We played follow-me-leader halfway down the cloister, then hung a left through another heavy wooden door. (No chrysanthemum on this one, as if it mattered.) Two more suit-clad sammies were waiting for us in the room-a small antechamber decorated in muted tones, very serious and elegant. The two new sammies pulled out scanners and went over every centimeter of my body. Very polite about it, they were-as polite as you can be when you're doing something like that-constantly murmuring "Sumimasen, chotto, excuse me." Never once did they touch me-no pat-down, no search of my pockets or whatever. The process took a couple of minutes and evidently they were satisfied with the results, confident mat I didn't have a heavy pistol concealed in my left ear or a hand grenade in my cheek. Both sammies bowed formally to me with one last "Sumimasen," and focused their attention on a resigned-looking Scott.

His anxiety about a cavity search was misplaced-they never so much as touched him either. Granted, they were a little more intrusive in terms of how close they brought the scanners, and they didn't give him even one "Sumimasen," but there was nothing invasive or proctological about the procedure. One of the sammies, an older slag, with strategically silvering hair and hollow cheeks, showed specific interest in a stickpin Scott wore in his lapel. To me it looked like some land of Hawai'ian idol, a pot-bellied little guy with big wide eyes, made out of sterling silver. The old slag didn't scan it with his detectors, but just stared at it for a while, a slightly puzzled frown on his face. Then he shrugged and moved on. 1 shot Scott a questioning look. The big ork just-shrugged.

Finally, the scanning and examining was done, and the door on me other side of the antechamber swung open. One of the Armante garbed sammies gestured us through. As I stepped forward, Scott again took up his position a step back and to my left I strode through the door…

And stopped. I've always been a sucker for books. Real books, the paper and ink kind, the kind you can hold in your hands, the kind with real covers and bindings. (Sure, I know, it's the content that really counts-you can't judge a book, drekcetera-but if you don't already understand the pure, sensory pleasure of opening a book and flipping the pages, you probably never will… and your loss.) As a bibliophile, it's always been my dream to have a library-one room devoted entirely to books. If I had to envision that room, it would have a couple of large windows for natural light, but every other square meter of wall space would be taken up with bookshelves. There'd be one chair specifically for reading-a big old wing chair, preferably (although I'd probably retrofit a massage unit)-a couple of small tables to hold decanters of single-malt Scotch, and maybe two or three other (lesser) chairs in case I ever invited friends into my sanctum sanctorum.

Rescan mat description. That's exactly the room we were ushered into, all the way down to the cut-glass decanter of smoky amber liquid on the side table. My first reaction was, "Yeah, all right." My second, "There ain't no fragging justice." And then I suppressed both those reactions and focused all my attention on the slag watching us from the wing chair.

He looked old and frail with bones as thin and fragile as a bird's, his skin pale and parchment-thin. He was nearly bald, and his hands-steepled thoughtfully before his lips- were scrawny and fleshless. It was his eyes that caught and held my attention, though; dark, intense eyes, the eyes of a hawk. Intelligence and awareness glinted deep in those eyes, like windows into the soul of a young and vibrant man who only happened to be wearing the body of an octogenarian. Strength of personality radiated from him in waves. Here was a man to respect, I realized-a man to fear, perhaps, but also a man to like.

I felt Scott's presence at my elbow. Behind us, I heard me library door click shut. I blinked, and for the first time I noticed the aide-another twenty-first-century samurai- standing silently behind the oyabun's chair.

Mr. Ekei Tokudaiji was silent for a few moments as his eyes scanned my face and-mat's what it felt like, at least- probed the depths of my soul. Eventually, his thin lips drew up in a gentle smile. "Mr. Montgomery," he said. His voice was smooth as velvet, not loud-but then it didn't have to be-and totally accentless. "Welcome. Please." He gestured to a chair-another leather wing chair, but smaller than his-mat faced him.

Thank you," I told him.

The yakuza boss watched me as I seated myself. The oyabun never so much as glanced at Scott, I noted, as if the big chauffeur didn't even exist. (No, I corrected, as if Scott were as irrelevant to our discussion as a piece of furniture… or as his own aide.)

I pointedly scanned the room with my gaze, nodded approvingly. "Nice decor."

He smiled as if my opinion pleased him, as if it really mattered one way or the other. "Thank you." He gestured at the books. "A man needs a refuge where the great thoughts of the past shield him from the chaos of the world." He paused. "I apologize for…" He inclined his head toward the door to the anteroom. "Necessity. No dishonor was intended."

"None taken." I forced myself to relax, to wait him out. I never felt really comfortable with the initial meaningless protocol of high-level meetings. Why not just cut to the fragging chase and get on with things? But it was the oyabun's game, his rules.

"How is Mr. Barnard?" Tokudaiji asked after a moment.

'Tired," I responded, remembering the way the corporator had looked on the telecom screen. "But he's got a nice setup in Kyoto."

"A beautiful city," the oyabun said, inclining his head, "with much history and culture. Have you visited, Mr. Montgomery?"

Yet another high-powered suit wanting to know about my travel itinerary. What was this, a trend? I shook my head. "Never made it"

Again, the oyabun was silent for a few moments, regarding me steadily. Then something changed subtly in those sharp eyes, and I knew we were getting down to biz. "I understand that Mr. Barnard has a message for me," Tokudaiji said quietly, "something he was unwilling to commit to the Matrix."

"That's correct, sir."

The yak smiled gentiy. "What would it concern, do you suppose?"

I shook my head. "Do you really think Mr. Barnard would confide in a mere messenger?" Drek, I thought-hang around with people like this long enough and you start talking like them…

"Of course not, of course not." Tokudaiji extended his hand.

In response I reached into my pocket for the optical chip in its plastic holder.

And mat's when the drek dropped into the pot. I felt something happen behind me. It wasn't bearing, it wasn't seeing, it wasn't the sense of touch or smell-it was something else, but it was also totally undeniable. I felt it right down in the core of my being, sort of like the shivery feeling of an overpressure wave, but internal rather than external.

Magic. I knew that's what it was; somehow I knew.

I turned my head to the left. In my peripheral vision, I saw Scott move forward, reaching into his coat. The little pot-bellied guy on his lapel was glowing with a strange inner light, and I could feel mat shivery feeling emanating from it.

At that instant time seemed to change. Everything seemed to shift into slow motion, like in an old Sam Peckinpah flatfilm.

Tokudaiji's eyes widened in surprise and alarm. Behind him his aide was going for his heat. Even in slow-mo, the sammy's move was blindingly fast.

Not fast enough, though. The sammy's heavy pistol was barely clear of its shoulder holster when his face vanished in a wet red cloud and he went over backward. The concussion of a gunshot hammered my left ear, and I flinched away from the muzzle-plume of Scott's Roomsweeper. (Scott's Roomsweeper? How the frag had he smuggled a drek-eating Roomsweeper past the security check?)