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allowed to fend for themselves, turned out to make room for the next generation—but were beholden for life to The Fox for seven-eighths of their income—and so well-trained were they that few, if any, questioned the fairness of such an exorbitant tithe. There were those, of course, who rebelled, and they simply were not seen again for The Fox did not allow paternal instincts to interfere with business, and none of the children questioned this, either.
    At the time Mr. Gerber sold the child who was to become Captain Judikha to Hipner Pilnipott, the latter had been operating his syndicate for more than thirty-five years and had turned whole armies of larcenous urchins onto the streets; indeed, there was much to support the suggestion that in all likelihood the entire criminal class of the Transmoltus—and a dozen other cities both in Tamlaght and on the Continent—had its origins in the nurseries of The Fox.

    Gerber depended upon his quarterly sales of ten to fifteen infants to The Fox for the greater part of his business. No more so than this particular time when his wagon held less than a third of its usual capacity. His accustomed sources had disappointed him terribly—mostly due to the combined effects of the drought and the volcano. Had he even suspected the appearance of the latter he certainly would have taken the northerly and easterly routes. He hadn’t, of course, and had instead found himself wandering uselessly around a blistered and fruitless landscape. So it goes.
    Upon his arrival in the Transmoltus, he carefully pruned his stock—what was left, of course, after natural attrition. Some of the survivors were so sickly he knew there would be no point in showing them to The Fox. These he let go to his discounters at a loss. This left him with a miserable fifteen or so—a scant fraction of his usual selection. The Fox would be terribly disappointed, but there it was.
    He had this dozen-odd cleaned up and kept them for a few days to give them a chance to fatten a touch, gritting his teeth at the cost of the milk, even though he purchased the soured, clotted, plaster-adulterated stuff at a considerable discount.
    The Fox was, as Gerber half expected he would be, very disappointed.
    “Hardly a decent showing this season,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet, two sure signs that he was annoyed.
    “Scant pickings, what with the drought and all,” Gerber explained, aggravated at having to apologize. “And the volcano.”
    “Surely people haven’t stopped breeding? You’d think with all the farms dried up they’d have nothing else to do with their time.”
    “So I would have thought,” agreed the broker, “but such did not prove to be the case.”
    “Well, let’s see what we have then.”
    The Fox waddled up and down the line of baskets that Gerber had placed in a neat row on the floor. He paced with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, his short arms barely allowing him to do this, stopping occasionally to rock back and forth on his little feet, as he considered first one infant, than another. He made little clucking noises with his tongue that made Gerber’s sweaty fists clench.
    “All things considered,” The Fox said, finally, “it’s not a bad collection, even given the small number.”
    “Thank you,” replied the broker, reluctant to acknowledge a welling surge of relief.
    “Well, let’s see here. Might as well get right down to business.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Hm. I’ll take these first three here. And that one. Um, that one. Those two. How many is that?”
    “Uh, seven, Mr. The Fox, sir.”
    “Hm. This one looks likely. And those two, and the one next to those, and...hm...oh, that one, too, I suppose.”
    “That’s twelve, sir,” offered Gerber, scarcely able to believe his luck—and The Fox did not yet appear to be finished!
    “Twelve, eh? Well...I rather fancied that one and that one too. Might as well take ‘em. How many’s