When she said, "momentarily," she meant it. I'd barely finished thanking her when a door in the wall behind her opened and a suit emerged.

Not "suit" as in "corp." No, "suit" as in Zoe or one of the other upper-tier designers. When Mr. Ortega came through the door, it was the suit I noticed first, and only as an afterthought the man who was wearing it. A pasty-faced little guy, pale skin, salt-and-pepper hair. He looked kind of dusty, like a librarian who hadn't been let out of the stacks for a couple of years. But the suit and the eyes-flinty-hard, rather like the Ali'i's, I thought suddenly-were enough to tell me this was a honcho with real juice.

Those eyes gave me the top-to-toe scan, sizing me up… and narrowing as though he didn't particularly like the conclusions he'd reached. "Mr. Montgomery," he said politely, but with no human warmth. He extended a thin hand. "Your weapon, please."

Out the corner of my eye, I saw the white-suits stiffen as I reached-very slowly, with my left hand-under my shirt-tails and pulled out my Manhunter. I safed the weapon, going so far as to pop out the clip before I handed it over to Ortega. Distastefully, as though I'd offered him a dead fish, he took it and passed it in turn to the receptionist, who made it disappear into a drawer. "You. will, of course, receive it back once your business is concluded," Ortega told me. Then he turned his back and strode toward the door, the lines of his narrow shoulders indicating he fully expected me to follow.

Follow I did, through the door-through a sophisticated suite of metal detectors and chemsniffers, I had no doubt- and into a kind of anteroom with three doors. Ortega turned around again, and again he gave me the top-to-bottom scan. "Yes, well," he said at last, "you must, of course, wear a jacket and tie for an audience with the Ali'i."

I almost chuckled aloud-the last time I'd heard words to that effect I'd been trying to sleaze my way into a restaurant called La Maison d'lndochine back in Seattle-but suppressed my amusement. Aide de camp, maitre d'-I guess there wasn't that much difference, when you thought about it. I watched the laser-eyed little man, surprised that he didn't look even slightly Polynesian, as he opened a closet set into the richly paneled walls and pulled out some clothes.

"A one-oh-five regular should fit." (This seemed to be my week for meeting people with a haberdasher's eye.) He handed over a double-breasted jacket-deep blue with a conservative emerald pinstripe-and a white-and-navy paisley tie. And then he waited.

The collar of my tropical shirt wasn't made for a tie, and if the jacket actually was a one-oh-five regular, I'd put on some weight. But I made do the best I could, and did a model's turn for Ortega.

"Yes," he said dryly-I suppose a sense of humor wasn't de rigueur this season-and turned his back on me once more.

I followed him through another door and down a short hallway. We stopped at yet another door-some dark, dynamically grained wood this time-and paused. He turned back to me, gave me one last once-over-his frown telling me he didn't like what he saw any better this time-and started in on a protocol lecture. "The Ali'i will acknowledge you," he said. "Until that point you will stand with your eyes averted. You will not speak unless addressed, and then you will limit yourself to answers to the Ali'i's questions. You will not-"

Mr. Manners was cut off by a click as the door opened behind him. He shot me a scowl-didn't appreciate pedantus interruptus, apparently-but turned to whisper something to the white-suit who'd opened the door. After a quiet exchange Ortega stepped aside and gestured for me to go ahead. I did, but not before wishing I had a small-denomination coin handy to tip him (and really slot him off). I walked through the door…

… And into a throne room. I mean a real throne room, complete with throne, up on a low dais at the far end. Like a magnet the figure on the throne drew my gaze. A bronze-skinned warrior god-that was my first impression. Tall, muscular, in the prime of his vibrant, vigorous life. He wore pretty much the same getup as the statue of Kamehameha the Great that Scott had shown me: loincloth, a cape of brilliant yellow feathers hung over his shoulders, and a big forward-curving headdress also covered with feathers. His chest was bare, well-muscled, and decorated here and there with tattoos of a geometrical design. If he'd held a spear or a war club in his big hands, it would have looked totally appropriate. In fact, however, what he held was a sophisticated pocket 'puter on which he was taking notes. He looked up as the door clicked shut behind me, and those flinty eyes seemed to pierce me to the core.

It was Gordon Ho-it had taken me this long, a couple of seconds, to recognize him in his glory. Gordon Ho, King Kamehameha V, Ali'i of the Kingdom of Hawai'i. When I'd seen him on the telecom screen, my mental impression had been of a young, up-and-coming corporate exec. The telecom hadn't conveyed the size of him-just shy of two meters tall, I guessed; not up to Kamehameha the Great's standard, but still one big boy-and it certainly hadn't done justice to his… his aura. (I hate the word, but it's the only one that fits.) I could feel his personality, his strength of will, like radiant heat penetrating to my core. I'd never met a king before, and for the first time I realized there might be something more to this monarchy drek than a title and- maybe-congenital defects from inbreeding.

He glanced back to his computer, and the removal of his gaze seemed to free me from a spell. For the first time since I'd stepped through the door. I was able to look around at the rest of the room.

It wasn't big, this throne room, about the size of a major corporate boardroom. The floor was hardwood, the walls paneled in the same rich-grained wood as the door I'd passed through. On the wall behind the Ali'i was a large coat of arms or seal or something-circular, with words around its circumference. Ua mau Ice eaaka aina i ka pono, I managed to pick out… whatever the frag that was supposed to mean. In the center of the seal was some kind of emblem incorporating a hibiscus like flower, a tree that looked like a banyan, and-I drek you not-a fragging goose. Framing it were drapes of rich maroon velvet.

Beside and to the left of King Kamehameha another man was on the dais-standing; the only seat in the room was filled with Ali'i. An older man, he was, scrawny and weathered, looking like he'd been carved from nut brown wood. He too wore a cape-no feathers, just red fabric-and a loincloth. Around his brow was a headband, and a single feather of some kind protruded from the back, to sag forward-forlornly, I thought-over his forehead. An advisor of some kind, I figured at once. What had Scott called these guys? Kahunas, that was it. The kahuna looked only a couple of years younger than God himself, but he had the same steely edge in his eyes as Gordon Ho. Not a slag to trifle with.

Two white-suits flanked the dais, and another loomed over me and Ortega, who'd joined me in the room. These boys were holding spears, but I noted they also had big-time handguns holstered on their belts.

And then there were the three… visitors? supplicants? what would you call them? They stood before the dais, eyes averted as I'd forgotten to do. All humans, all Polynesians… and all suits (in the corp sense, this time). One of them turned and shot me a bad look-I was getting pretty goddamned tired of stink-eye by this time-before getting back to his averting.

The Ali'i looked up from his notes, and fixed one of the suits with a sharp look. "Is there any more I should hear on this matter?"

The suit looked up and said formally, "No more, e ku'u lani."

"Good," the king said with a nod. "Then you'll hear my decision within twenty-four hours."