"Bic, I'm gonna take your shoes home with me. Maybe give me a good shine." It had been my intention to drag him along with me, too, but I'd just heard a troubling sound, one I'd honestly never expected to hear. But rumors had been circulating for weeks so I recognized it in plenty of time.

The sound was a whistle. Rather like the shrill of a boat-swain's pipe. Somebody from the guard's foot patrol wasn't far away and he'd heard that there was trouble. He was summoning assistance.

Changing times. Relway and Block just have way too many ideas for advancing the case of law and order. Not that I mind too much when they interfere in someone else's business. But my business is mine.

I said, "My friend and I have to run. I'll take good care of your boots. You know where to find them. When the mood hits you, drop by the house. You can pick them up."

I was drawing to an inside straight, betting his boots were that important to him. I would've talked more but now whistles from several sources were sounding closer and closer.

I headed for home. I was halfway there before I realized that the Goddamn Parrot wasn't with me. When I got home I went straight to the Dead Man to find out why.

The manner in which you dealt with the exigencies of your situation seems well chosen. However, it did leave considerable leeway in the hands of Mr. Gonlit. It seemed prudent to keep watching eyes and a nagging voice somewhere near him. Lest he surrender to a fit of common sense and just abandon his boots.

You do have those still? Excellent. Would you summon Miss Pular? She is in the kitchen helping herself to a snack. Dean has retired for the night.

We will try to discover why the boots mean so much to our rotund nemesis.

Did you, by the by, discover how it was that he was able to see in the dark?

" 'Fraid not. The question went right out of my head when I heard those whistles."

Old Bones was wide-awake and in rare form, nothing escaping the notice of his several minds. I wasn't going to be allowed anything less than wide-awake myself until he sucked up all the outside information he wanted.

Singe sniffed Gonlit's boots. That wasn't a task I envied her. Their fragrance had been less than appealing while I was toting them, even carried at the ends of their strings. But ratpeople don't seem to be repelled by odors the same way we humans are. Nor are they offended by the same scents.

Hard to credit in some cases but I've been around Singe long enough to know that it's true.

The famous Gonlit boots had soles layered more than two inches thick. They had fake glass emeralds and rubies and little brass rivet heads all over them. I thought they looked pretty shabby these days. Maybe old Bic was farther down on his luck than rumor suggested. He wasn't so big-time that popular interest tracked his every step.

At one time the boots had been white. At one time, so the story went, Bic Gonlit had dressed all in white, even unto the extremity of an all-white, wide-brimmed version of the Unorthodox missionary's hat.

That would have been years ago, though, when Bic would have been more prosperous because he was less well known. That would have been during the days before he learned that having a signature look was no advantage in the bounty-hunting business. Your quarry would see you coming.

The boots themselves, by reputation, were enchanted. How so remained an open question. They hadn't added anything to his getaway speed. But, on the other hand, he'd been able to see in the dark.

Maybe we'd winkle out all the facts when Bic came to reclaim his treasures.

The Dead Man and Singe communed about those boots.

I jumped suddenly. My eyes had fallen shut. I don't know for how long. Long enough for the lamp to have gone out. Now just a single candle burned on the top shelf of the Dead Man's memorabilia case. He and Singe weren't troubled by the shortage of light.

Garrett.

I heard a racket up front.

One of the two nuisances had awakened me.

The Dead Man wasn't going anywhere. I got up and stalked to the front door. The racket there persisted. I began thinking that maybe Mr. Gonlit needed a whipping, just to remind him of his manners.

I used the peephole for its dedicated purpose.

Surprise. That wasn't Bic Gonlit trying to make my neighbors dislike me even more. That was three or four guys who had no manners to be reminded of. The loudest was none other than our beloved chief of the city Guards, Colonel Westman Block himself.

It'd been a while since we two had crossed paths. He seemed to have grown in that time, both in stature and in confidence.

I turned away on the theory that he could use a little deflation.

Allow the colonel to enter, Garrett. That will serve us better in the long run.

"Took you long—" Block snarled as I swung the door inward. "Damn! Garrett!" he barked when I swung it right back shut, bruising his nose.

Garrett!

"Just a little courtesy lesson." I opened the door again.

Colonel Block appeared more flustered than angry. And his goons—three gorillas damned near as big as Saucerhead Tharpe—wore dazed looks, as though they were asleep on their feet, with their eyes open.

"Good evening, Colonel. How can I help you?"

Evidently the shock had been enough to startle Block into a case of the courtesies. That or some light touch from the Dead Man. "Yes. We've had reports of some unusual events, Garrett."

"This's TunFaire. We have wizards and priests enough here to supply the world with weird."

I led Block into the Dead Man's room while we talked. His goons remained outside, still as memorial pillars. He replied, "But in this instance there's reason to believe that you might be involved."

"What? Me? How come I get blamed for everything?"

"Because someone fitting your description, accompanied by persons fitting the descriptions of known associates of yours, including a cursing parrot, was seen near the sites of several unusual incidents. I'm disinclined to accept the explanation that your evil twin was out there trying to scuttle your reputation. You don't have one."

Go ahead and tell him the truth, Garrett.

I've cooperated with the authorities on most occasions. It rankles but, to be honest, it's never been that huge an inconvenience.

So I told him the whole story. Sort of. Almost. In the young peoples' abridged form.

Then he told me a story. His was a lot shorter.

"Coming up here we ran into a crowd of ratpeople. Twenty or thirty of them, trying to work up their nerve for some villainy. When they recognized us they scattered like roaches. A couple of my guys mentioned seeing a little fat man running with them. Either one of you want to say something about that?"

"I would if I could, boss. But I don't have any idea."

The Dead Man had no comment at all.

Block asked, "Any ideas about these lights in the sky, these flying helmets and whatnot? People keep seeing them and getting upset about them so other people keep telling me that I have to do something about them. Nobody has any suggestions about what the hell that might be and I don't have any brilliant ideas of my own."

"You've started to regress. You had your language so cleaned up you could've fit in at court."

"That's what's causing it. Polite society. Those folks have more demands, and can make bigger pains in the ass of themselves, than any three normal human beings."

"Who's telling you to do something about those things? Do they really think you'd interfere in wizards' experiments?"