abba let out a contented sigh as he finished the last of his solder points. He switched off the iron, put down his penlight, and lay a moment in the darkness of the mainframe computer. He was beat. His neck hurt. Internal work was always cramped, especially for a man of his size.

And they just keep building them smaller, he mused.

As he closed his eyes for a well-deserved moment of relaxation, someone outside began pulling on his boots.

"Jabba! Get out here!" a woman's voice yelled.

Midge found me. He groaned.

"Jabba! Get out here!"

Reluctantly he slithered out. "For the love of God, Midge! I told you—" But it was not Midge. Jabba looked up, surprised. "Soshi?"

Soshi Kuta was a ninety-pound live wire. She was Jabba's right hand assistant, a razor-sharp Sys-Sec techie from MIT. She often worked late with Jabba and was the one member of his staff who seemed unintimidated by him. She glared at him and demanded, "Why the hell didn't you answer your phone? Or my page?"

"Your page," Jabba repeated. "I thought it was—"

"Never mind. There's something strange going on in the main databank."

Jabba checked his watch. "Strange?" Now he was growing concerned. "Can you be any more specific?"

Two minutes later Jabba was dashing down the hall toward the databank.