"Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr. Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how can I put it in writing?"
Smith smiled. "I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly legal. My name is John X. Smith—now."
"That's where you're wrong," said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon entered. "Your name is Alaric Arkalion III—now."
The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with the casual expertness that comes with experience.
"Have to shorten the cheek bones."
"For ten million dollars," said Smith, "you can take the damned things out altogether and hang them on your wall."
ophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed her ersatz cigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.
"What do you want?" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.