The conspirators had forged the minutes themselves, and the top item was: “C’mell daughter to C’mackintosh, cat-stock (pure) lot 1138, confession of. Subject: conspiracy to export homuncular material. Reference: planet De Prinsensmacht.”

The Lady Johanna Gnade had already pushed the buttons for the planet concerned. The people there, Earth by origin, were enormously strong but they had gone to great pains to maintain the original Earth appearance. One of their first-men was at the moment on Earth. He bore the title of the Twilight Prince (Prins van de Schemering) and he was on a mixed diplomatic and trading mission.

Since Jestocost was a little late, C’mell was being brought into the room as he glanced over the minutes.

The Lord Not-from-here asked Jestocost if he would preside.

“I beg you, sir and scholar,” he said, “to join me in asking the Lord Issan to preside this time.”

The presidency was a formality. Jestocost could watch the Bell and Bank better if he did not have to chair the meeting too.

C’mell wore the clothing of a prisoner. On her it looked good. He had never seen her wearing anything but girly-girl clothes before. The pale-blue prison tunic made her look very young, very human, very tender and very frightened. The cat family showed only in the fiery cascade of her hair and the lithe power of her body as she sat, demure and erect.

Lord Issan asked her: “You have confessed. Confess again.”

“This man,” and she pointed at a picture of the Twilight Prince, “wanted to go to the place where they torment human children for a show.”

“What!” cried three of the Lords together.

“What place?” said the Lady Johanna, who was bitterly in favor of kindness.

“It’s run by a man who looks like this gentleman here,” said C’mell, pointing at Jestocost. Quickly, so that nobody could stop her, but modestly, so that none of them thought to doubt her, she circled the room and touched Jestocost’s shoulder. He felt a thrill of contact-telepathy and heard bird-cackle in her brain. Then he knew that the E-telekeli was in touch with her.

“The man who has the place,” said C’mell, “is five pounds lighter than this gentleman, two inches shorter, and he has red hair. His place is at the Cold Sunset corner of Earthport, down the boulevard and under the boulevard. Underpeople, some of them with bad reputations, live in that neighborhood.”

The Bell went milky, flashing through hundreds of combinations of bad underpeople in that part of the city. Jestocost felt himself staring at the casual milkiness with unwanted concentration.

The Bell cleared.

It showed the vague image of a room in which children were playing Hallowe’en tricks.

The Lady Johanna laughed, “Those aren’t people. They’re robots. It’s just a dull old play.”

“Then,” added C’mell, “he wanted a dollar and a shilling to take home. Real ones. There was a robot who had found some.”

“What are those?” said Lord Issan.

“Ancient money—the real money of old America and old Australia,” cried Lord William. “I have copies, but there are no originals outside the state museum.” He was an ardent, passionate collector of coins.

“The robot found them in an old hiding place right under Earth-port.”

Lord William almost shouted at the Bell. “Run through every hiding place and get me that money.”

The Bell clouded. In finding the bad neighborhoods it had flashed every police point in the Northwest sector of the tower. Now it scanned all the police points under the tower, and ran dizzily through thousands of combinations before it settled on an old toolroom. A robot was polishing circular pieces of metal.

When Lord William saw the polishing, he was furious. “Get that here,” he shouted. “I want to buy those myself!”

“All right,” said Lord Issan. “It’s a little irregular, but all right.”

The machine showed the key search devices and brought the robot to the escalator.

The Lord Issan said, “This isn’t much of a case.”

C’mell sniveled. She was a good actress. “Then he wanted me to get a homunculus egg. One of the E-type, derived from birds, for him to take home.”

Issan put on the search device.

“Maybe,” said C’mell, “somebody has already put it in the disposal series.”

The Bell and the Bank ran through all the disposal devices at high speed. Jestocost felt his nerves go on edge. No human being could have memorized these thousands of patterns as they flashed across the Bell too fast for human eyes, but the brain reading the Bell through his eyes was not human. It might even be locked into a computer of its own. It was, thought Jestocost, an indignity for a Lord of the Instrumentality to be used as a human spy-glass.

The machine blotted up.

“You’re a fraud,” cried the Lord Issan. “There’s no evidence.”

“Maybe the offworlder tried,” said the Lady Johanna.

“Shadow him,” said Lord William. “If he would steal ancient coins he would steal anything.”

The Lady Johanna turned to C’mell. “You’re a silly thing. You have wasted our time and you have kept us from serious inter-world business.”

“It is inter-world business,” wept C’mell. She let her hand slip from Jestocost’s shoulder, where it had rested all the time. The body-to-body relay broke and the telepathic link broke with it.

“We should judge that,” said Lord Issan.

“You might have been punished,” said Lady Johanna.

The Lord Jestocost had said nothing, but there was a glow of happiness in him. If the E-telekeli was half as good as he seemed, the underpeople had a list of checkpoints and escape routes which would make it easier to hide from the capricious sentence of painless death which human authorities meted out.

5

There was singing in the corridors that night.

Underpeople burst into happiness for no visible reason.

C’mell danced a wild cat dance for the next customer who came in from outworld stations, that very evening. When she got home to bed, she knelt before the picture of her father C’mackintosh and thanked the E-telekeli for what Jestocost had done.

But the story became known a few generations later, when the Lord Jestocost had won acclaim for being the champion of the underpeople and when the authorities, still unaware of E-telekeli, accepted the elected representatives of the underpeople as negotiators for better terms of life; and C’mell had died long since.

She had first had a long, good life.

She became a female chef when she was too old to be a girly girl. Her food was famous. Jestocost once visited her. At the end of the meal he had asked, “There’s a silly rhyme among the underpeople. No human beings know it except me.”

“I don’t care about rhymes,” she said.

“This is called The what-she-did.’ ”

C’mell blushed all the way down to the neckline of her capacious blouse. She had filled out a lot in middle age. Running the restaurant had helped.