“That sounds inhumane, my lord. He might appeal.”

“And be tried for murder?”

She gave up. “Your ways are new, my lord. You have seen your way into the Rediscovery of Man. Letting people suffer. Letting things go wrong. I was brought up on the old philosophy — if you see wrong, right it.”

“And I saw,” said Jestocost, “that we were dying of perfection.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said she wearily. “You have this rich man covered, I suppose?”

“As well as I can manage,” said Jestocost.

“That’s perfect, then,” said she with an air of finality. “I just hope you haven’t gotten him mixed up with that queer hobby of yours.”

“Queer hobby?” said Jestocost in a courtly fashion, with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Underpeople,” she said with a tone of disgust. “Underpeople. I like you, Jestocost, but your fussing about those animals sometimes makes me sick.”

He did not argue. He stood very still and looked at her. She knew he was avoiding a provocation. He was her senior, so she offered him a very slight curtsey and left the room.

A bear-woman, complete with starched cap and nurse’s uniform, pushed the wheelchair of the Lord Crudelta into the room. Jestocost looked up from the situation shows which he had been watching. When he saw who it was, he offered Crudelta a deep bow indeed. The bear-woman, flustered by this famous place and all the great dignitaries whom she was meeting, spoke up in a singularly high voice,

“My lord and master Crudelta, may I leave you here?”

“Yes. Go. I will call for you later. Go to the bathroom on your way out. It’s on the right.”

“My lord — !” she gasped with embarrassment.

“You wouldnt have dared if I hadn’t told you. I’ve been watching your mind for the last half-hour. Now go along.”

The bear-woman fled with a rustle of her starched skirts.

When Crudelta looked directly at him, Jestocost gave him a very deep bow. In lifting his eyes he looked directly into the face of the old, old man and said, with something near pride in his voice,

“Still up to your old tricks, my lord and colleague Crudelta!”

“And you to yours, Jestocost. How are you going to get that boy out of the sewers?”

“What boy? What sewers?”

“Our sewers. The boy you sold this tower to.”

For once, Jestocost was flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. Then he collected himself and said, “You’re a knowledgeable man, my lord Crudelta.”

“That I am,” said Crudelta, “and a thousand years older than you, to boot. That was my reward for coming back from the Nothing-at-all.”

“I know that, sir.” Jestocost’s full, pleasant face did not show worry, but he studied the old man across from him with extreme care. In his prime, the Lord Crudelta had been the greatest of the Lords of the Instrumentality, a telepath of whom the other lords were always a little afraid, because he picked minds so deftly and quickly that he was the best mental pickpocket who had ever lived. A strong conservative, he had never opposed a specific policy because it ran counter to his general appetites. He had, for example, carried the vote for the Rediscovery of Man by coming out of retirement and tongue-lashing the whole Council into a corner with his vehement support for reform. Jestocost had never liked him — who could like a rapier tongue, a mind of unfathomable brilliance, a cold old ego which neither offered nor asked companionship? Jestocost knew that if the old man had caught on to the Rod McBan adventure, he might be on the trail of Jestocost’s earlier deal with — no, no, no! don’t think it here, not with those eyes watching.

“I know about that, too,” said the old old man.

“What?”

“The secret you are trying most of all to hide.”

Jestocost stood submissive, waiting for the blow to fall.

The old man laughed. Most people would have expected a cackle from that handsome fresh young face with the withered spidery body. They would have been fooled. The laugh was full-bodied, genuine and warm.

“Redlady’s a fool,” said Crudelta.

“I think so too,” said Jestocost, “but what are your reasons, my lord and master?”

“Sending that young man off his own planet when he has so much wealth and so little experience.”

Jestocost nodded, not wanting to say anything until the old man had made his line of attack plain.

“I like your idea, however,” said the Lord Crudelta. “Sell him the Earth and then tax him for it. But what is your ultimate aim? Making him Emperor of the Planet Earth, in the old style? Murdering him? Driving him mad? Having the cat-girl of yours seduce him and then send him home a bankrupt? I admit I have thought of all these too, but I didn’t see how any of them would fit in with your passion for justice. But there’s one thing you can’t do, Jestocost. You can’t sell him the planet Earth and then have him stay here and manage it. He might want to use this tower for his residence. That would be too much. I am too old to move out. And he mustn’t roll up that ocean out there and take it home for a souvenir. You’ve all been very clever, my lord — clever enough to be fools. You have created an unnecessary crisis. What are you going to get out of it?”

Jestocost plunged. The old man must have picked his own mind. Nowhere else could he have put all the threads of the case together. Jestocost decided on the truth and the whole truth. He started with the day that the Big Blink rang in the enormous transactions in stroon futures, financial gambles which soon reached out of the commodity markets of Old North Australia and began to unbalance the economy of all the civilized worlds. He started to explain who Redlady was—

“Don’t tell me that,” cried the Lord Crudelta. “It was I who caught him, sentenced him to death, and then argued to have the sentence set aside. He’s not a bad man, but he’s a sly one, that he is. He’s smart enough to be an utter and complete fool when he gets wound up in his logical plots. I’ll wager you a minicredit to a credit that he has already murdered somebody by now. He always does. He has a taste for theatrical violence. But go back to your story. Tell me what you plan to do. If I like it, I will help you. If I don’t like it, I will have the whole story before a plenum of the council this very morning, and you know that they will tear your bright idea to shreds. They will probably seize the boy’s property, send him to a hospital, and have him come out speaking Basque as a flamenco player. You know as well as I do that the Instrumentality is very generous with other people’s property, but pretty ruthless when it comes to any threat directed against itself. After all, I was one of the men who wiped out Raumsog.”

Jestocost began to talk very quietly, very calmly. He spoke with the assurance of an accountant who, books in order, is explaining an intricate point to his manager. Old himself, he was a child compared to the antiquity and wisdom of the Lord Crudelta. He went into details, including the ultimate disposition of Rod McBan. He even shared with the Lord Crudelta his sympathies for the underpeople and his own very secret, very quiet struggle to improve their position. The only thing which he did not mention was the E’telekeli and the counter-brain which the underpeople had set up in Downdeep-downdeep. If the old man knew it, he knew it, and Jestocost couldn’t stop him, but if he did not know it, there was no point in telling him.

The Lord Crudelta did not respond with senile enthusiasm or childish laughter. He reverted, not to his childhood but to his maturity; with great dignity and force he said:

“I approve. I understand. You have my proxy if you need it. Call that nurse to come and get me. I thought you were a clever fool, Jestocost. You sometimes are. This time you are showing that you have a heart as well as a head. One thing more. Bring that doctor Vomact back from Mars soon, and don’t torment Teadrinker too long, just for the sake of being clever. I might take it into my mind to torment you.”