The Interplanetary Lines building was evidently their destination. The car whisked them up to the penthouse which topped it, and they landed on the terrace.
Seated in beach chairs, an autobar between them, were two men. They were both in their middle years. The impossibly corpulent one, Don Mathers vaguely recognized. From a newscast? From a magazine article? The other could have passed for a video stereotype villain, complete to the built-in sneer. Few men, in actuality, either look like or sound like the conventionalized villain. This was an exception, Don decided.
He scowled at them. "I suppose one of you is the boss," he said.
"That's right," the fat one grunted. He looked at Don's two escorts. "Scotty, you and Rogers take off."
They got back into the car and left.
The vicious-faced one said, "This is Mr. Lawrence Demming. I am his secretary."
Demming puffed, "Sit down, Lieutenant. What'll you have to drink? My secretary's name is Rostoff. Max Rostoff. Now we all know each other's names. That is, assuming you're Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers."
Don said, "Tequila."
Max Rostoff dialed the drink for him and, without being asked, another cordial for his employer.