"Driving or flying?"
"The weather prognosis is zero-zero. I'll drive."
"Good," said Mac.
Paul Asher woke up late. He had a confused recollection of a dream. Something about a beautiful brunette giving him a backrub.
A look at the chrono sent the dream out of his head and he hurried through shaving and dressing.
His car was waiting for him, engine idling, at the curb. He got in, tossing his briefcase and topcoat ahead of him to the far side of the front seat. His back began to itch, insistently, and he rubbed it against the leather upholstery.
Paul adjusted the safety belt around him, and fastened it. Might as well do it now, instead of having to fool around with it later. Damn that itch, anyway! It was as if something were stuck to his skin—like a sticking plaster....
The high-powered vehicle purred smoothly as it took a long, rising curve. The road climbed steadily toward the mountaintop city ahead.
The scene was familiar.