He shrugs, and his jowls wobble. Darwin’s Bastards are screaming something about being a rock and not rolling, and the accompaniment sounds like a car being disassembled by an autocannon. The wire informs me that, yes, I could blow the ChipMan off his belt—probably—without doing more than lacerating the rolls of fat he calls a waist. Tempting idea, but maybe I’ll save it for a later date. "Ranger wanted me to deliver the invitation in person," he says. He looks at the watch on a sausage-sized finger. "You’re gonna be late." And then he grins, like that’s been the idea all along.