#lowen

Loup Roger calls in every favor. He hangs on doggedly, leaning on any shred of advantage, ancient, modern or invented, until it splits, then tells lies, hissing like a striped adder, to wring anything worth having out of old contacts. He spent his career gathering the scraps. Time, now, to light a few matches.

"This is it," they say. "Finished and quit of you henceforth."

Quite possibly. But imagine Roger's position. The long, steep slide ahead. Oh, yes, you'd be snatching madly at gnarled scrub and root on your way past, too.

Why give up? Why? Just because you're beat?

"It's going to take more," Malkin says, "and a little extra on top to pry Roger out." He moves around the table, favoring his leg, trying not to spill the coffee he carries cradled in both hands.

"People will come around."

"Certainly they will. It's happening already, but it takes time. Nobody breaks until they have an idea of the cover they're scrambling toward. So, let's decide what we're offering them after they jump." He sits and produces a pencil and square sheaf of paper. "Is it a nice, soft spot to land or a broken neck in the ravine?"