So much for passwords. The only door leads to a circular stairway that circles down to the floor of a big room like a natural cavern, but decorated in penthouse style, or something like that. The walls are rough-hewn stone, except for the one covered by the three-meter-wide trideo screen. The carpet looks like velvet. Soft as a pillow. Built into the corner of the room is a circular table and a curving bench seat like a booth in a restaurant. Standing next to the booth is another Trollhammer slag. Now delivering a drink to the booth is some skinny Asian biff in a smoky black bodysuit and stilt-heeled shoes. At the rear of the booth sits a dwarf in a multichrome reflective suit and matching shades, white buzzcut hair, and a matching razorslash beard. His name is Flint. He sits there stroking a rockworm, which is like a snake, but with a mouth full of grinding teeth and horny plates, not to mention corrosive spit.