He was at home, I figured. Behind him, slightly out of focus, was a nighttime cityscape, viewed from a decent height—like from the penthouse of a downtown skyraker. for example. He was awake and alert, but he looked mentally cooked. When I'd first called him from Cheyenne, he looked to have aged a good decade in four years. Now he'd added another five years to that figure. He leaned back, brushing an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his maroon velvet smoking jacket—a fragging smoking jacket —and he gave me a smile that reminded me of sharks and barracudas.