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By Tom Clancy, Diane Duane, Steve R. Pieczenik

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If someone should suspect—” “Suspicion we can live with,” said Darjan, pushing the martini glass away from him in disgust. ” Darjan looked up from under those thick dark brows at Heming. “What the hell are those people doing playing at this level? They’re a local team, for God’s sake. ” “They’re good,” said Heming, rather helplessly. “They’re too good,” Darjan said, frowning. “And some-thing’s gonna be done about it, one way or another. Too much rides on things going the way they were planned to go at the beginning of the season.

The light lay long and low and golden over the pedestrianized street outside, as people strolled up and down it with shopping bags and small children in tow. Something came between the afternoon light pouring through the windows and the man sitting by the fountain, blocking away the golden glint of the afternoon light on the martini glass. The man in the ultrablack single-all looked up and squinted slightly at the second man standing there. The newcomer sat down casually enough in the other chair.

Catie said as she climbed. “Good evening, Catie,” said her workspace in a cultured male voice. ” “Nothing? ” That was mildly unusual. ” “Not if you wanted to keep your job,” Catie said, while knowing perfectly well that her workspace management program was about as likely to lie to her as her brother was to unload the dishwasher without being reminded. “I live in fear of firing,” the management program said, dry-voiced. Catie raised an eyebrow. She had asked one of her Net Force buddies to tinker with the program’s responsiveness modes some weeks back, and very slowly since then she had started to notice that it was developing what appeared to be a distinct strain of sarcasm.

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