Fyke

Lila seemed disappointed that Fykeman didn't flirt with greater vigor. She released Fykeman's arm. He hated the feel of it leaving.

"You can go right in," Lila said.

Fykeman looked at Malto's door, then hesitated. "Thanks. Uh, Lila?"

She brightened. "Yes?"

Fykeman looked again at Malto's door. Something commanded him to get a grip. That something was a mental image of his wife's glaring face.

Fykeman plunged through Malto's door. He stepped out into gusty winds upon a granite outcropping perched high above a vast canyon, framed by magnificent crags reaching like claws into a splendid pale blue sky. Near the edge of the outcropping, overlooking a breathtaking chasm with a green river snaking along the bottom, was Malto's desk, behind which sat the swarthy little publisher.

Malto's hairless melon head bobbed up. His oil black eyes widened as he saw Fykeman, still gaping in wonder. A giant condor soared overhead. A keen wind lifted Fykeman's sandy hair. Malto stepped around his stone desk and walked across the granite boulders to where Fykeman stood mesmerized by the grandeur. Behind Fykeman, a rectangle in the rock wall framed an outer office paneled in oak, burgundy carpeting, and a stunning woman behind a desk.

"Fykeman, you bastard!" Malto shouted. "Come in, boy! Sit thee doon!"

"Gee, thanks for calling me a bastard. Haven't I made you rich enough, you fat little suckling?"

Even though Malto had started the name calling, he seemed nettled by Fykeman's return jibe.

"Ur-sorry. Just trying to establish that old male bonding thing."

"Ah," Fykeman said blandly. He watched Malto walk back to his desk with his odd, hopping gate, tail bobbing behind. Fykeman was wondering if Malto was even male, per se. He wondered how it felt for him to sit on that tail. Malto used a normal chair, like any chair in Ou, where people didn't have tails. He pushed the thought of Lila doing 'special services' for Malto even further out of his mind.

"Well," Fykeman said, pulling his hound's tooth blazer tighter against the bracing mountain air. He sauntered forward and sat in a stone throne across from Malto's desk. "Some office. New decorator?"

Malto seemed anxious to jettison the small talk. "My No. 3 concubine's idea. She programs it. Last week I was working in a rain forest. Listen, Mike, how's the Lord Slaven bio coming?"

"All but done. I've just got to do a final--"

"I want you to leave it," Malto said abruptly. "Hand your files over. My staff will tie up the loose ends."

Fykeman bristled. "Wait a minute! This is my baby! You know damn well your editors can leech the originality out of a manuscript. I--"

Malto slammed his little palm to his desk. "Dammit, Fykeman! You're a ghostwriter! Your name's not going on this book. It's Lord Slaven's book! And I'm the publisher!"

"You know that, I know that, and the public will think that," Fykeman shot back. "But it's the industry insiders I'm worried about. They'll know!"

Malto evinced a peculiar gleam in is eye which alerted Fykeman that crafty intrigue was imminent. Fykeman shifted uncomfortably on the stone throne.

"Mike," said Malto in an unctuous voice, "when you learn who I've just signed to contract, you'll reconsider."