He better show, Jack thought determinedly.

The grass where he stood was green and lush from the weekend's rain. Jack kicked at the earth, straightened, and watched the next batter come to the plate. Kendall. Good hit, no field. That was the book.

He glanced again at the scoreboard: 5 to 2, and time running out.

He pounded his glove, thinking, He better!

The wind came up suddenly and stirred the infield dust, causing a break in the action. The plate umpire raised his hands to signal a stop. Jack sighed. All of the umpires were wearing Santa Claus suits. They looked ridiculous.

The wind died and play resumed. Kendall took a strike and two balls, then lofted a high fly toward Jack. Jack shaded his eyes, watched the ball rise and fall, moved beneath it, reached up, and snagged it easily. A cheer rose from his teammates and fans. He threw the ball in, trotted back to his position, and resumed his stance.

He risked a quick look back at the stands. Maggie and his mother and the empty seat cushion. He spat.

He just better!

Peter Banning rushed ahead through mazelike corridors, past secretarial cubicles, past closets and storerooms, past doors that led nowhere he had ever been-or at least remembered being. Posner, Nail Banning occupied an entire floor of the building. An entourage trailed in his wake-Brad and Ron; their young associate Jim Paige; Dr. Fields, the ecologist hired to advise the firm on the pending development; a planning assistant whose name he could not remember; and a receptionist whose name he had never known.

Peter's mind raced. "Jerry, Jack, Jim." He could not remember Paige's name. Tall, athletic, some sort of track-and-field man at Yale, wasn't he? "Steve! Take the video camera. Go to the game ahead of me. Shoot what I miss."

"Can I say something?" Dr. Fields interjected, and was ignored.

Jim Paige moved up alongside him, waving a sheet of yellow-lined legal paper and a floppy disk.

"Your speech for your grandmother's tribute…"

Peter glanced over, still moving, turning the corner like an Indy driver on the final lap. "Will this be on cards?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Numbered? Who wrote this?"

"Ned Miller, sir."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, wonderful. I couldn't put down his annual report. C'mon. Read it to me."

Paige cleared his throat. "Lord Whitehall, honored guests, et cetera, for the past seventy years the Wendy we honor tonight has given hope to and provided care for hundreds of homeless children, orphans of all-"

"That's great, very personal," Peter interrupted.

"Can I say something?" Dr. Fields tried again.

The receptionist pushed forward, breathless. "Mr. Banning, sir, please send my congratulations to your extraordinary grandmother. You must be so proud."

Peter smiled at her as if she were a candidate for shock therapy.

He rounded a corner and nearly bowled over his personal secretary, who was rushing to find him from the other direction. She gasped, recovered herself, and shoved a steaming cappuccino into his hands followed by an airline ticket folder.

"Amanda-my tickets, my tickets." He drained the cappuccino in one gulp, shoved the empty cup back in her hands, and resumed his charge down the office corridors. "Hurry, hurry, hurry,"

"Sir, there's been a terrible mistake," Amanda declared, rushing to keep up. "These tickets are coach."

"That's right. Rows fourteen and fifteen by the wing exits-statistically safest." They rounded yet another corridor. Building went on forever, Peter thought cryptically.

"Ron, have the four-oh-fours prepared before I return."

"Done," the other announced.

"Brad, the wetlands report."

"Done." Brad was breathing hard.

"Sierra Club report?"

Brad and Ron looked at each other. "Almost done,'' they muttered as one.

"Done, my foot! Nothing's done." Dr. Fields shoved to the fore. He was a small, wizened man of indeterminate age with thick glasses and gray hair that stuck out in all directions. He tapped Peter's shoulder. "You hired me as your environmental expert, and you've ignored my reports."

Peter glanced past him to Jim Paige. "Do you have more of the speech?''

His young associate peered down at the yellow sheets, trying to keep from tripping over Ron. "The addition of the Wendy Darling Foundling Wing guarantees that her work will never be forgotten and that a commitment to the future-"

"You're not listening to me," Fields interjected irritably. "You have to set aside acreage for a mating area."

"Dr. Fields, we have the designated mating area, right behind the ski lodge," piped up Brad.

"Two hundred acres…" began Ron.

"Designated mating area? Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?" Fields was incensed. "You have no right to develop a piece of land without determining what the impact will be on the creatures living there. What if there are endangered species? Like, for instance, like…"

Peter reached over, still walking, and put his arm around the other's bony shoulders. "Like what, Dr Fields?"

"The three-toed speckled frog, the white-footed deer, any number of birds…"

Peter patted the environmentalist gently on the back, his voice as smooth as syrup. "We're all big boys here, Dr. Fields. Tell me, how much room do these creatures need to mate? For most of us, it's a matter of inches."

Everyone broke out in laughter, and Fields dropped back again, red-faced.

Peter glanced over at Paige. "Steve, you still here? Get going with that video!" Ahead, the elevator bank came into view. "Take the stairs! You're an athlete!"

Paige shoved the yellow sheets and disk into Amanda's hands and rushed away. "What was it he did at Yale?" Peter muttered to himself. "Mile, four-forty, broad jump?"

They reached the elevators, breathing hard. Peter was aware suddenly of how heavy he'd gotten. Not fat, mind you, but certainly heavy. He glanced down his sloping front side and could not see his shoes. Slowly, trying to not show what he was doing, he sucked in his stomach. Didn't help much.

Brad pressed the down button.

"I ordered flowers for your grandmother," Amanda announced, ticking off the list on her fingers. "I picked up your dry cleaning and put it in your car. Your hanging bag is in the trunk…"

"Mr. Banning," Dr. Fields tried again, "it's just that there are people out there who believe, just as you might believe in some aspect of your own life, that the three-toed frogs of this world are what keep us all from going to hell in a hand basket."

"Yeah, people out there we have to protect ourselves from," muttered Brad over his shoulder.

"Oh, and here are your vitamins," Amanda continued. "And that file on Owens you were looking for." She shoved some slips of paper into his hands. "These are the messages you need to return on your car phone on the way to Jack's game."

"Jack's game," Peter reminded himself.

The elevator to the left arrived and the door opened. Peter started inside.

"Wait, boss!" yelled the nameless assistant. "Catch!"

Peter's holster phone flew through the air. He reached out and deftly snagged it. Not bad for an old guy. Blocking the elevator door with his foot, he strapped the holster on. Brad moved up to stand before him, pulled back his suitcoat flap to reveal a similar holster phone, and went into a gunfight-er's crouch. Peter faced him, fingers twitching. As one, they reached for their phones and drew them out, holding them to their ears.

"I got a quicker dial tone, Brad," announced Peter. "You're dead."

Everyone laughed as they reholstered their weapons.

Peter waved. "Gotta fly."

"Don't worry-more people crash in cars than on planes," Brad called out.

"It's a lot safer than crossing the street!" added Ron.

"Just don't look down!" advised someone else.