"'A louse,'" Nolan quoted, "'enthroned in luxury, will still a loathsome insect be.' That's Woller."
Petersen's wizened little troll-face gaped at him. "Lice bite," he said succinctly.
Nolan said soberly, "Live ones do. After tonight Woller may not be able to bite anybody. Dead lice have no friends."
II
Steve Nolan was deceptively slender in his open-necked, black military shirt and trim khaki slacks. In the half-hearted illumination thrown by Avalon's old gasglow lights, he looked almost boyish.
But he didn't look like the pale youth he'd been three years before. The good-natured roundness of his face had contracted to show the hard bone underneath. There was the ghost of a scar close to an eye, and the seared mark of a pyro burn where neck joined his right shoulder. The long fingers that once had twirled the toggles of a field newscaster's walky-talky now were better acquainted with the groves of a pyro butt.
"For the last time," he said, "you're better off home in bed. I think there may be trouble."
Petersen looked sour. "Good thinking," he said. "I have a hunch that way, too. I'm going to stick around."
Nolan shrugged. He eyed the Hotel Elena, towering almost up to the crystal dome, directly across the street from him. "It's your neck," he said. "You can catch me when I fly out." He glanced quickly at a wrist-chrono. "A quarter after four," he said. "If I'm not out in half an hour don't wait up. I may be detained."