Weel, this isna what I was expectin...was the only thing which came to mind when the limo pulled up to the gate of Lazy Dog's studio. Without knowing why, he was disappointed not to see a large stone facade with wrought iron gates with palm trees framing the entry. What he saw instead, was a chain-link fence, a small wooden guard-house and an earnest young man in a brown uniform. A metal sign on the closed gate said:

"Can I help you, sir?" The man's tone was respectful, but the sight of Rodd's informal attire gave him pause.

"I have an appointment with Maria Marius...Rodd MacSwell...."

Looking at the clipboard, he finally found the pencilled notation at the bottom. "Yes, sir! Building Seven, sir...go right in!"

As the gate swung open, James slowly eased the limo forward. Rodd noticed him shaking his head sadly, and watched as 'Building Seven' went past the car's dark windows. Before much longer, the car stopped at a parking area next to 'Building Seventeen'.

"Here we are Mr. MacSwell--that guard's as nutty as a fruitcake...seven is where the props and sets are put together! I'll wait for you to come back...shouldn't be long!"

With very little trouble, Rodd found himself outside the door to an ornate, but not ostentatious suite. The secretary motioned for him to take a seat, and Rodd found himself leafing through the magazines...People, Newsweek, some ancient copies of National Geographic and even Omni! Rodd's lip curled slightly in disgust: Ye gods, I'm trapped in a dentistry!

A click and the door to the inner sanctum opened. The secretary looked up, and motioned for Rodd to go in. In his eagerness, he almost ran into a shapely girl in a flowered dress and straw hat. He retreated a step to allow the woman to pass, and inclined his head.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am..." For just a moment, he let his real accent come out...scottish and with a brogue, yes...but far more cultured than he used currently.

The woman looked at him, taking in the definition of his muscles and the classically gaelic hair and eyes, and bit off the cold and cutting remark she had intended.

"No harm done, Mister..." Her tone showed every sign of culture which he was trying to hide...was she trying for a part in Sword of Vengeance as well?

Rodd extended a hand, which the girl looked at for a moment before holding it for the briefest of polite intervals. "MacSwell, ma'am...Rodd MacSwell! Will ye be playin' in this sassenach production as weel?"

A faint smile crossed the girls full lips. "I have just signed for a part, yes...." She started to walk away, then turned back. "Oh! My name is Rosamund Peacock, Mr. MacSwell..."