"There is another, less pleasant objection which might be raised to this plan. I'm sure that as businessmen, it has occurred to you. War is good business. It can provide a vital shot in the arm to a sagging economy. Do we really want to eliminate war?

"Before I answer that question, let me point out another problem. How do we keep in training? If we are successful, if war becomes obsolete, if there is no enemy for us to train for, what is to keep us from becoming fat, lazy, and useless leeches?"

He smiled at the room.

"You in this room have given us an answer to both problems. For the last two years in the C-Block, we have been using your kill-suits in our training. Our main purpose was to provide hard training for our troops, but it had a surprising side product. Military maneuvers in kill-suits have emerged as a spectator sport of astounding popularity. We have developed various categories of competition and regular teams have formed, each with their followers and fans. Apparently, once the populace becomes accustomed to the fact that no real injuries or deaths are incurred, they find it far more enjoyable than movies or television. Certain of our mercenaries have become minor celebrities and occasionally have to be guarded from autograph-seeking fans."

There was a low buzz of conversation going as he continued.

"Now this means that not only does the military industry continue, but that there is an unexpected windfall of a new spectator sport. I am sure I do not have to elaborate for this assemblage the profits latent in proper handling of a spectator sport."

This time he actually got a low ripple of laughter in response to his joke. Even Fred found himself chortling. Don't teach your grandmother to steal sheep, sonny.

"Well, I feel I have used up enough of your time on the proposal. I'd ask that you discuss it among yourselves and with your superiors. We will be back in a week, at which time we will be ready to answer any and all questions you might have. I would like to apologize for the tactic of holding you at gunpoint, but we were not certain what your initial reaction would be to our appearance. I will pay you the compliment of telling you the guns are loaded. We are more than slightly afraid of you. You are dangerous men. Thank you."

He stepped down from the podium and started for the door, gathering his men as he went.

Gutsy bastard! thought Fred, and started to clap. Others picked it up, and by the time the mercenaries reached the door, the applause was thunderous. They paused, waved, and left.

"Sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, Steve, but orders are orders."

"No problem."

"I want to tell you I rate drawing down on you as one of the nerviest things I've done in my life. Oh, I have a contract offer for you from the coalition."

"Kind of hoped you would. Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Hey, thanks. I need one after that."

They walked on in silence for a while. Finally Tidwell broke the reverie.

"Autograph-seeking fans?"

"Hey, wait till it happens to you. It's spooky."

They both laughed.

"Say, tell me, Clancy-what's it like working for the C-Block?"

"Do you want the truth? I couldn't say this back there for fear of being torn apart, but there's no difference. Call it the United Board of Directors or the Party. A fat cat string-puller is a fat cat string-puller, and anyone in a position of power without controls has the same problems. The phrasing is different, but they both say the same thing. Keep the workers happy with an illusion of having some say so they don't tear us out of our cushy pigeonholes. That's what makes our job so easy. People are people. They shy away from violence and stuff their faces with free candy whenever they can. And nobody but nobody acknowledges their base drives like greed. We do, so we have the world by the short and curlys."

Tidwell waved a hand.

"That's too heavy for me. Speaking of base drives, I still want that drink. Where are we going?"

"Aki's found a little Japanese restaurant that serves a good Irish whiskey. The whole crew hangs out there. "'

"You're on. Autograph-seeking fans, huh?"

The two mercenaries walked on, laughing oblivious to the curious and indignant stares directed at them.

Thomas Mausier was extremely busy. Ever since the C-Block's curtain of silence had been lifted, his business had almost tripled. All the questions that had backlogged so long without answers were suddenly live again. His agents were having a field day.

The biggest problem confronting Mausier currently was determining if this was merely a wave that would die back down to normal levels, or if he should expand his operations to handle the new volume. He had already had to add a second shift just to process the items pouring in 'round the clock, and he hadn't had time to pursue his hobby in nearly a month. Not bad for a little business he had started to escape the gray flannel rat race.

At one point he had been worried about his business collapsing in the wake of the new order, but he should have known better. Information doesn't answer questions, it raises new ones. As long as there was money and people at stake, he'd be in business.

The light on the closed circuit television screen on his desk glowed to life, and he keyed it on.

"Yes, Ms. Witley?"

"Two men in the outer office to see you. They say it's important."

As she spoke, she subtly manipulated the controls and the two men appeared in a split-screen effect.

They looked like corporate types, and their visit was uncomfortably close to lunch. Then he remembered his first visit from Hornsby.

"Bring them back."

A few moments later they appeared. Ms. Witley did a quick round of introductions and left. Mausier slyly tripped the videotape recorders as he shook their hands. He'd gotten into the habit of taping all of his private conferences for later review.

"Now then Mr. Stills, Mr. Weaver. Are you buying or selling?"

They looked at him blankly. He felt a spark of annoyance.

"Buying or selling...?"

"Information. I assume that's why you're here. We don't deal in anything else."

"Oh! No! I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea about why we're here. You see, Mr. Weaver and myself are here representing the United Board of Corporations."

Mausier suddenly thought of his gun. It was at home, hanging in the bedroom closet. He hadn't worn it in weeks.

"I don't understand, gentlemen. Is there some kind of complaint..."

"No, no. Quite the contrary." Stills's smile was pleasant and reassuring. "There's a matter we'd like to discuss with you that we feel is of mutual benefit. We were hoping you'd let us buy you lunch and we could talk at leisure."

Mausier didn't return his smile.

"I'm in the habit of working through lunch. One of the disadvantages of working for yourself is that, unlike the corporations, there is such a thing as an indispensable man. In this business it's me. Now if you could state your business, I am rather a busy man."

The two men exchanged glances and shrugged without moving their shoulders.

"Very well. We are authorized by the Board to speak to you about selling out-that is, the corporations are interested in acquiring your business."

Mausier was stunned. For a moment he was unable to speak.

"Frankly, I think the first way you phrased it was more accurate," he blurted out at last.

Weaver smiled, but Stills held up a restraining hand.

"Seriously, I phrased that rather poorly. Let me try again. You see, the Board has been investigating your operation for some time. The more they find, the more impressed they are."

Mausier inclined his head slightly at the compliment.