He shook his head, and was annoyed when they continued forward. The effrontery of such creatures, he thought, moving his foot toward the pedal that would summon Security, expecting to be rented a room in his hyatt! "You've got a suite reserved for us," said the woman, dropping a bag onto the polished countertop. "Name's Robertson." Secure in the knowledge that no one on Staff was stupid enough to have taken such a reservation, he replied coolly. "I am certain you must be mistaken. Of course we have no --" For effect, he let his eyes touch the reservation board -- and stopped in mid-sentence. It was there: ROBERTSON, in cheery yellow letters and -- the deskmaster barely contained his rage: They'd rented the most expensive suite for an entire week! He'd not have his hyatt turned into a rowdy, drunken love-nest for -- "Hey, not today fella, OK?" said the red-haired woman in her low-class Terran accent. "Just give us the card." "I am sorry -- madam," he said in his most condescending voice; "but it is my policy not to permit mercenaries here.
