"I am at your majesty's service, as always," murmured the prime minister. He stood, slowly. The minister of Special Affairs rose too, as Farnsworth moved smoothly to ensure the king's progress back to his dressing room.

That evening, after the state opening and the royal progress from Brunswick Palace to the Houses of Parliament at the far end of Manhattan island, Farnsworth pulled on a heavy overcoat and slipped out through a side door of the palace, to visit an old acquaintance in a public house just off Gloriana Street.

Wooden paneling and a brown, stained ceiling testified to the Dutch origins of the Arend's Nest: the pub's front windows looked out toward the high-rise tenements crowding the inner wall of the bastion that had protected New York from continental aggression as far back as the late eighteenth century. Now a favorite haunt by day of city stock merchants and the upper crust of businessmen who filled the new office blocks behind the administrative complex, by night the Nest was mostly empty. Farnsworth slipped past the bar and stood next to a booth at the back with his coat collar turned up against the chill from the sea and his hat pulled down close to his ears. "You won't fool nay-one like that," said a familiar voice. "You look like you're trying to hide and they'll pay attendance on ye when the police come asking. And now what time have you?"

Farnsworth shook himself. "I'm sorry, but my pocket oyster's broken," he said in a robotic tone of voice.

"Then ye'll just have to tell me what time it says?"

He hauled out his watch and flipped it open. "Ten to nine."

"Jolly good." With a sigh and a rustle his welcomer moved aside to let him into the cubicle. Farnsworth sat down gratefully. "I've taken the liberty of ordering your pint already." He was a plump, slightly shabby man whom Farnsworth knew only as Jack. Farnsworth had studiously suppressed any instinct to dig deeper. Jack wore a dark suit, shiny at the elbows, and a red silk cravat that although clean was clearly in need of ironing. Beside him sat another fellow, unknown to Farnsworth: a long-faced man in early middle age, but with a consumptive pallor about him and a face that seemed to chronicle more insults than any one life should bear. Farnsworth removed his hat and scarf and placed them fastidiously on one of the hooks screwed to the upper rail of the booth. "Have you anything to report?"

"For whose ears?" Farnsworth picked up his glass. A full one sat untouched before Mr. Long-Face, which seemed an unconscionable waste of a good pint of porter to him. "No offense."

"This is, um, Rudolf," said Jack. "He's from Head Office. You remember what we spoke about earlier."

"Ah, yes." Farnsworth shuffled uneasily in his seat. Head Office covered a multitude of sins, most of them capital offenses in the eyes of the Homeland Security Bureau. Far more subversive than any bomb-throwing wild-eyed democrat or fly-by-night unlicensed desktop publisher spreading lies and slanders about her royal highness's enthusiasm for tight-breeched household cavalry officers… but the exchange of passwords had gone smoothly. Jack hadn't used the bail out challenge. Which meant this was official.

"Nothing new. His majesty is trying to keep a placid face but is mightily exercised over the continental despotism. They've exploded a corpuscular weapon months ahead of what our spies said was possible. Sir Roderick is dusting under chairs and tables in search of a mouse hole, as if his head depends upon it-and indeed it might, if Douglass is of a mind to hold him responsible. There is the usual ongoing crisis over precedence in the royal bedchamber, and My Lady Frazier is vexed to speak of creating a new post of-well, perhaps this is of no interest? In any case, Douglass is exercised, too. He seems much gloomier than normal, and muttered something about fearing war was making virtue of necessity, and we must ensure the French use of the new weapons-corpses, he calls them, a vile contraction-is subjected to prior restraint by a mutual terror of annihilation." With this, Farnsworth reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small envelope. He slid it across the table. "Usual drill."

Jack passed it to the stranger. It vanished immediately, and at once Farnsworth felt a load off his shoulders. He sighed and drained half his pint. Jack smiled sardonically. "Pass the noose is what we called this game in Camp Frederick."

The stranger, Rudolf, blinked his rheumy eyes, expressionless. "We require more detailed economic information," he said, in an unexpectedly educated accent. "The V1 and V2 treasury indicators, any information you can obtain about the prevalence of adulterants in the royal mint's stock, confiscations of bullion, the rate of default of debt secured against closed bodies corporate, the proposed repayment terms on the next issue of war bonds, and everything you can discover about the next budget."

Farnsworth leaned back. "That's the Exchequer," he said slowly. "I don't work there or know anything. Or know anyone who does."

Rudolf nodded. "We understand. And we don't expect miracles. All we ask is that you be aware of our needs. Douglass is a not infrequent visitor to the palace, and should he by mistake leave his brief unattended for a few minutes-well." The hint of a smile came to Rudolf's face. "Have you ever seen one of these before?" He slid a device barely larger than a box of matches onto the table.

Farnsworth stared at it. "What is it?"

"It's a camera."

"Don't be silly"-Farnsworth bent over it-"nobody could build a camera that small! Could they? And what's it made of, lacquered cardboard?"

"No." Rudolf pushed it toward him. "It's made of a material like foramin or cellulate, or a phenolic resin-even the lens. It's waterproof and small enough to conceal in a boot heel. It will take eight pictures, then you must return it to us so that we can remove the sketchplate and downlo-ah, develop it. You aim it with this viewfinder, like so, and take a picture by pressing this button-thus. Yes, it will work without daylight-this is adequate for it. Keep it-no, not that one, this one"-he produced a second camera and handed it to Farnsworth-"about your person where it will not be found easily but where you can reach it in an instant. Inside your hat ribbon in circumstances like this, perhaps, or in your periwig when paying attendance upon his majesty."

"I-" Farnsworth looked at the tiny machine as if it were a live scorpion. "Did this come from the Frogs?" he heard himself asking as if from a great distance. "Because if so-"

"No." Rudolf flushed, and for the first time showed emotion. Anger. "We aren't pawns of the Bourbon tyranny, sir. We are free democrats all, patriotic Englishmen fighting in the vanguard of the worldwide struggle for the rights of man, for freedom and equality before the law-and we'll liberate France and her dominions as well, when the time comes to join in one great brotherhood of humanity and set the east afire! But we have allies you are unaware of, and hopefully will remain unaware of for some time to come, lest you jeopardize the cause." He fixed Farnsworth with a gimlet stare. "Do you understand?"

Farnsworth nodded. "I-yes." He pocketed the tiny device hastily, then finished his beer. "Another pint?" he asked Jack. "In the interests of looking authentic…"

"By all means." Jack stood. "I'll just go to the bar."

"And I must make haste to the jakes," said Rudolf, nodding affably at Farnsworth. "We won't meet again, I trust. Remember: eight, then to Jack. He will give you a replacement. Good night." He took his hat and slipped away, leaving Farnsworth to sit alone, lonely and frightened until Jack returned with a fresh glass and a grin of conviviality, to chat about the dog racing and shore up his cover by helping him spend another evening drinking beer with his friend of convenience. Jack the Lad, Jack be Nimble, Jack the Leveler…