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collectors’ convention and spend ten or twenty thousand dollars on a few rare tin robots from Japan. Or even better, to toodle along Melrose Avenue in his Hispano-Suiza H6B, made for Andre Dubonnet by the Nieuport Astra Aviation Company from copper-rivetedtulipwood—the only car of its kind in the world—and turn in under the fabulous white gate of the Warner Brothers Studio, which he owned, gate and all.
    He also owned a major television network, several cable channels, a chain of theme parks, and Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus.
    He stood now in the eagle’s right eye and looked out in satisfaction at the entertainment capital of the world, much of which he owned. As the mighty bird turned, he could pick out all the major sites. Over there was Culver City, where MGM once reigned as the big dog of the silver screen. Now its old backlot was full of condominiums. There was CBS Television City. And there, to the west, was the abomination of Century City, and the corpse of 20th Century Fox Studios, now just a depressing collection of uninspired skyscrapers.
    He loved standing there. It made him feel like Batman.
    A bell sounded discreetly.
    “Warburton here, Mr. Christian. I have Professor Wright.”
    “Good. Bring him right up, please.”
    MATTHEW Wright was first out of the elevator. “Oh, wow,” he said, and strode straight for the eagle’s eye, not seeming to see Howard Christian standing there. He looked out over the city, and down the steep side of the tower.
    Christian was somewhat taken aback. No more than a dozen people had ever been in the eagle’s head, other than the maintenance crew. He brought people up to impress them, of course, and it was a measure of the reputation Matt Wright had in the small world of cutting-edge physics that Christian had known immediately that no other place would do for their first meeting. But he had expected to control it, as he always did, and in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he felt he had lost control already, before he could get two sentences out.
    “Oh, boy,” Matt said, shaking his head as he stepped back from the window. “I’m doing it again. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of social graces, Mr. Christian. I’m Matt Wright.” He held out his hand.
    Christian took it, slowly, and allowed his hand to be pumped. Christian saw a man who might be in his late twenties,but whose eyes were considerably older. The dossier Warburton had given him pegged his age at thirty-four. He wore hiking boots and heavy canvas pants, a lumberjack shirt, and, absurdly, a khaki vest with dozens of pockets, festooned with the bright tinsel and feathers of trout lures. Christian himself disdained business clothing almost entirely, preferring cheap jeans and western shirts and outrageously expensive hand-tooled cowboy boots made from all manner of exotic leathers. The last time he could recall wearing formal clothing was three years ago, picking up the Academy Award for Best Picture.
    “I understand you’ve accepted my offer, Professor Wright.”
    “Your man said something about a hundred thousand dollars.”
    “Of course. Will you take a check?”
    “How long would it take to get it in cash?”
    Christian looked at Warburton.
    “Five minutes,” Warburton said, and reached for a telephone.
    “Never mind,” Matt said. “I just never held that much money all at once.”
    “Neither have I, come to think of it,” Christian said.
    “What, you don’t have a money bin someplace where you shove tons of coins around with bulldozers?”
    Christian’s smile became genuine for the first time. “You know Uncle Scrooge McDuck! I’ll have to show you my comics collection sometime.”
    “It would be a pleasure.”
    Warburton was looking at his wristwatch, and he cleared his throat.
    “Ah…yes,” Christian said. “I’m sorry to have ripped you so abruptly from your fishing trip. But I hope to make it up to you with a late lunch at the Polo Lounge. We have a