“That’s it; did you go there?” There was an odd, eager look in her eyes.
Mike shook his head. “Nope. But a friend of mine did. Ever know a guy named Paulvitch?”
She squealed with delight, as though she’d been playfully pinched. “Sir Gay? You mean Serge Paulvitch, the Fiend of Florence?” She pronounced the name properly: “Sair-gay,” instead of “surge,” as too many people were prone to do.
“Sounds like the same man,” Mike admitted, grinning. “As evil-looking as Satanas himself?”
“That’s Sir Gay, all right. Half the girls were scared of him, and I think all the boys were. He’s about three years older than I am, I guess.”
“Why call him Sir Gay?” Mike asked. “Just because of his name?”
“Partly. And partly because he was always such a gentleman. A real nice guy, if you know what I mean. Do you know him well?”
“Know him? Hell, I couldn’t run my business without him.”
“Your business?” She blinked. “But he works for—” Then her eyes became very wide, her mouth opened, and she pointed an index finger at Mike. “Then you ... you’re Mike the Angel! M. R. Gabriel! Sure!” She started laughing. “I never connected it up! My golly, my golly! I thought you were just another Space Service commander! Mike the Angel! Well, I’ll be darned!”
She caught her breath. “I’m sorry. I was just so surprised, that’s all. Are you really the M. R. Gabriel, of M. R. Gabriel, Power Design?”