"What could it be," she mused, "that's worth being shot for?" Her voice was like the rest of her: smooth, polished and relaxed—and with plenty of moxie held in reserve. She smiled casually, drew on her cigarette, tapped ashes onto the rug.
"Something bothering you, Colonel?" she inquired. "You don't seem talkative."
"I'll do my talking when the Baron arrives," I said.
"In that case, Jackson," said a husky voice behind me, "you can start any time you like."
I held my hands clear of my body and turned around slowly—just in case there was a nervous gun aimed at my spine. The Baron was standing near the door, unarmed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt.
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
The Baron waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Jackson," he said, almost gently. "You've had a tough time of it—but you're all right now." He walked past me to the bar, poured out two glasses, turned and offered me one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I went over and took the drink.
"To the old days." The Baron raised his glass.
I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. "I asked you how you knew my name," I said.