That only made her cry harder, but between sobs she got it out. "He won't die the first time," she said sniffling. "But the next attack will kill him."
"Soon after the first?"
She nodded. "A couple days," she said. "I wish you hadn't made me tell it."
"Good thing I did," I growled. "You're as nutty as a fruitcake. Maragon won't die. I've got it on good authority."
"I'm right!" she insisted.
I took it to Maragon the next morning. The city was shrouded in a low layer of cloud, and his glassed-in penthouse office was gloomy with the morning. He motioned me to sit down. I dragged one of his Bank of England chairs through the ankle-deep pile of his rug and set it down next to his big desk.
"I have a progress report on Pheola, Pete," I told him.
"That skinny one you brought back from Nevada, Lefty?"
I nodded. "She's not quite so skinny, thanks to my expense account," I said. "And she's ready to qualify."