"Then I die," the Amerindian answered simply. "The decision’s made, why torture myself about roads I didn’t take?" He looked up at the clouds reflecting the lights of the city. From the runner’s expression, Falcon might almost have thought Nightwalker was looking through the clouds, at the stars. "Tonight is a fine time to die." At twenty-two thirty hours, the downtown core was humming. The suits and the beautiful people were out to see and be seen, eating and drinking, catching a show, cruising the clubs. The energy was high; the night almost buzzed with it.