A woman was dancing on a walkway behind the bar, totally nude, and the crowd were laughing and shouting at her as a sick-looking drummer pounded a cymbal and the juke box whined. Griffin followed the girl through the fringes of the crowd and back along a dark, dripping corridor. They found a room, a frowsy makeshift of a dressing room that reeked of cheap perfume and dead rats. The girl motioned him inside. "You wait here. I'll be back." Ten minutes later she returned, followed by a short, obese individual who sank down on a chair and regarded Griffin with pale, dead eyes. "Got yourself a Retread friend, huh?" he said to the girl, jerking a fat thumb at Griffin. She nodded tensely, and looked at Griffin. "Tell him what you want." Griffin told him. The fat man listened. Then he said, "Rough. That's Government records. It'll take time." "We've got no time," the girl snapped. "Then it'll take money." His pale eyes flicked up to the girl. "You financing?" "I'm financing." "All right." He rubbed his chin with a greasy finger. "How much time can you give me?" "About twelve hours. There's a flight leaving at ten tonight. I've got to be on it." The fat man hoisted himself out of the chair. "Relax," he said. "You got a long wait." Then he was gone in a breath of stale air. * * * * * They waited. They didn't relax. They sat in the reeking little room, and the noise from the front drifted back to them, tinny and unreal. There was laughter, and footfalls on the stairs beyond their wall. Then there was a clink of broken glass, and more laughter over their heads somewhere. The girl watched Griffin, and paced the room, her hands so jittery she could hardly hold them still to light a cigarette. Finally she said, "I'm going up front for a drink." "You're staying here." "Who do you think you are, you damn--" "You leave, I leave," Griffin snapped. "In the opposite direction. Think it over." She picked up a dusty whiskey bottle and slammed it against the far wall with a snarl. It bounced off, without even breaking. "Go to hell!" she spat. Then she sat down. "You'd think they were robbing the Treasury or something." He closed his eyes, trying to get his breath in the dead air. His mind screamed with impatience. Why was it taking so long? But then, what good would it do him when he had his information? Whatever the plan had been, he had already upset it. Whoever was pushing the button, manipulating the strings, must be in a fine state by now. The thought gave him a certain degree of sour pleasure. The button had been pushed, and he had not responded quite properly. And here, he knew he was beyond manipulation, beyond the grasp of whatever agency was making the plans for him. But whoever was directing the show would know now that he knew--