"Under almost any circumstances we should have heard the distress signal, if only a single yelp. We heard nothing, and nothing registered on the monitor. We found no wreckage. That's all I know for sure. What about you? What has happened to cause such pessimistic rumors? You look pale but strong."

"I've been exercising in a cave." Glawen told Chiike of his adventures, then brought out the photograph he had taken from Zaa's desk.

"What do you make of this?"

Chiike studied the photograph with care.

"Those are stern-looking ladies. Unless my eyes deceive me, I see my old friend Madame Zigonie, who still owes me money."

"Which is she?"

"This one, third from the left. When I knew her she wore her hair longer, or it might have been a wig. Who are these ladies?"

"Members of a philosophical cult. They call themselves Monomant- ics. This one here is Sibil, who was in charge out at Thurben Island. This one is the Ordene Zaa, who fell in love with me--I guess you would call it that. I escaped by climbing down a rope of torn bed sheets, and I'm truly glad to be home: such as it is."

"Why do you say that?"

"Namour is now a Clattuc and I'm a collateral. You have more status than I do."

"It makes one wonder," said Chiike.

Glawen returned to Wook House. He went to the library and spent

the rest of the morning cogitating and making notes. Bodwyn Wook came past. He patted Glawen's shoulder.

"I am happy to see you taking some rest. You have been through a great deal and now you need time to readjust! Doze on! No one will disturb you until lunchtime."

Glawen looked up indignantly.

"I am awake; in fact, I am thinking."

Bodwyn Wook laughed indulgently.

"Surely, in Zab Zonk's tomb you must have thought your fill, to the point of repletion!"

"These are different thoughts, and rather more interesting.

But I have something to show you." Glawen produced the photograph.

Bodwyn Week's eyes suddenly became sharp as skewers.

"Where did you get this?"

"At Pogan's Point, from the Ordene's desk." Glawen pointed to a face.

"This is Zaa. And this is Sibil."

"Why did you not show me this before?"

"I wanted to see if Chiike could identify his "Madame Zigonie." Then I would have something to show you."

"And could he? But let me guess. It was this lady here."

"Right! How did you know?"

"At one time she was known as Smonny--which is to say, Simonetta, Spanchetta's little sister."

Glawen studied the faces with new interest.

"Now that you mention it, I can see a resemblance." .

"If you will allow me, I will take charge of this photograph," said Bodwyn Wook.

"Let us say nothing about it to anyone. I will instruct Chiike along these lines. It is most intriguing information."

"Namour must know."

Bodwyn Wook settled into a chair beside Glawen.

"One day we will catch Namour out in one of his peccadillos, and then all his precious secrets will be revealed in full dimension, in glowing color, fresh and vivid!"

"Namour will be careful to give you no such opportunity."

"That has been true so far. Incidentally, I had a few words with Drusilla this rooming, and she confirms Floreste's guilt with eager protestations of virtue." Bodwyn Wook squinted down at the papers in front of Glawen.

"What are all these notes and lists?"

"They represent points still obscure to me: mysteries, if you like."

Bodwyn Wook peered down at the notes.

"So many? I thought that we had wiped the slate clean of mysteries."

"For one thing, I am puzzled by Floreste's easy connection with the Monomantics. I want to put some questions to him."

"Hmm. If you wish to question Floreste, why not? It will be good

practice for you, if nothing else. I spoke with him this morning, but learned nothing. He is master of a tantalizing opacity, which at last becomes unendurable. You will fare no better."

"Unless he takes me lightly and becomes careless."

"Possible. Be prepared to deal with a saintly martyr, whose only crime is artistic expression. I pointed out the virulence of his deeds, but he only laughed gently, as if he knew better than I. The folk of Araminta Station had never truly appreciated his great genius, so he assured me. He considers himself a 'citizen of the universe." Araminta Station is a turgid little backwater, with a stupid and incestuous social system, which rewards its fools and blunderers and forces its talented folk to fulfill themselves elsewhere. These are his words, not mine, and of course they contain a leavening of half-truths.

"In any event and for an instant we catch a glimpse of the naked and unadorned Floreste what has Araminta Station done for him? Where are his official honors and high rank, his wealth and private mansion! How is his great genius rewarded? In a patter of applause for his marvelous productions and the patronage of the Fine Arts Committee. I pointed out that he was basically no more than a skillful public entertainer, and it was not our way to sanctify or ennoble such folk. He said no more, but clearly he has no love for either the Conservancy or the Charter or Araminta Station."

"I wonder why he should want to build his new Orpheum here?"

"Where else? The situation is ideal. Why not put the question to Floreste? From sheer perversity he will evade a direct answer. He is impervious."