"But if I have to call from the men's room, you can't hold me responsible for the background noise."

Glaring, Bernie stifled a grin.

"Just don't puke on the air. Max has a sensitive stomach.

"Come on." He pointed me at the door.

"Sternway wants to meet you. Since he's paying half your wages, he'd like to know what he's getting."

I didn't waste any more time on jokes. They were for my benefit anyway, not Bernie's an attempt to defuse my anxieties. I'd lost something a hell of a lot more critical than a hand. I hardly knew who I was anymore.

If Ginny were here, I could've done this job in my sleep.

Nevertheless I wanted to do it right. As soon as Bernie joined me in the hall, I asked, "Who's delivering these 'artifacts'?"

"They belong to a local karate school, Essential Shotokan," he explained as we walked.

"Or to their 'sensei," a gook named Na-kahatchi. That's something I don't even try to understand. Na-kahatchi's a Jap, but the display is supposed to be Chinese. Has something to do with martial arts history." He grunted under his breath.

"Essential Shotokan is responsible for it until it gets here. They'll probably have a damn parade when they deliver it."

We strode briskly across the crowded lobby.

"The problems you've had at past tournaments," I asked while I had the chance, "were they random, or did they look organized?"

He stung me with another glare. That may've been his way of smiling.

"Stop trying to impress me. If I knew the answer, I would've mentioned it already. Hell, if I knew somebody was running a team through here, I would've pulled in the cops.

"But I've always suspected " Abruptly he paused, turned a frown on the ceiling.

"If you want to know my personal reason for letting Watchdog pressure me into hiring you, that's it." Then he jerked into motion again.

"Maybe I'm getting paranoid. The punks we've caught in the past act like kids looking for thrills."

Which meant nothing. A decent team wouldn't have much trouble avoiding guards as obvious as hotel security.

In the direction of the tournament, the crowd thickened. Competitors and spectators wanted into the hall. Bernie had to slow down, pick his way. I followed as unobtrusively as I could, and after a bit of squirm ins I reached the nearest doors a couple of steps behind him. He held a door open for me, then let it close when I was inside.

"Don't worry," he muttered, although I hadn't said anything.

"Your cover's safe. The gooks'll think you're one of the dignitaries."

Nodding, I took a quick moment to look around. Since my previous visit, someone had hung a huge satin banner above the long table at the head of the hall. Orange letters on a black background said simply:

International Association of Martial Artists.

By the door, a large poster listed the day's events and starting times.

Some of the terms were obvious "masters,"

"junior division,"

"black belt." Others kata, kumite, katame, kobudo didn't convey a thing.

Arrayed in front of the head table were maybe a hundred trophies, ranked by size. A hundred, for God's sake. That was way too much self-congratulation to suit me. They all sported a black wooden frame like a formal oriental arch on a pedestal, with a gold figure under the arch doing an impossible kick. The small ones looked to be about two feet tall. The big ones, eight or ten of them, were practically my height.

At the back of the hall a registration table had been set up, but at the moment no one attended it.

The air felt almost frigid. The Luxury had cranked up the air-conditioning so that the hall wouldn't get too warm later.

At least twenty people had gathered ahead of us, clustered in front of the head table two guards, ten or so men and women in business suits, plus nearly that many more, all men, wearing formal versions of the martial uniforms I'd seen in the lobby. Now I understood why Bernie called them "gooks in pajamas." Less than half of them were Asian, but they all could've been dressed for bed. Some of the outfits were bright silk pants and shirts with wooden buttons. The rest were wrap-around white canvas. However, the wraparounds wore black belts that had been knotted and re-knotted until they'd started to fray white. The silk suits had bright sashes in contrasting colors.

Privately I inclined toward sneering at them. These people had dedicated themselves to something that didn't seem real. What the hell was a "martial art" anyway? If they considered violence an art, they were all crazy. And if they'd turned it into a sport, it was just a game. Sports followed rules. Violence didn't.

Roughly half the business suits sported lightweight audio headsets.

Presumably they'd supervise the tournament. As Bernie led me closer, I saw that most of the suits and a majority of the canvas wraparounds wore identifying patches, either over their hearts or on their left shoulders. The patches had the yin-yang symbol picked out in orange on black, with the letters IAMA below it. I guess the silk pajamas didn't want needle holes in the fabric.

One of the suits appeared to be holding court for his assembled vassals. He was Marshal's height, but leaner, and maybe ten years older, judging by the lines of authority on his face and the distinguished mix of grey in his black hair. He seemed perfectly relaxed he didn't even use his hands while he talked. But something about his carriage reminded me of C-4, passive and malleable until you stuck in a detonator. His pale eyes moved constantly, but without urgency, as if he searched for something that he didn't need to find in a hurry.

Once I'd noticed his resemblance to an explosive, I caught hints of the same thing around him. A fair number of the suits and pajamas stood with a kind of concussive ease, as if behind their calm they were already in motion. Apparently my preconceptions needed adjustment.

Joke or not, these men and women took the martial arts seriously enough to spend years training.

Outside this hall, in the world I understood, no one except a predator stood like that.

Despite the arctic conditions, a trickle of sweat slid down the small of my back. Explosives made me nervous. Filling my lungs, I took another crack at relaxation.

The man holding court acknowledged Bernie with a nod as we approached.

"Mr. Appelwait. Glad you could join us. We're ready. As soon as Nakahatchi sensei arrives, we can get started."

His voice was flat, studiously devoid of inflection, implying nothing.

But the angle of his gaze suggested scorn.

Bernie cleared his throat.

"We're ready, too, Mr. Sternway." Making an effort to be polite in his own way. Then he added, "You wanted to meet the private investigator I hired."

"Yes, certainly," Sternway responded.

"We should all meet him. We want to avoid confusion if any problems develop."

He'd hardly said six sentences, but already his lack of expression bothered me. I wanted to poke him in the ribs, just to get a reaction.

I didn't like the sensation that he sneered at me simply because I couldn't stand the way he did.

"Good idea." Brusquely, Bernie introduced me.

Sternway and I shook hands. His grip was firm and dry and oddly threatening, like a fist full of blasting caps. The easy balanced way he reached out and then withdrew made me feel like I'd been put together out of Tinker Toys.

Bernie's voice sharpened sardonically as he went on, "This is Mr.