“No, it wasn’t Bhelabher.” Sam shook her head. “If he’d changed his mind, all his sidekick would’ve had to do is order us to hand back that resignation form—or even to hand in a counter-letter from Bhelabher.”

“You mean Rat-Face is doing this all on his own?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sam said slowly. “He is a career bureaucrat in the Bureau of Otherworldly Activities, remember. Chances are he’s doing what his superiors in BOA want done.”

“A man with a face like a rat, in the BOA bureaucracy?” Father Marco asked. He was frowning.

Dar nodded. “That’s him. But why would he be trying to kill us?”

“Kill you?”

Sam shook her head. “There were two cops after me, but the worst thing they had was a hypodermic bulb.”

“A hypo?” Dar looked up sharply. “They were trying to put you out and take you in?”

Sam nodded. “That’s the way it looked. But it doesn’t make sense. There were two of them, and they were a lot bigger than I was. Why’d they have needed a hypo?”

“And why’d their buddies be trying to put me out completely? I could swear their intentions weren’t toward prolonging my life.”

“Could be you’re paranoid,” Lona suggested.

“No doubt; but in this case, I think it doesn’t matter. And I don’t quite agree with your reading of it, Sam—one of them was trying a blade on you.” He touched the bandage that Tessie had thoughtfully taped over his wound.

“No, I’m afraid you’re both right.” Father Marco was definitely brooding. “After all, if you think someone’s a threat, and you can’t capture them, what’s the logical thing to do?”

“But why would they think I’m dangerous?” Sam wailed. “I don’t have the papers!”

Lona was looking very interested.

“A fascinating episode,” Whitey mused, “especially since I do believe I see some uniforms approaching.”

All heads snapped up, and noticed the strolling pair who had just turned the corner.

“Just keep walking,” Father Marco’s iron tone advised, and Dar soothed his body’s impulse to jump into flight.

“ ‘Course, it’s been a while since I did this …” Whitey offered, and Lona coughed, “… but I do notice there’s some sort of arcade just a few feet down, on our left. Might make a handy bolthole.”

“Ideal,” Father Marco breathed. “Shall we, gentlefolk?”

They nonchalantly turned into the cavelike coolness of the arcade. Its long concourse stretched away before them, lined with shops on both sides.

“Last time you did this, Grandfather, you split us up into small groups,” Lona reminded.

“A good point,” Father Marco agreed. “No doubt they counted noses after that tavern brawl, and came to the conclusion we’d all gone off together.”

“Well …” Dar caught a door-handle and swung it open. “… see ya ‘round, folks.”

Sam stepped through the door before he could close it; the rest went on their way, and his team was back to its original components.

They moved down a short aisle, surrounded by skeins of yarn, squares of stiff netting, and racks of patterns. “What is all this stuff?” Dar whispered.

“Knitting, crocheting, things like that—age-old hobbies,” Sam whispered back. “Ever try needlepoint?”

Dar was about to answer with a pointed remark of his own, when the proprietor popped up behind the counter at the end of the aisle, grossly fat, with the face of an aging cherub and a fringe of puffy white hair around a bald dome. “Something you’d … like, gentlefolk?”

“Just browsing,” Dar said quickly. “Interesting collection you’ve got here.”

“Oh yes, I try to keep it up-to-date. Had some fascinating patterns come in last week, from Samia.”

“Samia?” Dar wondered, but another customer approached before the storekeeper could answer. “Ah there, Kontak! Is my order in?”

“Just an hour ago,” Kontak grinned. He laid a slender parcel in plain brown wrap on the counter. “Sixty spikes, five brads, Grazh Danko.”

“Samia?” Dar whispered to Sam. “Isn’t that the pleasure-planet? You know, ‘wrap up all your cares and clothes, and do whatever’s legal’?”

Sam nodded, her eyes on the brown parcel. “And there isn’t much that’s illegal, except murder. I understand they don’t even look too closely at that, provided the victim isn’t a tourist. I think I’d like a look at the next shop.”

“But this is just getting interesting,” Dar protested as Sam hustled him toward the door.

“Maybe too interesting.” She kept her voice low as the door closed behind them. “That was a porno shop. And did you catch the prices? For a pack of sleazy pictures? I have a sneaking suspicion we’re in the middle of what they euphemistically call an ‘organic market.’ ”

“One that charges whatever the traffic will bear?” Dar looked around him. “These innocent little shops? Illegal goods?”

“And services,” Sam reminded. They went into a confectionary. The patron at the end of the counter was thumbing through a menu that seemed to be mostly bodies, while the proprietor was helping an obese, surly patron strike up an acquaintance with a slender sweet young thing. They turned around and went back out.

So it went, for the length of the arcade. Finally, in the office of the Legal Aid Society, which kept a neat list of judges, cases, and the aid the judges required to help them make up their minds about the cases, Dar exploded. “Is there anything that isn’t for sale?”

“Haven’t found anything, myself,” a customer answered cheerfully, not noticing Sam’s frantic shushing motions. “Of course, some commodities can’t be had for cash just yet; but I understand they’re working on them.”

“I suppose I’m naïve,” Dar said slowly, “but I thought the law was supposed to help make people equal, not uphold the one who can pay the most.”

The customer winced. “Please, young man! We must be patient with the follies of youth—but that remark was so distinctly political that I can’t ignore it!”

“Don’t offend the gentleman,” the proprietor growled, an ugly glint in his piggy little eye.

“That was political?” Dar stared. While he was staring, Sam grabbed his arm and hustled him out the door. By the time he recovered enough to resist, he was in the street. Then he managed to get his mouth moving again. “Political? Speculating about the purpose of law is political?”

“Of course, when you say things such as ‘equal,’ ” Sam explained. “You really must do something about that death wish of yours.”

“Why?” Dar shrugged her hand off. “It puts me in phase with this whole planet!”

“Just because people don’t talk politics, doesn’t mean they’re moribund,” Sam hissed.

“No, but it means their society is! They don’t even care about the law any more! Don’t they realize that’s what keeps a society from falling apart?”

“Oh. You’re one of these people who believes that law prevents revolutions, huh?”

“Sure, by making sure no one’s too badly oppressed.”

“Sin?”

Dar looked up, startled; but it was just a portly passerby, chatting with a waddling clergyman. “Sin? Come now, Reverend! What a medieval idea!”

“It’ll always be current, I’m afraid,” the minister rejoined, “and even fashionable—though rarely as a conversational topic.”

“It does lend a certain sauce to pleasure,” the passerby admitted. “And, after all, the really important element in life is getting what you want—the things that make you happy.”

“Of course, of course,” the clergyman agreed. “Take heaven, for example…”

The passerby was laughing as they passed out of hearing.

Dar shook his head. “I don’t think the revolution’ll wait a hundred years.”

“You think this is bad?” Sam scoffed. “Just wait till you get to Terra!”

“I can wait, thank you. I’m beginning to see why you liked Wolmar so much. You know, this pretty little market couldn’t be here unless the police were helping it a lot.”

“Of course,” Sam said brightly. “But be fair—they might not have enough officers to cover everything.”