"It is, in essence, a complicated blackmailing scheme. The Patrunes might have been victimized had we not taken decisive steps."

"I see. Although the Famines, of all folk, would be difficult to blackmail. They are a law to themselves--which is one reason the IPCC is not represented on Natrice. The Patrunes mete out their own justice, regardless of all else.

Since the Sanart Scientists do the same, you can understand that friction and hostility often occur."

"Where would we find Sir Mathor and Sir Lonas?"

"Sir Mathor naturally inhabits the historic Borph estate out of Halcyon, across the Mirling. Sir Lonas, so I understand, is his boon companion and aide, and shares his residence."

"And how do we go to the Borph estate?"

"It is simple enough. You fly the Mirling to Halcyon, hire a cab and ride thirty miles or so along the shore. The flyer leaves every half hour, so if you make the connection, the trip will require about an hour and a half, or two hours at the most. It is probably too late to attempt the trip today."

"That is my opinion also," said Glawen.

"Now: one final word. We want to find Sir Mathor at home when we call, and if he knew we were

coming he might make himself unavailable. You have no plans to call Sir Mathor, thinking to do him a favor?"

Sirrah Kyrbs smiled grimly.

"I intend to isolate myself as far as possible from this business."

"That is prudent."

"I will go so far as to advise you. You will need a hat, against the rays of Blaise, and because it is proper outdoor wear. You will find a selection of hats in your room. The broad-brimmed white skimmer is appropriate for daytime journeys."

"Thank you, both for the advice and the information."

Glawen and Kirdy passed the remainder of the afternoon in idle pursuits. They wandered through the shops along the Parade, watched the activity at the hotel swimming pool, inspected the periodicals in the reading room and late in the afternoon retired to the saloon-lounge for a sundowner.

An hour later they went up to their rooms to change clothes for dinner: a convention rigorously enforced at the Hotel Rolinda.

Glawen found proper garments laid out for him, the hotel valet having looked through his luggage to discover nothing suitable. Glawen surveyed the garments: trousers of glossy black woven floss, a dark saffron blouse, a deep scarlet coat with black facings, short in front, swallow-tailed in back, a two-inch black headband with a pair of modish ornaments of fine silver wire trembling above, like insect antennae.

When Glawen had dressed, he stood an indecisive moment, then abruptly left the room and descended to the lobby. He seated himself where he could watch the ever-fascinating movement of the other guests, and composed himself to wait.

Twenty minutes passed before Kirdy appeared, looking uncomfortable and somewhat gauche in the formal garments, as if they were a size too small. His mouth was compressed, presumably by reason of annoyance at Glawen's failure to consult Kirdy in regard to his movements.

Glawen made no comment. He rose to his feet and in stiff silence the two crossed the vast expanses of the lobby and went out into the garden restaurant.

Tonight they were seated at a table ten yards deep into the foliage, in illusory but convincing and totally pleasant isolation. A blue-green luminosity pervaded the area, apparently deriving from the foliage itself. Glawen theorized that a fluorescent substance had been mingled with the vegetable saps and serums, then stimulated to luminosity by radiation from a high source.

Glawen and Kirdy sat on intricately patterned brown, black and white cushions in fan-backed chairs of woven rattan, of a style originated thousands of years before in the ancient Orient of Old Earth, and the rattan squeaked and creaked to their movements. A cloth of black, brown and white covered the table; the implements were carved from wood. Red orchids dangled overhead; to the side a cluster of white lobelia blooms glowed with an ivory-white light. Music, of that style known as Old Gitanesque, barely audible, waxed and waned as if carried by a breeze from a site of distant revelry.

Kirdy found the restaurant and its appurtenances impressive.

"Competent brains have been at work! They have created a romantic and dramatic ambience! All tinsel, fakery and nonsense, of course but well done!"

"That's how it seems to me," said Glawen, wondering what this new aspect of Kirdy might signify, if anything.

"But it's genuine fakery, and not imitation."

"Exactly so!" declared Kirdy in a large rich voice.

"Through human dedication the place is transformed from a mishmash to a thing in itself! I will go so far as to call it a true work of art, since it answers all the critical questions. It is artificial, and uses natural elements to transcend Nature which is the very definition of art. Do you agree?"

"I see no reason to disagree," said Glawen. This particular version of Kirdy seemed rather like that pompous, philosophical Kirdy of five years before.

"Of course, I've heard other definitions. Everyone seems to have a definition or two tucked away for occasions such as this."

"Indeed? What is yours?"

"For the moment it slips my mind. Baron Bodissy uses 'art' as a synonym for 'claptrap' but I may be quoting him out of context. He'd probably endorse your notion of the restaurant as an art form. For a fact, I don't see why it doesn't qualify."

Kirdy had lost interest in the idea. He gave his head that now-familiar shake of wistful recollection.

"When I was a Mummer I never guessed that places like this existed.

Floreste knew, but he kept us Mummers in the dark."

Ha, thought Glawen. Kirdy's analytical phase had been superseded by what Glawen thought of as "the autobiographer."

"We hardly knew which planet we were on," mused Kirdy.

"The hotels always smelled strangely, of indecisive antiseptic, and were either too hot or too cold. The food was always bad although here on Natrice, we'd sometimes play a party at one of the Patrune houses and they always fed us fine delicacies. Ah! Those were good feasts!" Kirdy grinned at the recollection.

"At places like Mirlview House, things were far different. We'd be served fried porridge with boiled greens, or steamed dogfish with curds, or pickled squash and tripes. At least no one was tempted to overeat not even Aries, who spent all his pocket money on sweets. Still, we had merry times." Kirdy looked at Glawen in speculation.

"You never were a Mummer: I wonder why."

"I have none of the right skills."

"No more did I, or Aries. Floreste made us into Primordials and Ogres and Thunder-demons, where no great skill was required. Yes, those were good times! No doubt it's much the same now. Different faces, different voices, but the same larks and laughter." Kirdy's expression became remote and soft.

"Of course I couldn't perform worth a whisker anymore."

Kirdy continued with his memories until Glawen became bored and changed the subject.

"Tomorrow should be an important day."

"I hope we learn more than we did today."

"Today wasn't a total loss. We discovered another actor in the drama."

"Oh? Who is that?"

"A young off-world woman who buys tickets to Cadwal in blocks of six."