-box blared briefly in one of the rooms on this corridor as a sleepless guest hunted music. From the grav-well came the low humming of the generators. That was fine. If it were necessary to make any noise it might be confused with the vise-box, or the singing from overhead.