He knew some pretty dirty words. "What time?" I pressed him, knowing the profanity was a confession of defeat. "Not before eleven," he said glumly. "I won't forget this, Maragon." "What the hell," I said. "I'm on every S-list in town already. You hardly count beside the other enemies I'm making." I cut the image. As if at a signal, there was a tapping on the door to the corridor. I got out of my swivel, walked into the waiting room and opened up. The man who stood there was faintly familiar--but it was the gun in his fist that got most of my attention. "Maragon?" he asked softly. I spread my feet a little. "I knew I was making enemies pretty fast," I said to him. "But I didn't know how strongly. Listen," I snapped, "I'll bet one thing never occurred to you." He was taken back. You're not supposed to snarl at a guy who pokes a gun at you. In theory it gives him the edge of any conversation. "Huh?" he said. "The only thing that lousy pop-gun of yours is good for is shooting people. I don't think you came here to shoot me. Now what can you do?" "Clown," he growled. "Where's Renner?" "In bed, if he has any sense," I decided. "Make up your mind. Whom do you want?" "For Pete's sake," he said. "Grammar at a time like this!" He looked down at his gun, decided I was right, and stuck it in a shoulder holster. Then his wrist came up in front of his mouth and I recognized him. It was the man who had lounged near the building directory when I had come in. "Come ahead," he said into the mike. * * * * * I turned my back on him and stomped into my office. Let them follow me. But only one man came in, a minute or so later. "Does it have to be so dark?" he asked politely. "Rheostat's by your elbow," I said. He reached for it and turned on the ceiling, closing the door that cut us off from the waiting room. "Good evening, Counselor," he said, taking the seat across my desk from me. He looked different without his judicial robes, not quite as much my senior as I had thought. He wasn't any taller than I was, perhaps five feet nine, and thirty pounds lighter. Between us we had about an average forehead--his went up to the top of his head--my hairline starts about where my eyebrows leave off. Robes or no robes, there was something judicial about him, as though he'd been born with a gavel in his hand. "Good evening, Your Honor," I said to Judge Passarelli. "You have a pretty active pipeline into Stigma circles, don't you?" It didn't bother him. "As long as judgeships are elective offices, Maragon," he said. "Judges will play politics. Fill me in on this Mary Hall thing." "Without violating professional ethics?" I asked. "You'll try cases again, in front of judges," he snapped not very judicial. "Don't get me angry with you, Maragon."