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Saturday, 26 September 2105

For three months, now, Nathaniel Davis had controlled, though not possessed, more power and wealth than the average member planet of the Network. Not surprising, for Gryll had appointed him Chief Executive of the anti-culture—the criminal underworld—on ten entire planets.

Of course, if he failed to show a magnificent return on investment, the average beggar in the Inta Leina marketplace would wield more power and wealth than Nathaniel Davis. And have a much greater life expectancy  . . . 

But he would not dwell on that. Operation PlayGround would work. He himself would win for The Organization that which his predecessor had died attempting to seize. And anyone clever enough to pull off PlayGround would surely rise to rule an empire larger than any Terra had ever seen.

As he did before every meal, he asked the computer for the present whereabouts of his old enemy McGill Feighan. It flashed: Rehma.

Raising his eyebrows, he pushed the plate aside. Feighan had left his home turf? Davis chuckled. It was time to settle some scores.

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