WELCOME IAMA.

World Championships.

Oh, well. Abandoning the Subaru in a parking lot that could've landed jumbo jets, I crouched behind my sunglasses until I reached the hotel lobby. Then I started to familiarize myself with the place.

For Carner, The Luxury was pretty generic. I didn't have any trouble locating the convention facilities, which took up at least the first four floors. They may not have been the best facilities in town, but they offered enough space to hold Billy Graham's latest "crusade" plus the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir. A reduced version of the hotel marquee told me I was in the right place. It said:

IAMA World Championships 9 A.M. to 9 P.M. Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

Smaller print mentioned guests I'd never heard of Bill "Super-foot"

Wallace, Benny "the Jet" Urquidez, Fumio Demura.

I had less than two hours left, so I got serious.

For a start, I studied the hall itself, which turned out to be a rectangular cavern the size of a tennis stadium, with a high sound-baffled ceiling and the moral equivalent of Astroturf for carpet.

Lines of tape on the floor marked out twelve squares in two long rows presumably the competition rings. At one corner of each square, a tall pole raised the ring's number so everyone could see it. Exactly five folding chairs had been placed along one side of each square, with two more on the left. More tape indicated aisles between the rings.

Outside the rows, chairs on adjustable tiers rose like bleachers toward the distant walls.

At one end of the hall, a dais with a clear view of the rings held a row of trestle-tables draped with green cloth. The tables sported a couple of microphones. On both sides of the dais, large sections of the floor had been roped off like staging areas. Maybe Sternway's "antique martial arts artifacts" would be displayed in one of them.

What the other was for I couldn't imagine.

Already I had to adjust my preconceptions. Until I looked around the hall, I hadn't realized that I'd expected something less elaborate. I'd known vaguely that karate was a growing sport. But if I'd risked a guess at the size of the lAMA's championships, I would've said forty competitors, max, with maybe twice that many spectators. Obviously this tournament had other ideas.

When I was confident that I knew the layout well enough to cope with hundreds of people blocking my view, I located all the fire-alarm boxes, phone jacks, and security cameras in the vicinity. Then I turned my attention to the hall's access points.

There were six, three sets of double doors spaced out along each of the longer walls roughly opposite each other. On one side, of course, they opened toward the hotel's lobby, restaurant, and bar. On the other, service corridors led to the kitchens, offices, storerooms, and laundries which handled conventions. This was the part of the hotel I worried about. If trouble wanted to sneak in or out, it would probably go through here.

So I spent the rest of my available time wandering those corridors, paying particular attention to the ones that ended in exits. They were all windowless and blind apart from the occasional security camera.

Once I got used to them, however, the pattern seemed simple enough.

Several times I encountered people who worked there. But they left me alone after I told them that I had a 1:00 P.M. appointment with their Chief of Security, and I was getting acquainted with the hotel so I'd be ready to talk to him.

With fifteen minutes to spare, I went back to the lobby and asked the bell captain for directions to my appointment. Five minutes after that, I found myself in an office midway down a long hall which left the lobby from one end of the Reception desk.

Like the rest of The Luxury, the Chief of Security's office was essentially generic, decorated in Mid-Level Functionary, with a painfully artificial fern potted in one corner, a couple of modest desks, and a large marker-board calendar scrawled black with employee schedules and convention dates. The man who held my future in his hands was named Bernie Appelwait, and he wasn't glad to see me.

He was a short unshaded cartoon-sketch of a man, with the kind of pallor that made you want to slap some color back into his cheeks. A swirl of white hair, watery eyes, swollen knuckles, and a larynx like a goiter made it obvious that he was getting on in years, and age hadn't been kind to him. In fact, it'd made him downright bitter or so my instincts told me. Whenever he opened or closed his mouth, he did it vehemently, like trying to snap flies out of the air. The rest of the time, he moved and talked like a worn-out wasp, whining with threats he didn't have the energy to carry out.

When I offered him my hand, he ignored it. His glare conveyed the impression that I'd just proposed to rape his mother's cadaver.

Oh, well. Viviter had asked me to be more polite. Taking a crack at good manners, I dropped my hand and remarked mildly, "My name's Axbrewder. We have an appointment."

I didn't need to ask who he was. A silver badge on his navy blazer and a plaque on his desk both identified him.

His mouth snapped.

"I wondered when you'd bother to get here."

I made a production out of checking my watch and looking innocent.

"Am I late?"

He snorted.

"You've been here so long we could've wrapped this up an hour ago. I would've come to get you, but I wanted to see how much snooping you'd do on your own."

On the inside, where he couldn't see it, I gave him a bow. Maybe he wasn't nice about it, but he knew his job. Security cameras and employee reports had enabled him to keep track of me.

"Mr. Appelwait," I explained more sharply, "I want the job. The way I figure it, I won't be much use to you if I can't find my way around the hotel. So I came early to look at the layout."

If he appreciated my diligence, he didn't show it.

"So you can get out fast."

I blinked.

"Why do I want to get out fast?"

"After you snatch those 'artifacts' everyone's so fastidious about, you'll try to leave before we can catch you."

"After I ?" For a prospective employer, he had a hell of an attitude.

Just for a second, I considered turning my back on the whole thing.

Forgetting all about Marshal and his help. Before I said something I might regret. But I swallowed the impulse. Instead I stared at him.

"You aren't serious."

He went on glaring.

"Doesn't matter whether I am or not. Watchdog Insurance is." He snorted again.

"They're afraid I'll hire some crook who just wants to rip them off.

Like I wouldn't know a hard luck rent-a-cop when I see one. Besides, I bet you can't tell the difference between antique Chinese ivory and plastic flatware. You're lucky they condescended to let me make this decision. If they were here, they'd tell you to stand on your head so they could interview your crotch."

Finally I got the message. He didn't have a problem with me. His grievances faced in other directions. He thought he deserved more respect than Watchdog gave him.

I could live with that.

"This is just my opinion," I ventured, "but I think you've been insulted."

"It wasn't an insult," he retorted.

"It was a fucking affront." His teeth tore off chunks of air and chewed them out again.

"Little insurance twerp who still eats Pablum for breakfast thinks he can tell me how to do my job.

"Call me Bernie.

"Mr. Appelwait' takes too long."