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want you to locate Corvan and find out what Neely gave him. If you decide the situation is dangerous, neutralize the threat. You'll have the WPO and all of our law-enforcement agencies at your disposal. Do what needs to be done."
    Dietrich stood, nodded formally, and left through the side door. He took care to close the door gently behind him.
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    Corvan walked out of the terminal's artificial chill and into the roof's blistering heat. Warm air rose in waves that made things shimmer and dance. The Royal Saudi Tower could handle six choppers at a time. A big twin-rotor job took off and showered him with a million pieces of microscopic grit.
    Corvan swore, ducked his head to protect his eye-cam's lens, and headed for a two-place helicopter. It was little more than an airframe with an engine, but would still cost him a small fortune. What with aviation fuel running $225 a gallon, most kinds of transportation were damned expensive. But what the hell, News Network 56 could afford it, and whether they knew it or not, Corvan was still on the job.
    The pilot stepped out of the small patch of shade provided by her aircraft and held out a hand for his bag.
    Like most journalists, Corvan thought nothing of climbing into pieces of complicated machinery which he knew very little about and entrusting his life to perfect strangers. Most turned out okay. Still, there were horror stories as well, and you never knew for sure until it was too late.
    Out of self-defense Corvan had developed his own profile, a quick checklist he used to sort the flying fruitcakes from the professional pilots, and thereby extend his life expectancy.
    This one was middle-aged, trim, but going gray. The leather on her dark brown goatskin jacket still looked new where gold eagles had perched, but the rest was fading to gray. And most significant of all, he saw no sign of the temple plug which would allow her to fly by wire.
    A pro then, a regular who was too old to justify the expense of an implant, who had been "released" during a round of "military consolidation." Those were the terms the suits used to describe the process by which national military forces got smaller and the World Peace Organization got larger.
    The pilot closed the luggage compartment and climbed into the left-hand seat. Corvan took his place to her right. As he pulled the door closed, the air conditioning cut in and delivered a blast of cold air into Corvan's face. It felt good and he made no attempt to turn it down.
    "Where to?" The pilot asked the question in the flat, emotionless way of someone who's heard all of the possible answers and simply doesn't care anymore.
    "The Nakasaki Business Complex, please."
    Like the Royal Saudi Tower, the Nakasaki Business Complex was an example of the burgeoning global economy, which, along with almost universal access to satellite television, was giving birth to a homogenized world.
    Given the fact that almost every citizen was economically linked to thousands or even millions of other citizens all over the world through a complex web of interlocked economies, and given the fact that they all had access to the same TV programs, it wasn't hard to see why cultural and religious differences were starting to fade away.
    Some feared the change, suggesting that the human race was turning into a boring porridge of bland automatons. Others welcomed it, pointing out that the more people resemble each other, the less they fight, and holding up the WPO as a shining example of cooperation between nations.
    Corvan wasn't so sure, not if it meant losing the Frank Neelys of the world, and not if it meant the losing his freedom of speech, because as people grow increasingly similar, they also become less tolerant of differing opinions.
    Conscious that his eye cam sometimes bothered people, Corvan gave the pilot what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
    She nodded in return but remained silent. People were like that now, less open, less friendly