Lathe shrank away from the barrel beside him. "No, no—we don't need guns. I just handle a tow truck—"

"Move it," the other snarled.

Ahead, the gate was opening. Keeping his movements jerky, as befit a highly nervous man, Lathe started the truck forward.

The driveway was a long, winding one that passed back into the hills, the trees giving way eventually to elaborately sculpted yards and gardens surrounding a large house. Not exactly the estate of a multimillionaire, Lathe decided, but certainly no hovel, either. Reger would do, provided the man chose to cooperate.

A half-dozen armed men were lined up by the mansion's front door as they approached. Their guide stopped the truck fifty meters back and made them walk the rest of the way. "You, stay here," one of the housemen told Jensen. "You"—this to Lathe—"come with me."

Another four guards joined them inside the carved wood door, and together they walked in silence down a richly carpeted hallway. Three turns later they reached a large study lit solely by a desk lamp swiveled to point at the door. Behind the glare, a dressing-gowned man was visible.

"You got a message for me?" the man asked coolly as Lathe and his escort stepped into the room.

"You Mr. Reger?" Lathe asked, eyes flicking about the room. Hidden gunport in the wall over Reger's left shoulder, a second in the wall to his right. Useless at the moment, unless Reger was willing to cut down five of his own men along with Lathe. Which he might be perfectly willing to do, of course.

"I am," Reger answered with elaboration.

"Okay." Lathe shifted feet the way a simple man might under such abnormal circumstances, his hand clutching briefly at his right wrist and the tingler concealed there. Ten seconds. "The guy said your men were pretty amateurish and that you might like to hire some real fighters for a change."

"Why, you—" one of the guards snarled, jabbing Lathe's side with his snubnose rifle.

And Lathe moved.

It was doubtful that any of the guards ever figured out precisely what happened to them in that first second. Lathe's left arm swung at the gun barrel digging into his ribs, wrenching it from the owner's grip as a reflexive shot shattered the quiet of the room. Jamming the captured gun back into its owner's abdomen, Lathe simultaneously threw a hooking kick at the man on his immediate right, then swung the gun like a club at a third man's face. The other ducked, his shot going wild, and then the blackcollar was on him with a three-punch combination that took him out of the fight for good.

Behind him, the last two guards fired, but Lathe was already out of the way, flat on the floor with his legs sweeping his attackers' out from under them. Both men crashed to the floor; and with a jab behind the ear of each to keep them quiet, Lathe finished his roll back to one knee with another captured flechette rifle in hand. A quick burst to each of the hidden gunports, and the muzzle came to rest lined up on the man behind the desk.

Reger hadn't moved. "Well?" he asked calmly.

"Well what?" Lathe said. "As I said, your men are amateurs."

Reger's eyes dropped briefly to the rifle. "You intend to use that on me?"

"Not really. Consider it a conversation piece." Lowering the gun to the floor, Lathe rose to his feet.

"Good. You might take a look at the gunports you shot, then."

Frowning, Lathe did so. The dark wood was unmarked. "Blanks?"

Reger nodded. "I couldn't take the risk you'd be hurt. I see now how unlikely that was. Excuse me."

He leaned over slightly. "Stretcher team to my office," he said. "Five injured. Should I send another team to the front door?" he added to Lathe.

"Probably ought to." The comsquare tapped his tingler. Okay. Jensen?

Okay. In control. "Make that definite. And better have everyone else leave him alone out there."

"Of course." Reger gave the orders, then leaned back in his chair and regarded Lathe thoughtfully.

"After all, we can't start off by fighting with our new allies, can we?"

Lathe cocked his head. "Allies?"

Reger's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You suggested we might want to hire real fighters. I presume that's you."

The comsquare nodded, studying the other for a moment. Something about the man seemed wrong, somehow, behind that concealing light. "I must say, you're a cool one. When did you place us?"

Reger waved a negligent hand. "Oh, right from the beginning. The road out there isn't as innocent as it seems—I have watchers and sensors all along it. And of course my men got a good look at you at the bar."

"So why did you let us in?"

"Curiosity. Blackcollars out for vengeance or destruction wouldn't simply come walking up the front walk like you did. I thought it might be interesting to see what you wanted."

"It could have been fatal," Lathe told him bluntly. "Even with the gimmicked guns."

"You weren't carrying any of your shuriken or nunchaku weapons." Reger shrugged again. "And I took some other precautions."

Lathe frowned... and suddenly understood. Reaching down, he picked up the rifle again and lobbed it gently over the desk.

Reger didn't move as the weapon arched neatly through his chest and chair and clattered to the floor behind.

"My congratulations," Lathe said. "An exceptionally good hologram. I didn't know they could be made that realistic."

"All sleight-of-hand," the other said modestly. "The light in your eyes is the key—even this one has the usual flat look when you see it under normal conditions. But most of the visitors I use it for don't have the time to be that observant."

Lathe nodded. "So what happens now?"

Reger folded his arms across his chest. "We discuss business, of course. Why don't you start by telling me exactly what you want here.—Ah."

The "ah" was for the arrival of the medical team. Lathe watched them closely, half expecting them to suddenly sprout guns and attack. But they merely loaded the casualties onto stretchers and carted them off.

"You were saying...?" Reger's image said when they were gone.

"We need information," Lathe told him. "I'm guessing you have the connections to get it for us."

"I see. And in return you offer what?"

"That's negotiable. I realize that blackcollars-for-hire is probably a new concept for you, but we have a number of specialties you might find useful."

Reger's face didn't acknowledge the delicate probe. "From what my men said and implied, I take it you haven't been in town long."

"About seven hours now," Lathe admitted.

"From...?"

"Plinry."

That got a raised eyebrow. "Indeed. Off the shuttle that came in from orbit?"

"More or less."

"Which means that along with information, you also need protection. Security exists in large part to hunt down people like you."

"With the paying off of informers part of their yearly budget?" Lathe asked pointedly.

Surprisingly, Reger smiled. "You really are uninformed. Do you know who I am?"

Lathe pursed his lips. "You're Manx Reger, who collects a share of smuggling operations in this area. I gather there's more."

"A great deal more. I own nearly every illegal operation from Arvada west to the mountains, and a fair amount of the legal stuff as well. My yearly income is in the three-quarter-million-mark range, my total assets probably five million. What the hell can Security offer me that'll make it worth turning you in?"

"I suppose that depends on what you want us to do for you?"

For a moment Reger was silent. "Yes, it does," he conceded. "Okay. Let's start with what exactly this information is that you need."

"We weren't the only team that dropped from that shuttle," Lathe told him. "The other group's gone to ground, and we need to find them."

"Didn't you have signals or a rendezvous place picked out? I'd have thought—"