“Mon, you bossman gone ver’ strange.” The Zionite was wearing a blue Sanyo vacuum suit twenty years older than the one Case had rented in Freeside, its helmet under his arm and his dreadlocks bagged in a net cap crocheted from purple cotton yarn. His eyes were slitted with ganja and tension. “Keep callin’ down here wi’ orders, mon, but be some Babylon war. . . .” Maelcum shook his head. “Aerol an’ I talkin’, an’ Aerol talkin’ wi’ Zion. Founders seh cut an’ run.” He ran the back of a large brown hand across his mouth. “Armitage?” Case winced as the betaphenethylamine hangover hit him with its
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