“Oh. I’m sorry. Your robot will have to wait here until it’s cleared by Security.”

Hosato removed the control box from his waistband and fiddled with the dials for a moment. Suzi sarcastically took up a position in a corner of the room.

“What make robot is that?” the girl inquired as she led him down a narrow corridor.

“It’s a custom job,” Hosato informed her. “Nobody produces a stock fencing robot. Not enough demand, I guess.”

“It’s not one of ours, is it?”

“No,” Hosato admitted. “But it’s not one of Raven-steers, either.”

“That’s good.” She laughed. “If it was, Security would dismantle it before they let it in, if they let it in at all.”

The girl opened a door off the corridor and led Hosato into a small office. It was obviously intended for interviewing rather than permanent occupation, since it was tiny to the point of being claustrophobic.

“Have a seat,” she said casually, plopping down at the desk-robot that dominated the room.

Hosato glanced at the chair as he sat down. It was a disguised polygraph—a lie detector. Mc. Crae Enterprises didn’t miss a trick.

“Your name again was…?”

“Hayama,” Hosato said easily.

“And your purpose here is…?”

“To apply for the fencing instructor position.”

Hosato wasn’t worried about the chair. Lie detectors scanned for changes in respiration or pulse rate when a subject was surprised by a question or nervous about an answer. His Hayama cover was so natural to him he could rattle it off without batting an eye.

The girl keyed some information into the robot, and in a few moments it responded by producing a sheet of paper half-filled with notations. She scanned it briefly before turning to Hosato again.

“What do you feel your qualifications are for this position, Mr. Hayama?”

“I’ve fenced for more than fifteen years now, and studied under eight maestros.”

“Would you say you are an expert fencer?” she prompted.

“Good enough to survive eight years as a professional duelist.” He smiled.

“Do you have your maestro’s certification?”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted.

The girl frowned. “The job requirements state maestro’s certification is preferred,” she commented.

“Of course,” Hosato replied lightly. “But I doubt if you’ll get one.”

“Mc. Crae Enterprises pays very well for expertise.” She smiled confidently.

“That may be so,” he said. “But there are fewer than a dozen maestros today, and all of them are very devoted to promoting fencing. It’s doubtful they would abandon their current students to devote their time to one boy.”

The girl stared thoughtfully at the sheet of paper. Hosato decided to play his trump card.

“I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for. Do you want someone to teach the boy to fence in tournaments, or do you want him to learn how to handle a sword in a fight?”

“I don’t know,” the girl admitted. “This position is a bit out of the ordinary. If you wait here, I’ll try to contact Mr. Turner. He’s the one requesting the position. If he approves it, you’ve got the job.”

It was two hours before Turner appeared, but when he did, he swept into the room like a small tornado. Turner was in his late forties, with a noticeable paunch that showed despite the careful tailoring of his suit. Still, there was an aura of energy that surrounded him like a cloud and shone brightly in his eyes. A slender dark girl slid into the room in his wake and leaned lazily against the wall.

“Harry Turner, Mr. Hayama,” the man announced, seizing Hosato’s hand and pumping it once. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I was tied up.”

Hosato smiled vaguely, content to watch Turner’s show. He wondered who the girl was.

“Right off the bat, we’ve got a problem. I hate to say it after you’ve come all this way, but the position’s fallen through. It seems my kid, James, doesn’t like this idea of mine any more than he’s liked any of the other suggestions I’ve made. In fact, all of a sudden he’s dead set against learning to fence. You know how it is with kids these days, you try to give 'em things and they throw it back in your face.”

Hosato held up a restraining hand. “I may have a solution to both our problems, Mr. Turner. It could solve the question of whether or not your son will accept lessons as well as if I am qualified to teach him.”

“What’s that?” Turner asked.

“Let me give the boy one lesson free of charge. If I can rouse his interest, then we can discuss a permanent arrangement.”

“A trial period. That’s a possibility.”

“It sounds good to me, Harry,” the dark girl said, breaking her silence. “It’d give us a chance to run a check on Mr. Hayama, here.”

“Okay, Sasha. Oh. I’m sorry. Mr. Hayama, this is Sasha. She’s head of our Security section.”

Hosato swiveled around and smiled politely at the girl. Actually, it wasn’t that hard to smile at her. She was attractive, in her mid- to late twenties. Her dark hair was drawn up into a severe bun, but her jumpsuit hugged her curves, accenting her slender figure. It would have been pleasant meeting her, if it wasn’t for her eyes. Her eyes were dark and suspicious as they met Hosato’s. She didn’t return-his smile.

“Well, that about wraps it up. Glad to have you aboard, Hayama,” Harry Turner concluded. “Even though I don’t know how you got through to that pigheaded son of mine.”

Hosato smiled. “It’s like the joke about the man training the mule,” he confided. “First I had to get his attention.”

Turner laughed appreciatively. “Is that the secret. You know, you might teach me a thing or two in the process.”

“I doubt it,” said Hosato, looking pointedly around the plush office. “You seem to be doing pretty well on what you know already.” The office was big enough to house three handball courts. Thick shag carpet covered the floor, and real paintings hung on the walls, each one spotlit by its own small lamp. Even the couch and easy chairs were of real wood and leather.

“It’s a living,” Turner admitted modestly.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly do you do here, anyway?”

“Mostly I don’t,” Harry boasted. “I let Sam here do all the real work.” He gestured to the huge mass of dials and screens that took up one whole wall of the office. “Sam coordinates and controls the design and production of one-fifth of the robots Mc. Crae markets.”

Hosato raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “From what I hear, that’s a lot.”

“You bet your broadsword it is.” Turner smiled. “We aren’t a nickel-and-dime outfit like Ravensteel.”

“Speaking of Ravensteel, do you have much trouble with them?”

“Not really. It’s more of a Mexican standoff. Why?”

“Well, ever since I arrived here, I’ve been noticing the extensive security precautions. Heck, you can’t turn around without tripping over a guard. I notice Sam there has a voice lock on him.”

Turner shrugged. “It’s something you learn to live with,” he said. “The reason we don’t have any trouble with Ravensteel is that we have security tight enough to strangle an inchworm. Otherwise the Ravensteel spies would be all over us. They haven’t had an original idea since the IR. AM split.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hosato conceded.

“As to Sam’s voice lock, that’s my own precaution. It’s more of a safeguard against office politics than against Ravensteel.”

“Office politics?”

“Be thankful you’re out of it, Hayama.” Turner grimaced. “Sometimes I think we spend more time spying on each other than on the opposition. The more the machines take over, the more time we have to bootlick and backstab over promotions. There’s nothing some of my fellow vice-presidents would like better than to steal my ideas or have advance information so they could do a little shotgunning at the planning sessions. I didn’t get where I am today by trusting people.”