Gray Noton straightened up to his full height and strode boldly down the dim hallway and up the half-flight of stairs against the left wall. A slender, nervous looking doorman glanced up as Noton filled the doorway, then smiled. "Welcome back to Thor's Shieldhall, Mr. Noton. There is someone waiting for you up in Valhalla, but Mr. Shang hoped you would have a moment for him. He's down here in Midgard, back watching the matches."

So, he's waiting for me, is he? That he knows I've returned is obvious, but did he know of my other meeting? And, if so, how?Noton smiled easily. "Thank you, Roger." He deposited a 20 C-bill on Roger's desk. "Mr. Shang does not know that I am meeting someone else here?"

Roger laid a long-fingered hand over the C-bill, which vanished as though absorbed straight into the man himself. "I certainly did not tell him, sir, but he is resourceful, as you well know." Roger stopped for a moment and absently tapped nicotine-stained teeth with a finger while he was thinking. He narrowed his eyes. "Mr. Shang just came in and announced he'd be watching the fights in our holoroom. I offered him a private viewing room in Valhalla, but he declined."

Noton nodded slowly. "Very well, Roger. Thank you." You must be more careful, Gray. If Shang can guess that you'd show up at Thor's Shieldhall on your first night back on the Game World, you’ve become predictable—fatally predictable.

Turning from the doorman, Noton took one step into the darkened room and studied the crowd. Garish phosphoron designs of diverse colors and intensities decorated the U-shaped bar. He watched intently, but recognized none of the faces revealed by dazzling but tantalizingly short bursts of light. Beyond the tables and off to the right were more brilliant lights rotating above the dance floor. The harsh white illumination they splashed over the bar resembled searchlights racing along prison walls. An occasional beam would fragment into rainbows as it lanced against some patron's oversized gem, but mostly the lights served only to heighten the corpselike pallor of those destined to remain in Midgard.

No one to fear in the land of the dead, but it's the ones you don't see that get you.Noton shook himself slightly. Ease off, Gray. You've not lost your edge. He eluded you, but you got him in due course.

Gray blinked against a momentarily blinding spotlight, then looked around him. Thor's Shieldhall—a place so chic and popular that it needed no exterior signs—divided its clientele into two distinct classes: the masses and the privileged. If anyone of the former had enough luck or initiative to find out where Thor's was located, he was welcome to spend time and money in Midgard on overpriced drinks, loud music, and the garish ambiance. Ordinary customers actually paid for the chance to spot members of the privileged pass through Midgard on their way to Valhalla.

Valhalla , Hall of Slain Warriors.Gray Noton suppressed a laugh, knowing that he was probably one of the few who understood and appreciated the real meaning behind that name. Whether it was the masses longing for admittance or the Mech-Warriors and slumming nobles of the Successor States, most people thought of Valhalla as a haven, a heaven, for the human stars of Solaris. There, one could see and perhaps speak with legendary Mech Warriors—the gladiators of the Game World—such as Snorri Sturluson, Inigo de Onez y Loyola, Antal Dorati, or even the current champion, Philip Capet.

Visiting and resident nobles and their guests swelled Valhalla's population and often outnumbered the Mech Warriors. Many nobles owned a string of BattleMechs, and they selected Mech Warriors the way their Terran ancestors might have selected jockeys to race thoroughbreds millennia ago. Those "stabled" 'Mechs dominated, perforce, the heavyweight leagues on Solaris, while owner-operators wallowed around in the lighter classes. If an independent dared challenge a noble's 'Mech pilot, the independent became a long-odds shot—not for winning, but for surviving.

Noton cut through the crowd and headed deeper into Midgard, toward the open end of the bar. Ignoring invitations to join people he did not know or wanted to forget, he continued toward a far doorway leading into a wide and deep room. The backlight from the massive holographic display dominating the center of the bowl-shaped auditorium made it easy for Noton to find Tsen Shang. Descending the steps to the third terrace, he quickly passed by one crowded booth after another, until he reached the one where the Capellan awaited him.

"Greetings, Tsen," Gray said, sliding onto the seat opposite. He knew better than to offer Shang his hand. Instead, he bowed his head and the Capellan graciously returned the gesture.

Shang signalled to catch the eye of a server. The gesture silhouetted his hand against the glowing blue hologram of a battling Valkyriein the center of the room. Though Gray had many times studied Shang's hands in meetings like this, he never overcame a feeling of slight disgust at the sight of them. The affectation seemed unnatural and gave Shang a delicate and foppish appearance. Gray knew, however, that anyone who accepted mat impression could be in as much trouble as someone who believed a Valkyrieposed no threat to a Rifleman.

Shang, in Capellan fashion, had grown out the fingernails on the last three fingers of each hand to a length of ten centimeters. Decorated with gem chips and goldleaf, the distinctive nails marked Shang as a Capellan of culture and wealth. This coincided with the image he cultivated on Solaris and, in addition to his ownership of two heavy 'Mechs, was enough to grant him entry to Valhalla whenever he visited the Shieldhall.

Noton shuddered slightly because he knew Shang so well, perhaps better than did anyone else on Solaris. Tsen Shang answered to masters in the Maskirovka, the Capellan secret police. He ran a string of spies on Solaris and often worked with free agents, like Noton himself, to gather information for his superiors on Sian, the Capellan capital world. In keeping with Shang's true identity, the nails were much more than a concession to fashion.

The female server appeared and squatted to keep from blocking the two men's view of the hologram battle. Despite the din raised by the room's other spectators, Shang's half-whisper was still commandingly clear. "Another plum wine for me, and a PPC for my companion."

Noton shook his head. "Beer. Timbiqui dark, if you have it."

Shang smiled. "Timbiqui dark, then." He slid a small bowl toward the woman. Scraps of a blue-green skin and fruit pits the size of navy beans rattled around in it. "And another bowl of kin-chafruit, please." Shang waited for her to scoop up the bowl and retreat before he spoke.

"Welcome, Gray. Congratulations on your mission."

Noton frowned. "Congratulations? That mission blew up in our faces. Your superiors sent me out to bag a training cadre, but all I did was destroy a Valkyrie.That MechWarrior was good." Too damned good,Gray thought.

"Indeed." Shang fell silent as the server returned with their drinks. She placed the bowl of fruit in the center, but Shang quickly slid it toward himself. He lifted a kincha,and with great skill born of much practice, sliced through its thick flesh with the carbon-fiber reinforced, razor-sharp nail of his little finger. "That Valkyrie'spilot was none other than Major Justin Allard."

Noton smiled ruefully. "So that's the Allard that Capet speaks of so often. No wonder he fears him. Capet's not bad, but Allard is better."

Shang peeled back the kinchaflesh and carved off a sliver of the fruit's sweet meat. "Wasbetter. Though your attack did not kill him, it ended a brilliant career. According to our agents on Kittery, you blew off his left forearm. Allard's still alive, but he'll never lead troops again. After what he did on Spica, we praise his removal from Hanse Davion's service."