Even overspeed, her voice was the perfectly modulated velvet of a trained professional. (I wondered momentarily if she still had her trid show on Seattle's KCPS?) I blotted out the words she was speaking—not difficult; the message wasn't anything but a verbal postcard, "long time, how's it rolling," that sort of thing—and I concentrated on that voice. I remembered the first time I'd met her those four years ago, wound up as tight as the string of a compound bow in her tailored smoke gray leathers, a tall and slender figure with a pistol aimed steadily between my eyes ...