“Such as what?”
“That’s your problem,” Narcissus said. “Get a false beard. I’ve done my share.”
Gallegher said, “All right, make a lot of black coffee. Any other calls?”
“One from Washington. A commander in the space police unit. He didn’t give his name.”
“Space police! Are they after me, too? What did he want?”
“You,” the robot said. “Good-by. You interrupted a lovely song I was singing to myself.”
“Make that coffee,” Gallegher ordered as the image faded. He stepped out of the booth and stood for a moment, considering, while he stared blankly at the towers of Manhattan rising around him, with their irregular patterns of lighted windows, square, oval, circular, crescent, or star-shaped.
A call from Washington.
Hopper cracking down.
Max Cuff and his thugs.