"War," said Heller. "But I need soldati, all you've got. Its no trap. I'll do the risky part. And if all goes well, Faustino will be no more."

"A total wipeout? A rub of the whole Rockecenter-I. G. Barben ;drug empire, too?" 

"Yes, I want you to be the capa di tutti capi. The chieftainess of all chiefs!"

Babe suddenly caught her breath. "Oh, sangue di Cristo, would

THAT put the mayors wife in her place!" She turned to Heller eagerly.

He rapidly sketched out the part of his plan she had to know.

Babe balked. "I won't let you do it. It's too risky for you!"

"Less risk than you think," said Heller.

"No," said Babe. "I didn't get you back just to lose you! We have to remember that you're the only son I've got!"

Heller took a shot in the dark. "Well," he said, hoping it would awaken her nostalgia for her dead husband and hoping she would supply something he only thought existed, "You know what 'Holy Joe' used to say."

Babe nodded thoughtfully. " 'The only good enemy is a dead enemy.' You've got a point, Jerome."

"Then that settles it," said Heller.

She surged up, eyes glowing. "I'll make the calls." Then, on her feet, she checked. "But if you're going to do something like that, you need to eat your breakfast and get some sleep. No, I won't hear any argument. You sorely show all the signs of my awful neglect. Now do what your mother tells you. Where IS that (bleepard) Gregorio!"

She pushed Jerome into "Holy Joe's" still-maintained bedroom. "Now take a shower. You've got ink all over your hands." She rushed out to hurry up Gregorio and a tray.

Heller obediently showered. It was true that he still had some fingerprint ink on his fingers.

He heard Gregorio wheel in a trolley and leave.

Then Babe's voice sounded somewhere, "Geovani, you lazy son of a (bleepch), take in his baggage and help him get to bed. And then go out and get him some decent clothes. MOVE!"

Geovani handed Heller a bathrobe over the top of the shower stall, an old, ornate robe, probably the late "Holy Joe's."

Heller came out. A breakfast sat under silver warming covers. He opened the satchel and let the cat out. The action did not seem to surprise Geovani: he was oversaturated with surprises.

Jet sat down and began to eat scrambled eggs, feeding some to Mr. Calico.

"Cristo," said Geovani, "you sure turned the lights on. I'm glad you came back, kid. She's been moping around for half a year. It's good to see her at high roar. She's out there talking on three phones at once! From what she's saying, it sounds like a full-fledged gang war. What are we going to attack?"

Heller smiled. "You'll find out tonight."

Heller awoke, much refreshed, feeling he had caught up with what they call on that planet "jet lag." Of course, a spacer seldom cares what time he sleeps, for all his days in flight are apt to be out of phase with the planets he visits.

The cat was nowhere to be seen. Jet pushed a bell to tell people he was awake.

Geovani came in. He was holding up a tuxedo on a hanger. It was a summer-weight suit of the blackest black with an indigo velvet flared collar. "She told me to get you some clothes, but they didn't have much that I liked. Now, this little article will fit you like a glove, tailor-made for one of the executives. He never picked it up: He got shot. It's got a black silk shirt, black bow tie, black cummerbund and black pearl studs. Ain't it a beauty?"

"It would be the first time I ever went to war in a tuxedo," said Heller.

"Yeah, but I know you," said Geovani. "You got class. You slept the clock around almost. You musta been shooting a lot of guys to get that tired. It's 6:00 P.M. and Babe had Gregorio fix you a dinner that'll make the table legs crack. Real Italian food, the kind you like."

Heller got up, did a fast shave and shower. He got into the tuxedo: It did fit well, airy and cool.

"Now, that's what I call tradition," said Geovani, handing him a black Homburg hat. "Give you a Tommy gun and you couldn't tell the difference between you and "Holy Joe's" old rumrunner mob. Except for the modern cut, of course. Babe will love it."

Heller went out. Babe was at the table already, waiting for him. She was dressed in a beige silk safari suit with a wide collar and ruby buttons, suitably attired for a war. She looked at him with a glad smile, admired his appearance and got him seated. She was quivering with excitement, practically radiating it. She stacked his plate with antipasto.

The cat had apparently made friends. He was sitting at the table behaving himself, though he had already emptied his silver bowl of cream.

"Are all the arrangements made?" said Heller.

"Of course," said Babe. "Now, eat a good dinner. You look thin."

Heller was talking around a mouthful of antipasto. "And they'll all be there?"

"I know those (bleepards)," said Babe. "Every Saturday night around 11:00 P.M., they been meeting for an after-show dinner and their payoff—for the last ten years. And they're meeting tonight. I verified."

"And they're never armed?"

"In the presence of Faustino? You must be kidding, Jerome. Of course, bodyguards will be outside the door and the building will be full of soldati. They're the ones you have to be careful of. They're always on the alert on Saturday night. Faustino himself will be heeled, of course. You wouldn't think he could shoot the way his fat overlaps his eyes but he can, so you watch it. If it comes to him or you, make sure it's him. Gregorio! Bring in some more antipasto!"

Heller didn't know if he could get around what he had.

"Eat your dinner," said Babe. "You're thin as a rail! Listen, I got good news for you. Con Edison has had to shut down all its oil generating plants. The only power they're able to get into the Big Apple now is coal and hydroelectric. There'll be no floods on the buildings and no street lights. How's that for a break! Now, enjoy your dinner, you've got plenty of time. 'Holy Joe' always used to say there was nothing like going to war on a full stomach unless it was getting stuffed at Sardine's afterwards."

Gregorio brought in a steaming side dish of spaghetti but Heller knew better than to eat much of that. Immediately came the entrees of lasagne and ravioli. And then Heller was inundated with fettucini, rigatoni, chicken cacciatore, manicotti, veal parmigiana and finally linguine with both red and white clam sauce. All these were special Italian dishes served on that planet. When he was served vast blocks of spumoni, an Italian ice cream, he could hardly open his mouth.

Babe then went into the salon and put on a piece of music called "The Ride of the Valkyries," a wild, bombastic symphony, and said, "That's to aid your digestion. Now, just sit down and relax. Sunset isn't until after 8:00."

Heller sank into an easy chair. He could hardly move. Babe sat perched upon the couch, quivering with excitement. Although she was middle-aged, she still retained much of her Roxy showgirl beauty. A proud and deadly glitter was in her eyes. "Oh, we'll fix that Faustino."

After a while, Heller said, "Let's fix our timetable." And he took a pad and wrote it out. He handed it to her.

She looked at it. Then suddenly her smile froze. "Wait a minute, Jerome. This says, when I see you come out of the window. The way I understood it, you were going to land on the roof in a helicopter and after you'd done your thing, you were just going to wait with your hand on Faustino's collar for our frontal assault. That was dangerous enough for you. I thought you were going to lower yourself down into the banquet room through the ventilation system."

"Well, it is kind of a helicopter. I just didn't give you the details."

"This is mad! I'm not going to have you diving out windows! No, Jerome. If you insist on this, the whole thing is off. You might FALL!"