"Won't Wainwright be here? Ask him."
"Don't know if he will or not."
One of the younger gunmen had circled around behind McLeod. The other one stood facing him, pointing the parabeam at his chest. The older man seemed to be enjoying himself.
"I don't want Spurgess killed," McLeod said. "That's the truth. I came here to prevent it myself."
"Can you tell me why?"
"No—yes. Because I want to accept Wainwright's proposition. The World said I was going to die. Wainwright offered me life."
"We know that you're going to die."
McLeod sucked in his breath. This same wholesome trio had probably received the application for his own death, had probably studied his habit file. "Not before next week," McLeod said.
"Now, I don't know. It's a gift horse, guy. They won't hold up our checks for a couple of hours either way."
"No, but you'll spend the rest of your life as a gunman if you cross Wainwright."