From: Lester <maxim@netcom.com>
Date: Mon, 20 Oct 1997 00:18:27 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Logo Fyles #7
Message-id: <Pine.3.89.9710200024.A28454-0100000@netcom2>
Whatever this was about, it had emboiled Skudler. The man's face was the color of prehnite.
"Well, Brond, the gup mill has it that you're debouching yourself like some etourdi pothead, consorting with pizes and getting yourself swizzed."
Brond kept his composure, but it took a molimen. First find out what the cuffin wanted.
"Is this what you called me in for, sirrah?"
Skudler's color went to watchet. It gave Brond pleasure to see his former boss pingle not to have a kippage. "No, Brond it is not. If it were up to me, you could --" he checked himself. His voice got low, strangulated. "It's the peishwas upstairs. They seem to think your liabilities may be of use. I won't lie to you. I did my best to talk them out of it. Told them you'd find a way to mux it up, like you did the Afghani job. I failed. Do you still have your Afghan passport?"
"I do. Although its no thanks to you the jirga didn't -- "
"Yes, yes. Forget that for now." He waved his hand in the air. "Have you heard of WAWE?"
"The Wordgame Association's World Exhibition? Aren't they having their tourney in a few weeks."
Skudler looked disappointed. "That's right." He took a folder out of his desk. "And what do you know about Gruppetto Okta?"
"The logo terrorists? Not much."
"Take a look at this, then." Skudler passed the bulky folder over.
As Brond took it, a photo fell out. Bending to pick it up, he found himself looking into the nonchalant glare of Adeem Sneb.