Borgenese's smile flipped over fast, and the other side was a frown. For a long time he sat there scowling out of the screen. "That's a hell of a thing to tell me before breakfast," he said. "Are you sure? She couldn't decide on a name before she left."
There was an object concealed in the mechanism he had exposed. It was a neat, vicious, little retrogression gun.
"That's right. And it's not only your face that changes. You may grow taller, but never shorter. If your hair was gray, it may darken, but not the reverse."
The nameless man stared around the roomâ€”at Val Borgenese, perhaps fifty, calm and pleasant, more of a counselor than a policemanâ€”out of the window at the skyline, and its cleanly defined levels of air traffic.