I went on into the next room. I found more soft light, the glow of hand-rubbed rare woods, rich fabrics and wide windows with a view of dark night sky. The music was coming from a long, low, built-in speaker with a lamp, a heavy crystal ashtray and a display of hothouse roses. There was a scent in the air. Not the _coeur de Russe_ and Havana leaf I'd smelled in the hall, but a subtler perfume. I turned and looked into the eyes of a girl with long black lashes. Smooth black hair came down to bare shoulders. An arm as smooth and white as whipped cream was draped over a chair back, the hand holding an eight-inch cigarette holder and sporting a diamond as inconspicuous as a chrome-plated hub-cap. "You must want something pretty badly," she murmured, batting her eyelashes at me. I could feel the breeze at ten feet. I nodded. Under the circumstances, that was about the best I could do. "What could it be," she mused, "that's worth being shot for?" Her voice was like the rest of her: smooth, polished and relaxed--and with plenty of moxie held in reserve. She smiled casually, drew on her cigarette, tapped ashes onto the rug. "Something bothering you, Colonel?" she inquired. "You don't seem talkative." "I'll do my talking when the Baron arrives," I said. "In that case, Jackson," said a husky voice behind me, "you can start any time you like." * * * * * I held my hands clear of my body and turned around slowly--just in case there was a nervous gun aimed at my spine. The Baron was standing near the door, unarmed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt. "How do you know my name?" I asked. The Baron waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Jackson," he said, almost gently. "You've had a tough time of it--but you're all right now." He walked past me to the bar, poured out two glasses, turned and offered me one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I went over and took the drink. "To the old days." The Baron raised his glass. I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. "I asked you how you knew my name," I said. "That's easy. I used to know you." He smiled faintly. There was something about his face.... "You look well in the uniform of the Penn-dragoons," he said. "Better than you ever did in Aerospace blue." "Good God!" I said. "Toby Mallon!" He ran a hand over his bald head. "A little less hair on top, plus a beard as compensation, a few wrinkles, a slight pot. Oh, I've changed, Jackson." "I had it figured as close to eighty years," I said. "The trees, the condition of the buildings--" "Not far off the mark. Seventy-eight years this spring." "You're a well-preserved hundred and ten, Toby." He shook his head. "You weren't the only one in the tanks. But you had a better unit than I did. Mine gave out twenty years ago." "You mean--you walked into this cold--just like I did?"