And King Bester, like Tatty, was nobody’s fool. He realized very well that the real power had moved away from Earth. The Quarantine operated by Solar Security applied only to people moving outward from Earth. Bester could sense the brawling, raw strength that lay in people like Luther Brachis. It ran right through the off-planet culture, and he was afraid of it. Far better to stay home, operate within the familiar rituals of the Big Marble, and take a little when the opportunity came from visitors like Mondrian and his colleagues. Those visitors were far more numerous than System government liked to admit, and they came down to Earth for reasons rarely shown on any travel permits.

So Bester quietly tagged along with Princess Tatiana and the three visitors. He hung at the back of the group, listened carefully while Mondrian explained to Tatty the reason for the trip to Earth, and looked for his working edge.

He had never heard of the Morgan Constructs and the disaster on Cobweb Station until Esro Mondrian described it. He was not much interested. His reward lay in examining Mondrian, Brachis, and Flammarion, and learning in which category of pleasure-seeking their interests might lie.

There was sure to be one. Bester had his own ideas of Earth visitors. No matter what they might say, or how the official agenda read, there was always another angle. And that was where the profit lay.

Brachis should not be difficult. Big, powerfully-built, lusty, still in early middle age, he could be offered things undreamed of through most of the solar system. Flammarion would be even easier. He already had the poached-egg look to his eyes that told of a habitual use of alcohol. One good shot of Paradox, and Flammarion wouldn’t be looking elsewhere for entertainment while he was on Earth. Withdrawal symptoms after he left? That was not King Bester’s problem.

The big question mark was Mondrian. He had scared Bester the moment they met, when he had fixed him with those cold, dark eyes.

But on the other hand, Mondrian wasn’t a good prospect, anyway. He was clearly no stranger to Earth, and he had probably found a way to gratify his own needs long ago. From the way she looked at him, Tatty Snipes had in the past helped to serve them.

When they reached Tatty’s underground apartment, Bester stopped any pretense of listening to Mondrian. He quietly helped himself to the free food and drink — Princess Tatiana had decidedly royal tastes — and moved a little closer to Kubo Flammarion. The scruffy man’s pleasures could probably be guessed, but they had to be confirmed before his pockets could be emptied.

“Ever see a public beheading, Captain?” And, as Flammarion’s eyes widened, “I mean with full staging — steel axe, real wooden block, hooded executioner. We use a top-quality simulacrum under the chopper, you’d never know the difference — the spurt from the neck is exactly like real blood.”

“Bleagh!” Flammarion glared at him in disgust. He shook his head, and laid down the slice of underdone beef that he was holding. “What you doing, trying to make me throw up or something?”

“Not for you? How about him, then?” King Bester nodded to Mondrian, still deep in conversation with Princess Tatiana. “Think he might be interested?”

Kubo Flammarion scratched his head. “The Commander? Nah. To get him hooked, you’d have to have a real victim and real blood.” He pointedly took a couple of steps away from Bester.

The King turned to Luther Brachis. “How about you? like to know more about some of our entertainments — I mean the Big Marble specials, the ones you’ll never see in the catalogs. How would you like one of those?” Brachis smiled at him pleasantly. “And how would you like a big fistful of knuckles” — he spoke in poorly pronounced out quite passable Earth-argot — “right up your royal nose?”

King Bester decided that his glass needed refilling at the sideboard across the room.

“I didn’t know you spoke their lingo, too,” said Kubo Flammarion admiringly, watching Bester’s rapid departure.

“It’s good to have a few things about you that most people don’t know.” Brachis turned, so that no one but Flammarion could see his lips. “There’s things about your boss that you don’t know, too. Remember that. I don’t give away information — but I’m always willing to trade.”

Tatty shook her head as soon as Mondrian explained what he was looking for.

“Not here, or in any of the areas where I have clout. There’s a local ordinance forbidding the off-Earth sale of anyone with more than four degrees of consanguinity with my imperial clan — and that means everybody. They all claim relationship, even when they don’t really have it.”

“Any ideas, then?”

“You might try over in BigSyd, or maybe Tearun. I don’t know the dealers there, though. And Ree-o-dee would be a cert, except you need to pay off so many people it gets out of control. Better if we could find somebody locally.”

“How about Bozzie?” King Bester had given up any pretense that he was not eavesdropping. “He’s top bod for that line of business. And he’s nearby, sort of.

“Could be worth a shot. I don’t know what he has, though.” Tatty turned to Mondrian. “We’ll have to find him first — but he’ll be somewhere in the Gallimaufries, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Bozzie?” Kubo Flammarion was struggling to make an intelligible record of the conversation, but the last exchange was too much. “Find him in the Garry-what’s?”

“Bozzie. The Duke of Bosny. Also Viscount Roosevelt, Count Mellon, Baron Rockwell, and the Earl of Potomac.” Tatty’s face said what she thought of all those titles. “Upstart houses, every one. But I’ll say this for him, he prefers to be called plain Bosny, or just Bozzie, He hasn’t lived in Bosny City for years, though he claims to have been born there. He certainly has consanguinity with every major royal line in the Northeast, and he’s a big mover and shaker down in the Gallimaufries — the basement warrens” (She had seen Flammarion’s mouth starting to open again) ” — two hundred levels below where we are now.

Tatty glanced at King Bester. “More your stamping-grounds than mine. Think we might get him today?”

“You’ll have to hurry. Never find Bozzie there after dark — he’ll be topside with his Scavvies, scouting the surface.”

Luther Brachis was looking at his watch. “Then we’re too late. It’s already dark up on the surface.”

But Tatty was shaking her head. “It’s dark now where you landed, in Africa, but we came a long way west through the Links. We picked up six hours. Local time is only two in the afternoon.”

“Sorry.” Brachis sounded annoyed — with himself. “I’ll keep my mouth shut until I know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re not so far wrong as you think,” replied Tatty. “We’re in the northern hemisphere, and it’s winter. It gets dark early — something else you’re not used to.” She paused for a moment, calculating. “I think we can do it — just. Provided that we take the fastest routes. Hold onto your hats, and let’s go.”

Tatty lived on the sixtieth under-level. It was prime real estate, minutes from the surface and within easy reach of a Link entry point. But because it was prime, it by design had no direct drop connection with the deeper and poorer levels of the Gallimaufries. To descend, the group had to travel far north, then double back. Led by Tatty, they travelled half a continent horizontally in order to descend five thousand meters vertically. They did it in thirty minutes. For the off-Earth visitors it was a confused race along networks of high-speed slideways, a plunge along vertiginous corkscrews of spiraling ramps, and finally a series of long dives through the black depths of vertical drop-shafts.

“First time I’ve felt comfortable since I got here,” said Flammarion, savoring the long moments of free-fall.