He had permitted very few people to penetrate his armor of cool distance. To those who had, he was fiercely loyal, and he insisted that his friends participate in his rigid views of friendship and loyalty. But in the course of his life, only four men had gotten close enough to merit his friendship, and to run the concomitant risk of his wrath. There was Big Ben Bowman, whom he had not seen for three years, but with whom he used to climb mountains and drink beer. And there was Henri Baq, a French espionage agent who had had the gift of finding laughter in everything, and whose gut had been cut open two years ago. And there was Miles Mellough, who had been responsible for Baq's death after having been Henri and Jonathan's closest friend.

The fourth had been The Greek, who had betrayed Jonathan during a sanction job. Only luck, and a desperate four-mile swim through a night sea had saved Jonathan's life. Of course, Jonathan should have been worldly enough to realize that any man who trusts a Cyprian Greek deserves a Trojan fate, but this did not prevent him from biding his time until he ran across him in Ankara. The Greek was not aware that Jonathan knew who had sold him out—perhaps, being Greek, he had even forgotten the incident—so he accepted the gift of his favorite arrack without hesitation. The bottle had been doctored with Datura. The old Turk who did the job used the ancient method of burning the Datura seeds and catching the smoke in an earthen jar into which the arrack was then poured.

The Greek is now, and will always be, in an asylum, where he sits huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, humming a single note endlessly.

The score with The Greek settled, only Miles Mellough's debt was still outstanding. Jonathan was sure that one day he would happen upon Miles.

The jangle of the telephone jarred him from his morbid stream of free association.

"Hemlock? Reports are in from Montreal. Good job, pal." Clement Pope's brassy, insurance salesman voice was enough to make Jonathan testy.

"My money wasn't in the mailbox this morning, Pope."

"Well, how about that?"

Jonathan took a deep breath to control himself. "Let me talk to Dragon."

"Talk to me. I can handle it."

"I'm not going to waste time with a flunkey. Get Dragon to the phone."

"Maybe if I came out there and we had a good chat...?" Pope was taunting. He knew that Jonathan could not afford to be seen in his company. With Dragon's necessary seclusion, Pope had become the public face of SS Division. Being seen with him was tantamount to having a "Support CII" sticker on your automobile.

"If you want the money, pal, you'd better cooperate. Dragon won't talk to you over the phone, but he will see you."

"When?"

"Right now. He wants you to take a train in as soon as possible."

"All right. But remind him that I am depending on that money."

"I'm just sure he knows that, buddy-o." Pope hung up.

Someday, Jonathan promised himself, I'll be alone in a room with that bastard for just ten minutes...

Upon reconsideration, he settled for five.

You're looking especially attractive this afternoon, Mrs. Cerberus."

She did not bother to look up. "Scrub your hands in the sink over there. Use the green soap."

"This is new." Jonathan crossed to the hospital sink with its surgeon's elbow lever instead of the conventional twist tap.

"That elevator is filthy," she said, her voice as scaly as her complexion. "And Mr. Dragon is in a weakened condition. He's near the end of a phase." This meant that he would soon receive his semiannual total replacement transfusion.

"Do you intend to donate?" Jonathan asked, rubbing his hands dry under a jet of hot air.

"We are not the same blood type."

"Do I detect a note of regret?"

"Mr. Dragon's blood type is very rare," she said with evident pride.

"In humans at any rate. May I go in now?"

She fixed a diagnostic glare on him. "Any colds? Flu? Digestive disorder?"

"Only a mild pain in the ass, and that's a recent development."

Mrs. Cerberus pressed the buzzer on her desk, and she waved him into the interlock without further comment.

The usual dim red light was not on, but the rising heat was as stifling as ever. The door to Dragon's office clicked open. "Come in, Hemlock." Dragon's metallic voice had a weak flutter in it. "Please forgive the absence of the red light. I am more than usually fragile, and even that dim light is painful to me."

Jonathan groped forward for the back of the leather chair. "Where is my money?"

"That's my Hemlock. Directly to the point. No time wasted with the conversational amenities. The slums have left their mark."

"I need the money."

"True. Without it you will be unable to meet your house payments—to say nothing of purchasing that Pissarro you covet. By the way, I hear there is another bidder on the painting. Pity if you lost it."

"You intend to hold out on me?"

"Permit me an academic question, Hemlock. What would you do if I were to withhold payment?"

"Light these." Jonathan slipped his fingers into his shut pocket.

"What have you there?" There was no worry in Dragon's voice. He knew how thoroughly his men searched everyone who entered.

"A book of matches. Do you have some idea of the pain it's going to cause you when I strike them one by one?"

Dragon's thin fingers flew automatically to his eyes, but he knew that his colorless skin would afford little protection. With forced bravado he said, "Very good, Hemlock. You confirm my confidence in you. In future, my men will have to search for matches as well."

"My payment?"

"There. On the desk. Actually, I intended to give you the money all the time. I kept it only to assure your coming here to listen to my proposition." He laughed his three arid ha's. "That was a good one with the matches!" The laugh changed into a weak, wheezing cough, and for a time he could not speak. "Sorry. I'm not really well."

"To put you at ease," Jonathan said, slipping the chubby envelope of bills into his coat pocket, "I should tell you that I don't have any matches. I never smoke in public."

"Of course! I had forgotten." There was real praise in his voice. "Very good indeed. Forgive me if I have seemed overly aggressive. I am ill just now, and that makes me tetchy."

Jonathan smiled at the uncommon word. Occasionally Dragon's alien English was betrayed by just such sounds: odd word choices, overpronunciations, mishandlings of idiom. "What's this all about, Dragon?"

"I have an assignment you must take."

"I thought we talked about that. You know I never take jobs unless I need the money. Why don't you use one of your other Sanction people?"

The pink-and-red eyes emerged. "I would if it were possible. Your reluctance is a nuisance. But this assignment requires an experienced mountain climber and, as you might imagine, men of such talents do not abound within our department."

"I haven't climbed for more than three years."

"We have considered that. There is time to bring you back into condition."

"Why do you need a climber?"

"I could discuss details only if you were willing to cooperate on the assignment."

"In which case, forget it."

"I have a further inducement for you, Hemlock."

"Oh?"

"One of our former employees—an erstwhile friend of yours, I believe—is involved in the affair." Dragon paused for effect. "Miles Mellough."

After a moment, Jonathan said, "Miles is none of your business. I'll take care of him in my own way."

"You are a rigid man, Hemlock. I hope you don't break when you are forced to bend."

"Forced how."

"Oh, something will occur to me." There was a heavy flutter in his voice and he pressed his hand against his chest to relieve the pain. "On your way out, would you ask Mrs. Cerberus to come to me, there's a good fellow?"