Call him paranoid, but years in the seedy world of private investigation had taught Croon the virtue of being prepared. Of course, like all good detectives, he possessed the spirit of the voyeur --- it kind of went with his line of work. But Croon just wanted to make sure Ken-Ichi and Hana were harmless before he lugged his ass into the lobby of their Tokyo hotel. The enigma of his invitation to the Japanese capital puzzled him greatly, and his suspicion levels were high. However, even a cursory glance at K&H slouched over the hotel counter was enough to reassure him that they posed no threat. If there were any ninja stars to be flung at him tonight, it wasn't going to come from them. They ignored him as he entered the foyer, approached the desk, cleared his throat, even went so far as to drop his bag down on the counter. Ken-Ichi was poking randomly at the computer and Hana was misfiling thousands of tiny little oaktag cards, the color of old bananas, in a small wooden drawer.

Croon inhaled and was about to say <<Konichiwa!>> when Ken-Ichi realised his presence and beat him to a bow. <<Exe-cuse me>> he said, genuinely embarrassed --- the Japanese valued quality service above all else, and Ken-Ichi knew he had committed a serious breach.

<<Reservation for Marc Spoon>> Croon said.

<<Spoon>> Ken-Ichi said, and rolled it around his head for a minute or so, as if in deja vu.

<<I'm sorry, no reservation for Spoon>> Hana said, right on cue. Croon was cool, he was expecting this from his long hours on Stalker Channel --- they lost all of the reservations.

<<Dash these computers>> Croon said. <<Do you have any empty rooms?>>

<<Just a suite. And a couple of economy rooms>> Ken-Ichi said.

<<I'll take one of the economy rooms>> Croon said.

<<5000 yen per night, I'll carry your bags to the room>> Ken-Ichi said.

<<HIV-positive>> Croon said simply, letting the words hang in the air. Hana grimaced, the Japanese being such masters of extreme facial expressions. Ken-Ichi just shrugged, the hotel clerk's equivalent of issuing a 20-page legal disclaimer, and prod the computer, which was good enough to spit out a keycard, freshly imprinted with a random code. It also spewed bits upstairs to the computer lock on Croon's door, telling it that he was cool, he could be let in.

The room's lone window looked out on a narrow well somewhere between an air shaft and a garbage chute in size and function. Patches of the shag carpet had fused into mysterious crust formations, and in the corners of the bathroom, pubic hairs had formed into gnarled drifts. There was a Robobar in the corner but the door could only be opened halfway because it ran into the radiator, a 12-ton cast-iron model that, randomly, once or twice an hour, made a noise like a rock hitting the windshield. The Robobar was mostly empty but Croon wriggled one arm into it and yanked out a canned Mai Tai, knowing that the selection would show up instantaneously on the computer screens below, where Ken-Ichi and Hana would derive fleeting amusement from his offbeat tastes.

Croon opened his suitcase and took his own Spew terminal out of its case, unplugged the room's set and jacked his into the socket. Then he started opening windows, selecting gifs randomly from the evershifting patina of the Web. When there were four gifs looping urgently on the screen he sat back, opened his can, and raised his right index finger to make his decision.