"Oh, sit down, Malloy, sit down. I'm a Jockey like the rest of you.
There's only one difference. I _know_ I'm sick. I've got a Rider and
all its powers, but I could no more use them than an acrophobe could
climb a ladder up the Empire State to get at a naked princess sitting
on a bag of gold."
Malloy eased back down onto the chair and shook his head slowly. "That
_would_ be a hell of a way to be."
The big man slammed down two hams made out of fists. "You are exactly
the same way, sonny boy! Only you don't know any better."
Malloy swallowed. The man known as the Commissioner might be right at
that. "Have it your way," Malloy said. "But I sure _think_ I don't have
a Rider."
The Commissioner smirked. Malloy knew what that meant. He knew men
like the fat boy; he understood them. He had had Grayson Amery, Dr.
Heirson--he knew the breed.
"What are you holding back on me?" Malloy demanded.
"Malloy, do you even know what a Rider is?"