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256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1977
"Some years ago a psychiatrist had told me that finding out things other people didn't want known was my way of trying to stay even with a society filled with people bigger than I was. The remark was meant to startle, to provoke insight, and eventually to alter my behavior.
Instead, I'd simply found that I thoroughly agreed with him, and had gone out after a private investigator's license."
"Lippit rose, put his hands in his pockets, and walked to the window. He didn't turn around when he spoke. 'We've prepared a psychological profile on you, Dr. Frederickson. It's sketchy because of the limited time we've had, but it's fascinating nonetheless. Your karate, your Ph. D., your obvious need to achieve. You're agressive, Occasionally hostile, but I suppose that's understandable. You have the mind of a giant trapped in a dwarf's body. A pity.' "
"His voice had dropped a half octave, the whisper of silk across a knife blade."
"Rafferty had, in effect, died twice. About five years earlier, he'd been involved in an automobile accident that had killed all the occupants of the other car. It had taken three firemen half a day to pry Rafferty out of the crushed-metal puzzlework. He'd been pronounced dead at the scene, but someone had detected a sign of life just as they were about to plastic-bag him. They rushed him off to a hospital and he survived, thanks to what were modestly referred to as a series of medical miracles and a steel plate to replace the portion of his skull that had been pulverized.
The effort had been largely wasted. Five or six months later he'd fallen off a catwalk into an open smelting furnace in a metallurgical laboratory he maintained in New York City. That kind of death is permanent ..."
"I wheeled and froze. The man filling the doorway was huge - well over six feet and better than two hundred and seventy-five pounds, all resting on ridiculously small feet. There was nothing ridiculous about the machine pistol in his right hand. His eyes were like twin moons, pale and lifeless, suspended in an unbelievably ugly, pockmarked face: a large, mashed nose sat in the middle of that face like a broken rocket drifting off to nowhere. The trackers had been tracked, and I doubted that the Russian was looking for information."

