He was in a room just comfortably large enough for two, with a single bright window facing the Hudson, a small onyx table, a tiny screen tastefully set in the wall, and a bar. He dialed himself a filtered rum, his favorite drink. The dark, cloudy liquid came pouring instantly from the spigot. The screen suddenly flashed a wave of green, breaking the ubiquitous grayness. The green gave way to the bald head and scowling face of Kroll, the Bronze Room's door-man. "Sir, there is a man outside who claims to be your brother. He alleges he has an appointment with you here." "That's right, Kroll; send him in. Fulks will bring him to my room." "Just one moment, sir. First it is needful to verify." Kroll's face vanished and Fred's appeared. "Is this the man?" Kroll's voice asked. "Yes," Walton said. "You can send my brother in." * * * * * Fred seemed a little dazed by the opulence. He sat gingerly on the edge of the foamweb couch, obviously attempting to appear blasé and painfully conscious of his failure to do so. "This is quite a place," he said finally. Walton smiled. "A little on the palatial side for my tastes. I don't come here often. The transition hurts too much when I go back outside." "FitzMaugham got you in here, didn't he?" Walton nodded. "I thought so," Fred said. "Well, maybe someday soon I'll be a member too. Then we can meet here more often. We don't see enough of each other, you know." "Dial yourself a drink," Walton said. "Then tell me what's on your mind--or were you just angling to get an invite up here?" "It was more than that. But let me get a drink before we begin." Fred dialed a Weesuer, heavy on the absinthe, and took a few sampling sips before wheeling around to face Walton. He said, "One of the minor talents I acquired in the course of my wanderings was doorsmithing. It's really not very difficult to learn, for a man who applies himself." "You were the one who repaired my office door?" Fred smirked. "I was. I wore a mask, of course, and my uniform was borrowed. Masks are very handy things. They make them most convincingly, nowadays. As, for instance, the one worn by the man who posed as Ludwig." "What do you know about--" "_Nothing._ And that's the flat truth, Roy. I didn't kill FitzMaugham, and I don't know who did." He drained his drink and dialed another. "No, the old man's death is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. But I have to thank you for wrecking the door so completely when you blasted your way in. It gave me a chance to make some repairs when I most wanted to." Walton held himself very carefully in check. He knew exactly what Fred was going to say in the next few minutes, but he refused to let himself precipitate the conversation. With studied care he rose, dialed another filtered rum for himself, and gently slid the initiator switch on the electroluminescent kaleidoscope embedded in the rear wall.