Noton nodded and followed Lestrade back to a small room. As the door closed behind him, shutting out all the party's noise from the soundproof cubicle, Noton touched a button on his watch and waited for a red light to glow on the face. When nothing happened, Noton smiled to himself. He's not recording this meeting, and that makes him a fool."You have the ticket, Baron?"

Enrico Lestrade nodded. He flexed his right hand several times to try to get some feeling back into it, and frowned at Noton during the process. "I'm sorry, Noton, but that is how I greet all my guests."

Noton's eyes slitted. "I trust you do not have covert deals with all of them." Doublecross me, Baron, and you will regret it.

Enrico shook his head and began patting his pockets in search of the betting ticket. "No," he said, "most are visitors from the Commonwealth, and a few from the Federated Suns. Wolfson, being one of the Capellan Mafia—as Capet has so quaintly labeled his pack of warriors-—is a great draw. I've even invited him up here after the match."

"You did what?"Noton's voice exploded in anger. If you've done anything to suggest that this fight is fixed, I will have you flayed alive.

Lestrade recoiled from Noton's tone, as though from a heavy blow. "Come now, don't take me for a fool. I did not invite himup. I invited the winner." Smiling conspiratorially, he found the silvery slip of paper and extended it toward Noton. "Just because we know who will win doesn't mean we need to broadcast it."

Noton took the ticket and let a slow smile transform the mask of fury his face had become. His fee, 50,000 credits, had been used to place a bet at two-to-one odds that Wolfson would win. With the fight fixed, Noton got double his fee from the bookmakers on the planet, and no one could trace the transfer of wealth. "Very well. Let us rejoin the party."

Enrico beamed. "You'll be pleased to know, Noton, that the Contessa is here this evening." Enrico opened the door and escorted Noton among the guests, making a few preliminary introductions. Then he slipped away into the chattering crowd. Noton excused himself from a conversation about the neo-abstraction of the Deia traditionalist school, and navigated a path toward the bar.

The bartender smiled up at him. "Sir?"

Noton glanced at the various types of beer half-buried in a tray of ice, but changed his mind. Business is over. I can afford to drink, especially if Lestrade is paying.Noton smiled. "A PPC, Steiner, straight up."

The bartender smiled knowingly and set a brandy snifter on the counter. Into it, he poured four shots of grain alcohol, and because Noton had specified "Steiner," he cut it with two shots of peppermint schnapps. He reached for a sprig of mint, too, but Noton warned him off with a shake of his head. The bartender smiled and handed him the drink. "Be careful. That stuff can etch glass."

Noton laughed and cradled the snifter in one hand. He swirled the clear mixture around and watched as it picked up and distorted the sights and colors around him. With a pleased smile, he raised the glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the liquid before it could fully numb his tongue.

"Not a sipping drink, is it, Mr. Noton?" Contessa Kym Sorenson commented as Noton screwed his eyes shut against the drink's jolt.

Noton relaxed his face, then opened his eyes. "You are a most welcome vision, Contessa." She wore high-heeled black boots gathered at the ankles, black trousers, and a sleeveless, strapless satiny green shirt that matched the silk scarf knotted around her pale throat. Noton smiled, took her outstretched hand, and raised it to his lips. "Please, call me Gray."

The Contessa nodded and smiled. "Gray, it is." She turned and leaned against the bar, glancing wearily from the milling crowd to

Gray. Pointing at his drink, she said, "Does that make these gatherings any less stuffy?"

Noton shrugged his wide shoulders. The light rippled off the black velvet of his tunic, whose wide "V" of gray velvet running from one shoulder to his waist and back up to the other shoulder made the MechWarrior seem more slender. "Lestrade runs with a rarified crowd. I remember many of these people from the days when the Battle Commission honored me with parties because of my victories out in the Arenas. They've always been stuffy, and, yes,"—he looked down at his drink—"I've found PPCs a great help."

The Contessa turned to the bartender. "I'll have a PPC, too."

The bartender smiled as Noton, standing behind the Contessa, signaled the man to dilute the drink by half. "How would you like that, my lady?"

The Contessa frowned and turned to Noton. "Gray?"

Noton smiled. "The drink has several variations, each one known by one of the Great House names. I drink the Steiner variant, which cuts the white lightning with peppermint schnapps. The Liao version cuts it with plum wine, and the Kuritan dilutes it with sake—or aviation fuel, whichever is handier." Noton paused for a moment, trying to recall the other variants. "Davion cuts it with bourbon, or tequila, if you're in the Capellan March."

The Contessa wrinkled her nose. "And Marik?"

The bartender brandished a bottle of ouzo and the Contessa smiled. "I'll have mine Marik." The bartender quickly complied and handed her a snifter identical to the one that Noton was holding.

Noton led the Contessa away from the bar to the first row of chairs looking out over the Arena. "You'd best sit down before you drink that. The first one is something of an experience." Noton waited for her to sit, then dropped into a plush red seat beside her, and began to swirl his drink.

The Contessa aped his motion. "Why do they call it a PPC?"

Noton laughed. "The particle projection cannon is one of the most powerful weapons a 'Mech can carry. It packs a nasty punch, just like this drink." Noton nodded toward her glass. "The trick is to get it down before."

"Before what?"

Noton quickly drank and swallowed. "Try it and see," he whispered hoarsely.

The Contessa reared her head and tossed off the PPC. She swallowed, then coughed and wiped the tears that sprang to her eyes. She waved a hand in front of her mouth for a couple of seconds, then swallowed again. "I see." She coughed again lightly. "My mouth is numb."

Noton smiled. "In about thirty minutes, that numbness will hit your brain. You ought not to notice the stuffiness of the party."

The Contessa smiled and turned to look out the massive window. Below, in a sandy, open arena reminiscent of the coliseums of ancient Rome, a trio of medium 'Mechs battled twice their number of more agile, lighter 'Mechs. Nearly invisible and impossibly delicate, a crisscrossed cage of wires surrounded the arena, separating the killing area from the glassed-in spectator galleries and, above them, the luxury boxes.

The Contessa pointed to the wire mesh. "What is that?"

Noton, sitting back as the drink spread its warmth through his body, knit his brows in concentration. "That is a detonator grid. Any missiles flying from the arena will hit it before they hit the spectator windows. The windows are covered with the same sort of high-impact plastic used in 'Mech canopies, but no one wants to take any chances."

"What about lasers or PPC shots?"

"The grid will siphon off PPC energy. The windows themselves are reflective." Gray laughed and leaned forward. "I remember once using the window to bounce off a shot at a foe's weakened aft armor." He nodded toward the arena. "There can actually be a 'home field advantage' for a warrior who fights regularly in one arena."