"Rez," Blackwell said. "He says he's going to marry this Jap twist doesn't fucking exist! And he knows she doesn't, and says we've no fucking imagination! Now hear me," and Blackwell produced, from some unspecific region of his clothing, a mirror-polished rectangle with a round hole through its uppermost, leading corner. Something not much larger than a cashcard, to see it in his big hand. "Someone's got to our boy, hear? Got to him. Don't know how, don't know who. Though personally myself I'd bet on the fucking Kombinat. Those Russ bastards. But you, my friend, you're going to do your nodal thing for us, on our Rez, and you are going to find fucking out. Who ." And the rectangle came down with a concise little thunk, to be left standing, crosswise to the counter's grain, and Laney saw that it was a very small meat cleaver, with round steel rivets through its tidy rosewood handle.