"You're being too obvious," he informed me indignantly.

"You aren't here to stop fights. You're here to take up the slack while Security protects Nakahatchi sensei's display. You can't do that if you go around calling attention to yourself."

Fortunately I had enough bulk to make the people behind me shift back a bit. Minding my manners was tough enough without getting a crick in my neck at the same time.

"Oh," I said.

"I get it." Axbrewder receiving enlightenment.

"You don't want claims for petty theft. You prefer personal-injury lawsuits." I smiled sweetly.

Minding my manners wasn't one of my best skills.

"Don't be a smart-ass," he snapped.

"Those chops are worth as much as a personal-injury settlement any day."

"Mr. Posten." I made an effort to control myself.

"This place is packed with people who consider themselves stone killers. You'd need a squad of Navy Seals just to get at those chops."

Nakahatchi's antiques simply weren't worth so much trouble.

"What's the danger, exactly?"

"Use your imagination," Posten fired back. He was on a mission.

"The crowd makes perfect cover. Five guys do it together. One picks a fight like the one you were in. A distraction. Two break the glass, get the chops. The others mess with the guards. In the confusion, no one sees who has the chops. Then they're out of the hall, and we don't have a clue who we're hunting for."

He tried to look triumphant, but he lacked the inches to carry it off.

I peered down at him. He was a typical bureaucrat, rendered stupid by paperwork and illusions of authority. Bernie had Security with radios on all the doors, Max at the screens, the cops a phone call away. No wonder my boss called the Security Adviser "Postal." But I didn't waste time explaining the obvious. Instead I nodded like I saw Posten's point.

"Fine," I conceded, just to see how far he'd go.

"Then what? Now the chops are hot. Who's going to fence them? Who handles shit this esoteric?"

Hell, half the people in the country who even knew those chops existed were probably right here.

"I was right," Posten snorted in disgust.

"You aren't paying attention. I should never have let Appelwait hire you. We need a man who takes this seriously.

"They don't need a fence," he informed me indignantly.

"For the right people, having those chops would be like owning a Gutenberg Bible. Just counting Wing Chun schools, there must be fifty that wouldn't care if the chops are hot, as long as they're authentic.

Those schools would put every dime they could scrape together on the table, no questions asked.

"All those five guys need," he concluded, "is access to the IAMA mailing list and a phone."

If I hadn't just spent ten minutes listening to Parker Neill, I probably would've laughed in Posten's face. But "secretive,"

"parochial" groups can get pretty bizarre. Especially when they're racist as well. Just ask the victims of any militia bombing.

To that extent, at least, Posten might be right. Much as I hated to admit it.

Fewer people thrust around us now. Events were about to begin, and the crowd had started to settle. Rasmussen's announcements didn't produce any added confusion. A breath or two from the AC swirled across my face without cheering me up.

I took the opportunity to steer Posten toward the nearest wall. When we were clear of the aisles and the stands, I told him, "I'm paying more attention than you think, Mr. Posten. And I do have some experience. That display is safe for now. It won't be in any real danger until Nakahatchi takes it home with him."

To Essential Shotokan, I pointedly didn't add. To Martial America. A business complex fully insured by Watchdog Insurance.

Posten dropped his head a beat too late to prevent me from seeing the crestfallen look in his eyes.

"That's what Deborah says," he muttered.

"I say you're both naive."

But he didn't hassle me anymore. Ego and worry overwhelmed the poor little snot. He actually neglected to lord it over me. Chewing the inside of his cheek anxiously, he wandered away like he'd forgotten I existed.

"Have a nice day," I murmured after him. He was going to give himself an ulcer if he didn't taste the joys of infarction first.

I knew how he felt.

Worrying myself, I headed for the dais to watch martial artists of every description yell and sweat their way around the rings.

By now half the floor was in use. Brown belts and soft style kata, men and women. Thanks to Neill's patience, I found that I could make out at least some of the differences. Not between men and women, but between hard and soft.

In general, the canvas pajamas did whatever they were doing with a kind of compact efficiency. Whenever they turned or spun, they did it on one spot. Otherwise they moved in straight lines punctuated by direct attacks and hard yells. By comparison, the soft stylists were like their silk, flowing and boastful. They made wide sweeps with their arms and legs, jumped and spun in all directions, crouched and sprang in swirls of bright cloth.

To my eye, the silk katas were useless as actual fighting. They were dances. They showed off grace, speed, and flexibility, but I couldn't imagine them hurting anyone. If I were attacked that way, I'd probably laugh too hard to fight back.

Now I understood the prejudice against soft styles. If the silk outfits hadn't pretended that they were demonstrating a martial art, I would've been more impressed.

Nevertheless I couldn't shake the impression that I was watching the prelude to a disaster.

I didn't think the hall could hold many more people, but they kept coming. A few still trickled past the registration table, but most of them were spectators. By yesterday's standards, the chops attracted a substantial crowd, presumably because the events the audience cared about hadn't started yet. But the cluster around the display wasn't large or unruly enough to tax Security's abilities. Bernie's blazers maintained order with no detectable difficulty.

Sammy Posten was definitely out of his mind.

From her position of prominence at the mike, Sue Rasmussen volleyed glares in my direction at irregular intervals, but she didn't try to chase me off the dais again. At the moment, Ned Gage was out on the floor, sorting refs and competitors for more events. Parker Neill appeared to be chatting with Sifu Hong. Posten had disappeared, at least temporarily.

So far Deborah Messenger hadn't put in an appearance. I didn't have any reason to think she would, but her absence darkened my gloom anyway.

Since she wasn't here, I scanned the hall for Anson Sternway.

Somehow he managed to check his paperwork at the head table, visit Nakahatchi over near the display, talk to other heavyweights around the hall, and supervise registration, all without any apparent movement from place to place. For a while, I entertained myself by trying to keep track of him, but I couldn't do it. Whenever he changed positions, he blended into the crowd so smoothly that I lost sight of him until he stopped somewhere.

It was a hell of a trick. Vaguely I wondered if he did it on purpose.