"Certainly, Mr. Axbrewder." She turned to her console.

"May I say what this concerns?"

I tried to smile, but only managed a spasm.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"As you wish," she replied immaculately. The merest hint of a frown warned me that I was out of line.

"I'm sure you understand that Mr. Viviter is quite busy. We usually insist on appointments. Otherwise his schedule becomes impossible.

"If you'd like to take a seat ?" She nodded toward the chairs, promising me nothing.

I didn't move. Whether or not what I wanted made sense, I wasn't any good at backing down. And I've never been gracious about it when I feel intimidated.

"And I'm sure you understand, Ms. Amity, I wouldn't do this if I didn't consider it important. I'm not rude by nature." Then I shrugged.

"Well, maybe I am. But I'm also housebroken. I would've made an appointment if I could afford to do things that way."

Unpersuaded, she faced me steadily and waited for me to say something reasonable.

Floundering inside and determined not to show it I said, "If Mr.

Viviter wants to know why I'm here, ask him why he spent the money to make it easy for you to do this job. That isn't something you see every day," despite the Americans with Disabilities Act.

"Not in places like this, where the decor is sacred enough to worship."

Apparently this episode of "Adventures in Charm, with Mick Axbrewder,"

was just like all the others. Sometimes even I wondered why I didn't change the channel.

"Mr. Axbrewder." For all the mark I made on her, Beatrix

Amity might as well have been cast in teflon.

"I don't need to ask him. I already know the answer. Now if you'll please be seated?"

I got the message. She wasn't going to touch her intercom until I parked my ass somewhere else.

Suddenly, however, I didn't mind. For no particularly obvious reason, I found that I believed she played fair. Another intuitive leap.

Despite my manners, she'd make an honest effort to get Marshal Viviter's attention for me.

Maybe Professional Investigations took the pain business seriously after all. Why else would Beatrix Amity work here, when she could've spent her time complaining about an employer who treated her wheelchair like a hindrance?

Since I'd claimed to be housebroken, I retreated to one of the love seats and lowered my aches into its embrace. From there, I watched her work her intercom. But some trick of the soundproofing prevented me from hearing what she said.

I couldn't relax anyway, so the absence of magazines didn't bother me.

I guess they weren't necessary. Viviter's clients weren't people who waited around much. Within five minutes after I sat down, the other people in the lobby had been escorted to privacy through doors behind Ms. Amity. Their guides looked more like stockbrokers than rented snoops. But one of them walked with the kind of jerk you get when you're wearing an artificial leg.

Apparently hiring the handicapped was fashionable this year. Maybe I'd get lucky.

While I waited, I tried to believe that Viviter would actually see me.

But I couldn't carry it off.

Nevertheless I knew who he was as soon as one of the inner doors let him into the lobby. He had to be Ginny's Marshal Viviter for the plain and simple reason that I hated him on sight. He was everything I wasn't fit, affable, good-looking as sin, and so sure of himself that you could've used his radiance to toast bread.

He stood maybe three inches shorter than me, a couple taller than Ginny, but he obviously kept himself in a whole lot better shape. Every ounce he carried must've been muscle of one kind or another. And he knew how to dress. His tailored suit was busiformal, and expensive enough to suggest that he was good at his job without implying that he got paid more than he deserved. He wore his hair tousled, which gave his charm a boyish tinge. His eyes were so clear you'd think he polished them on the hour, and he smiled easily without seeming soft or diffident. When I thought back, I realized that I'd seen a picture of his chin in the dictionary under "rectitude."

Where I came from, no one looked that good unless they were too dirty to live. Ordinary innocence not to mention honesty had more flaws.

He grinned at Beatrix Amity, then looked straight at me.

"Mr. Axbrewder?" A couple of steps brought him close enough to stick out his hand.

"I'm Marshal Viviter. You wanted to see me?"

Graceful as a wounded bull, I heaved myself upright. Hoping to score a couple of points, I took his hand and squeezed. But his grip was strong and dry, and I suddenly had so much sweat on my palm that I might as well have shaken his hand with a used dishrag.

No question about it, my whole life would've been simpler if I'd ever learned how to turn and run.

Gritting my teeth, I managed to croak out, "Thanks for making time."

"No problem. I had a cancellation." He said that so smoothly it must've been a lie.

"Come on back to my office. We can talk there."

I'd expected him to say, I'm glad to meet any friend of Ginny's. Maybe he planned to mention it later.

A touch on my arm steered me in the right direction, just in case I was having second thoughts. I wanted to hack his hand off, maybe break his wrist on general principles, but he removed it almost immediately.

Among his other virtues, he was too professional to touch his clients unnecessarily.

Beyond the door, halls seemed to run here and there for no particular reason. Presumably they accommodated offices, file storage, rooms for conferences or interrogations, maybe even a law library. But none of the walls or doors had any windows. Professional Investigations kept everything it did private at least as far as the paying customers were concerned. If Ginny was in the building, I could work there for a week without laying eyes on her.

I couldn't tell the difference when we reached Viviter's office.

If I'd been here on my own, I wouldn't have found it without divination. He seemed to pick a door at random and open it for me. But as soon as I walked in, I knew this was his office, the real thing, not some convenient impersonal substitute.

For one thing, it had enough space for volleyball practice so much space, in fact, that a sculpted rosewood desk which could've slept three fit in perfectly. And for another, it featured one entire glass wall, giving anyone who wanted it an expansive view of the canyons between the skyscrapers. Venetian blinds managed the sunlight without defusing the impression that if you got too close you'd fall out. Dark wooden bookcases with glass fronts softened the other walls. Heavy frames held the full spectrum of diplomas, certificates, and licenses.

But that window dominated the room.

Viviter must've chosen his office to remind his clients that they stood on the edge of an abyss. Ergo they needed him.

"Have a seat." He gestured at a selection of armchairs while he crossed behind his desk and sat down in one of those executive chairs that looked like it floated on air and gave massages while taking dictation. When I didn't join him, he added, "Please?"

I needed the reminder because the window kept tugging at my attention.

With an effort, I picked a chair facing away from the glass and eased myself into it.

I assumed that he'd noticed the pain I carried around, but if he did his clear gaze didn't give off any hints.

"Now, Mr. Ax-brewder," he began, "what can I ?"