A rising tower of polished storinglass, ribbed steel and stressed concrete. The penthouse. Charles Murdock Ansford’s private office. He’s in his highback wheelchair, facing the window. Custom job: glove leather and chrome. He swings the chair around, stares at his wife through deeply-pouched falcon’s eyes. The white hair seems to flame on his head, framed by the sunlit window. “Well, why are you standing there? Our conversation is over. I have work to do.” Mrs. Ansford. Laura. Young enough to be his granddaughter. Tall and extremely attractive. Pale skin, almost translucent. Large forest-green eyes. Hair the color of dark burgundy, brushed back, ribboned in velvet. She’s upset. Tears glitter along her cheeks. “It’s not fair, Charles. You can’t fire him!” “Hah! Can’t, eh? Already have. Right here in this office, not ten minutes ago. Told him to get his ass out of my building.” Her voice trembles between rage and confusion.
