Earth was served by a single Link Exit point. Travelers stepped into the Link Chamber at the center of Ceres, and were at once spat out by the transfer system at a point close to Earth s equator. When Mondrian, Brachis, and Flammarion left the terminal they found themselves standing at the foot of a gigantic dilapidated tower, reaching up to the sullen overcast of a tropical afternoon.

Brachis craned his head back, following the silver-grey column until it vanished into the haze. What the devil is that?”

“Don’t you recognize it?” Mondrian was for some reason in excellent spirits. “This is the foot of the old Beanstalk. Everything between Earth and space went up and down that for over two hundred years.’

Luther Brachis stared at the ancient, beetle-backed cars, nestling in their cradles along the hundred-meter lower perimeter. “People, too? If they rode those things all the way to geosynch, the first spacers had real guts. But why do they still leave it around on Earth? It must mass a billion tons, and it looks like useless dead weight.”

“It is — but don’t even suggest getting rid of it, not to people down here. They think it’s a precious historic relic, one of their most valued ancient monuments.” Mondrian spoke casually, but he was gazing off to the west with an experienced eye and an air of anticipation. There were woods a few hundred meters away, and he was watching the fronded crowns of individual trees. It was coming… coming… Now.

A blustery equatorial breeze ruffled their hair and tugged at their clothing. Brachis and Flammarion gasped, while Flammarion glared wildly around him. “Lock failure! Where— where’s—” He slowly subsided.

Mondrian was watching with quiet satisfaction. “Calm down, both of you. And you, Captain Flammarion, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You told me you’d been on Earth before.”

“I have, sir. Sir, I thought—”

“I know what you thought. But it’s not a pressure failure, or a collapsed lock. It s just wind — natural air movements. It happens all the time on Earth, so you’d better get used to it before the natives die laughing at you.”

“Winds!” Luther Brachis’ broad face had turned rosy with fear or anger, but he had recovered much quicker than Kubo Flammarion. “Damn it, Mondrian. You planned that. You could have warned us easy enough — but you wanted your fun.”

“No. I wanted to make a point. You can look down your nose at Earth and its people as much as you want to, but we have to watch out for surprises here — and that applies to me as well as you.”

Mondrian was stepping forward, away from the link terminal towards an odd-looking throng or people clustered not far from the exit. The other two men followed him hesitantly. He was heading for a long covered ramp that led below ground. As they approached the crowd there was an urgent babble of voices. “Hottest little nippers on Earth … “Need a Fropper? Get you the best, at a good price” … “Trade crystals, high rate and no questions asked” … “Want to see a coronation — genuine royal family, forty-second generation” … “Like to visit a Needler lab? Top line products, never see them anywhere else.” They all spoke standard Solar, poorly pronounced.

Most of the crowd, men and women, were half a head shorter even than Kubo Flammarion. Mondrian strode through them, scanning from side to side. The people he pushed out of the way wore brightly colored clothes, their purples, scarlets and pinks in striking contrast to the quiet black of Security uniforms. Mondrian brushed aside the grasping hands. He paid no attention to anyone, until he caught sight of a grinning, skeleton-thin man in a patchwork jacket of green and gold. He plowed through to the man’s side.

“You a busker?”

The skinny man grinned. “That’s me, squire, at your service. Welcome to the Big Marble. You want it, I got it. Tobacco, roley-poley, lulu juice. You name it, I’ll take you to it.”

“Cut it, shut it. You know Tatty Snipes?” Mondrian’s question in low Earth-tongue interrupted the sales pitch.

“Certainly do.” The busker faltered for a moment, taken aback by Mondrian’s use of his own argot. He began again, half-heartedly. “Paradox, slither, velocil — I can get em all. Want a guided tour of the Shambles? Never mind what the rule books say, I can find you — ”

“Slot the chops. You find the Tat, bring her to me, right now. Cotton? And more of this when you got her.” Mondrian reached out his hand. There was the dull glow of a trade crystal before dirty fingers closed on it. The man looked at Mondrian respectfully.

“Yessir. Right away, squire. Be back.” The skinny figure started to push off through the crowd, then checked himself and turned back. “Name’s Bester, sir — King Bester. I’ll be here with Tatty in half an hour. She’s just a couple of Links away.”

Mondrian nodded. As Bester vanished along the below-ground ramp, he sauntered towards a solid bench planted a hundred yards away. A Sun-simulator stood just above it. After a look at each other, his two companions started after him.

“He’s right at home here.” Flammarion’s voice and manner made it clear that he wasn’t. “Did you hear him chit-chat in their lingo? Earth-gobble — I couldn’t understand half of it.”

Brachis nodded. He was staring around inquisitively. “I ought to have anticipated this. It s my own fault. I had all the information, and I didn’t use it.”

“You knew Commander Mondrian spoke Earth-talk? How could you?”

“Not exactly that.” Brachis brushed away the admiring hands that were trying to touch the glittering decorations on his chest. But I could have guessed that he might. Use your common sense, Captain. I’ve tracked Commander Mondrian’s movements for the past four years — just the way you’ve tracked mine. That’s what a Security department is for. And Mondrian’s records show that he s been coming to Earth an average of five times a year, ever since we started tracking. He knows this place well.”

“But what’s he do down here?”

Brachis shook his head. “1 don’t know — and if I did, I’m not sure I’d tell you. Not unless you’ve decided you want to work for me, instead of him. Come on.” When they reached Mondrian he was already sitting quietly on the bench, staring thoughtfully around him at the surrounding group of Madworlders. Once King Bester had been picked out by Mondrian, the rest of them had given up their importuning. Now they stood a few yards away, watching the three visitors with frank curiosity. They were nudging each other, grinning, and whispering comments in the old Earth languages.

Flammarion sat down on the bench next to Mondrian. He stared suspiciously at the wooden seat, and at the flat surface beneath his feet. It was old, weathered brick, with half-inch spaces between the worn blocks. Tiny ants were hurrying out of the open cracks to explore the sides of the men’s boots. They showed most interest in Kubo Flammarion, drawn by the interesting smell of unwashed flesh. He shuffled his feet from side to side, keeping a wary eye on the energetic insects.

Luther Brachis remained standing, his attention on the crowd. “This is all quite futile, Esro,” he said after another half-minute. “Just look at them. Can you really see any one of those cretins being accepted into a Stellar Group pursuit team? I mean, would you even consider one for your own security staff? We’re wasting our time.”

Mondrian recognized the beginning of another skirmish. So far as the ambassadors were concerned it was all decided, with Luther Brachis reporting to Mondrian for everything that concerned the Anabasis. But the two men had not yet settled into their new relationship. Brachis was still responsible for Solar Security, and he had retained full control of that department. His power was undiminished.

The two men had been equals and rivals for years. There had been a mutual understanding that one day there would be a final piece of infighting, in which one or the other would gain overall authority. Both Brachis and Mondrian had accepted that. What Mondrian knew Brachis would not accept, any more than he would have accepted it himself, was victory by arbitrary fiat — victory unrelated to (or inversely related to) performance.