"Morning, noon, and night, chief," Cardon replied. "When you said this
job was going to be dangerous, I didn't know you meant that it would
lead straight to an alcoholic's grave."

"Let me get you a cup of coffee, and a cigar, then." The white-haired
Literate executive resumed his seat, passing a hand back and forth
slowly across the face of the commo, the diamond on his finger
twinkling, and gave brief instructions. "And just relax, for a minute.
You have a tough job, this time, Frank."

They were both silent as a novice Literate bustled in with coffee and
individually-sealed cigars.

"At least, you're not one of these plain-living-and-right-thinking
fanatics, like Wilton Joyner and Harvey Graves," Cardon said. "On top
of everything else, that I could not take."

Lancedale's thin face broke into a smile, little wrinkles putting his
mouth in parentheses. Cardon sampled the coffee, and then used a
Sixteenth Century Italian stiletto from Lancedale's desk to perforate
the end of his cigar.

"Much as I hate it, I'll have to get out of here as soon as I can," he
said. "I don't know how long O'Reilly can keep me covered, down at the
tavern--"

Lancedale nodded. "Well, how are things going, then?"

"First of all, the brewery," Cardon began.