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briefing more interesting. And I’m being remiss! Naughty me. I haven’t even offered you coffee. Shall I make it up to you?”
    “Sure,” I said, guardedly, because he had a little secret smile on his face. He looped his big arm through mine and waltzed me across the room, straight toward a bare wall. Just as it seemed we were about to smack into it, the wall swung away as silently and swiftly as if it were a curtain instead of plastered mortar. A neat effect, I had to admit. Too bad I was an immortal with an immortal’s senses, because of course I’d heard the mechanisms and counterweights going off when we crossed a certain section of tiled floor; but it was almost as good without the surprise.
    Beyond was his dining room. There was a long banquet table loaded with great-looking food on gold-and-jade service; coffee was steaming, orange juice was freshly squeezed, and peaked napkins were set at three places, one of which was occupied by Latif, who looked bored and impatient. The only problem was, table and chairs appeared to be suspended in midair over a pool, and there were piranhas flitting back and forth in the water.
    Director Houbert stepped back to watch my reaction, his little smile spreading below his little mustache. I felt like punching the guy; I really wanted breakfast.
    Now, Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, whose adventures have kept me company on many a lonely outpost over the centuries, would have said something really snappy here to deflate the big balloon. I’ve never yielded to the temptation to emulate my literary pals, though; immortals can’t afford to make enemies. Especially of other immortals. So I tilted my tricorne back and grinned, the picture of foolish admiration.
    “Boy, what a conundrum! You designed all this yourself, didn’t you?”
    “Surely
you
can solve my puzzle,” he crowed, his little eyes twinkling. “You who’ve served in such fascinating places and epochs. This should be child’s play for you. I’ve read your file, you know. You’re quite a celebrity. Come now, show some of the mental dexterity that saved you from the Pictish headhunters!”
    Jeez, he
had
read my file. If there’s anything more uncomfortable than meeting a fan, I don’t know what it is. Maybe being eaten alive by piranhas. Latif met my eyes and started to open his mouth. “Don’t you dare tell him!” cried Houbert. Latif shrugged and poured himself a cup of coffee. I could just jump across, but I’d land smack in the middle of the cups and saucers and epergnes et cetera, smasho.
    “Well, let’s see.” I scanned the room. The fish were real, all right, and so was the water. I groped in my coat to find something to toss in, and brought out a little ball of wadded-up silver paper. It barely touched the surface before it vanished in a boiling mass of nasty little fish. Okay. No glass panel covering the pool. I scanned again and on impulse switched to infrared this time. Bingo!
    No solid sheet of glass, but a kind of transparent ferro-ceramic path to the table, no more than a half meter wide and set just a fraction of a centimeter below the surface of the water. Step off a centimeter to either side and breakfast would be on me, if Iwere a mortal. Thanks to the highly visible temperature differential between the transparency and the water on infrared, though, I ran no risk of feeding the fish. Boldly I stepped out on the unseen path and marched across it to the table, kicking out of my way a couple of overeager piranhas who jumped at my shoes.
    “Oh, well done!” Houbert applauded. “Splendid!” He came bouncing after me, and I could see Latif watching him, wondering whether he’d slip, but Houbert got safely to his chair and rang a tiny golden bell. I tensed for more theatrics: he was only summoning a trio of Mayans, who prostrated themselves on the threshold of the room. “You may serve now,” he told them.
    The poor bastards couldn’t see the path like I could, but they must have known it