"And that," F. W. Taylor concluded, chuckling, "is how power passes from one pair of hands to another, and how public acceptance of the change follows on its heels. A strange thing—people always think that each exchange of power is the last that will ever take place."
He seemed to be finished.
"Uncle," Orsino said, "somebody tried to kill me."
Taylor stared at him for a long minute, speechless. "What happened?" he finally asked.
"I went formal to the theater, with five bodyguards. The chief guard, name of Halloran, took a shot at me. One of my boys got in the way. He was killed."
Taylor's fingers began to play a tattoo on his annunciator board. Faces leaped into existence on its various screens as he fired orders. "Charles Orsino's chief bodyguard for tonight—Halloran. Trace him. The works. He tried to kill Orsino."
He clicked off the board switches and turned grimly to Orsino. "Now you," he said. "What have you been up to?"
"Just doing my job, uncle," Orsino said uneasily.
"Still bagman at the 101st?"