“What brings you over, Shelabas?” asked Phrost. “Is there something on your mind?” If such a thing is possible, Phrost added to himself.

“Yes, why in fact there is. I saw the two of you together, and thought it might be the perfect moment to discuss new measures on smuggling.”

“I beg your pardon?” Welton asked.

“Smuggling,” Quellam said. “It seemed to me that the head of the Settlers on Inferno and the leading trading magnate on the planet might well have some thoughts on the subject. I am sure we all want to cut down on illicit imports of Settler technology. That is in all our interests, surely. It’s destabilizing our economy, and no doubt your government loses money on such illegal sales, does it not, Madame Welton? No tax revenue, and so forth?”

“To be brutally honest,” Tonya said, “Spacer currency is worth so little on Settler worlds that the average freebooter can’t be bothered with it. After all, what could she buy with it? The Settler governments would have to subsidize any goodsized smuggling operation if the smugglers were to receive any profit. Trust me. Any large-scale Settler smuggling on this planet would have to have government support. ”

“Subsidize smugglers? Why in Space would the Settler governments do such a thing?”

“Who can say?” Tonya said with a toss of her head. “perhaps some irresponsible elements among the Settlers have some idea that destabilizing a rotten, outmoded system might not be such a bad idea. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. ” She turned and walked away.

“Oh, dear, I appear to have said the wrong thing,” said Shelabas Quellam. “I didn’t intend for that to happen.”

Sero Phrost smiled, but did not reply. Quellam was applying the sentiment to the present rather awkward social circumstance, but things happening without his intending them was the story of Shelabas’ life. He had, for example, never had any intention of reaching his current station-and importance-in life.

Shelabas Quellam was the President of the Legislative Council. In years gone past, when the world of Inferno had been a calm and placid place, and Infernal politics had been closer to comatose than dormant, the Council Presidency was where you put a man like Quellam. A ceremonial post, a place reserved for an amiable man willing to serve as a figurehead.

But Infernal politics had come alive with a vengeance in the last year, and the Council Presidency was suddenly a vital piece on the gameboard.

Back in the old days, even the Governorship had been in large part a ceremonial post. One incumbent after another served out repeated twenty-year terms, doing little or nothing besides holding entertainments before retiring or going on to some other career. There had seemed little purpose to be served in having a Vice Governor as well, as the holder of that post would have even less to do-and less prestige.

Still, something had to be done to assure an orderly succession in the event of the Governor’s death, incapacity, or voluntary resignation. Instead of having a Vice Governor, each Governor was required to name a Governor-Designate, to be appointed to the office. Tradition dictated that the Designate’s name be kept secret, and that the Governor could name a new Designate at any time. Many a Governor had used the Designation as both carrot and stick.

There were, however, circumstances under which the Governor’s choice of successor was null and void. In the event of the Governor’s impeachment and conviction, or his recall by the electorate, it was clearly unwise in the extreme to allow a disgraced Governor to designate his or her successor. Should the Governor be removed from office by any of those means, the Council President would serve as Governor, and could, if he or she saw fit, call new elections. Or not call elections. The new Governor could elect to serve out the remainder of his or her predecessor’s term. And Grieg had over seventeen years left to serve.

In the old days, all the elaborate contingencies set down in the constitution had been nothing but mere gamesmanship, rules written for the pleasure of writing rules and making everything tidy. More than likely, the idea that they might someday have practical significance never entered the heads of the people who wrote them.

But now, quite suddenly, the impeachment of the Governor was very much a possibility-and that meant that Shelabas Quellam was now a man of some importance.

In fact, his importance went beyond the threat of impeachment. It was well known that Grieg did not approve of playing games with the succession, and felt that there should be a statutory arrangement that covered all contingencies, and that the current arrangements were overly complex. In that spirit, he had named Quellam as his Designate as well. One or two wags had suggested that with Quellam next in line for the Governorship, no matter what, everyone would take special care to see that Grieg stayed healthy and well.

Phrost dredged a gentle smile up from somewhere and put his arm around Quellam’s shoulders. “Come, come,” he said. “It certainly isn’t worth getting that upset about. ” Of course, it was worth getting upset about. Phrost had been attempting to get next to Tonya Welton for weeks, and this little incident could set back a lot of his plans. However, as one or two of those plans made use of Shelabas in one way or another, it would profit Phrost not at all to lose his temper at the man-especially in public.

Besides, Shelabas was not entirely to blame. Phrost and Welton had been getting close to arguing even before Quellam came over. The mood of the party had been edgy from the start. There was an air of expectation about the place, the feeling that something was going to happen. There were too many different factions represented in the room, too many undercurrents, too much underlying tension. Something had to give. Something had to snap.

But when it did, a moment later, even Sero Phrost was surprised by how fast and furious it was.

TONYA WELTON STALKED away from Shelabas Quellam, trying to calm herself. Could the man be that much of a fool? Did he really believe that Tonya would want to limit Settler smuggling operations? Surely the Spacer intelligence services knew what she had been up to. Did Quellam even read the intelligence reports? Or maybe the intell services didn’t bother-or didn’t dare-to give their reports to the President of the Legislative Council.

Could anyone be that dense? Perhaps it all was nothing more than an act. But an act in aid of what? What purpose could it serve for Quellam to put the Settlers’ leader in an awkward position?

“Hey! You’re the Settler lady, aren’t you?” a rather thick-sounding voice bellowed from behind her.

Tonya turned with a frown and found herself face-to-face with a rather bleary-faced man wearing the latest version of the Ironhead uniform. The severely cut black-and-grey outfit was rather disheveled, to put it mildly, and it was cut a half size too tight for the wearer. A few of the fasteners looked as if they were likely to give way. “Yes,” she said. ‘Tm the Settler lady. Tonya Welton. ” Sometimes it was best to be polite to drunks. If you brushed them off too abruptly, they could get belligerent.

“Yeah, I thought so,” the Ironhead said. “Robot hater. You’re a robot hater,” he said, and nodded to himself, as if he had just revealed some hidden truth.

“I don’t know if I’d put it quite that strongly,” Tonya said, “but no, I don’t approve of them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must-”

“Wait a second!” the Ironhead said. “Jus’ a second. You got it all wrong. Let me explain about robots, and then you’ll see.”

“Thank you, no,” Tonya said. “Not just now.”

She turned and walked away.

“Hey!” the man cried out from behind her. “Jus’ a second!”