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He wanted to chase her away—and to pull her close to him. But she glanced up and laughed. “You look so perplexed and silly. Professor Lorms called me, and of course I knew what you’d do.”

“Do you think,” said Grant, “that I should, Bee? Is it right?”

“Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until—well, they have to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, Grant! I know you’re wrong, but you’re right, too, and inside I’m so glad!”

He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with reassurance. They went up together to Slag’s suite. Teagle was at the door. “Glad to see you, Mahomet,” he said to Grant. “The contract’s all ready to sign. I guess you’ll want your cut for charity, eh?”

“You won’t, I suppose.”

“Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss.” He smirked at Bee. “I ask you, who’s going to match us after we knock this one off?”

Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the glass beside him. “Practicing,” he said. “Getting into shape for our tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across.”