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IPCC responded by constructing a new headquarters of obvious permanence, situated near the O-Shar-Shan circus.
    Maloof and Myron set off along tree-shaded Pomare Boulevard, walking under dangling white blossoms from which drifted a barely perceptible and so tantalizing musky-sweet perfume. They might also have jumped aboard one of the picturesque open-sided omnibuses which plied the boulevard, long high-wheeled charabancs carrying tourists and Flauts alike between the spaceport and the O-Shar-Shan circus.
    The two passed the Labor Exchange. Lined up at the counter were the pilgrims receiving referrals to potential employers. None showed enthusiasm toward the prospect of employment. Cooner, dissatisfied with his referral, stood leaning over the counter, half-prancing with indignation, angrily waving his referral in the air, trying to catch the attention of the clerk who gave him a glance of mild wonder before turning back to his work.
    Maloof and Myron continued along the boulevard and presently passed the office of the Tarquin Transit Agency. In the adjacent yard rental vehicles were ranked: flitters, resembling disheveled winged insects built of bamboo and membrane, of local manufacture except for the imported power units. Each was unique, built to the dictates of possibly amateur designers. The wheeled vehicles, known locally as ‘skitters’, like the flitters, were of ad hoc construction, with struts, frames and braces installed where the builder thought they would do the most good. Some were decorated with arrays of banderoles, others with bouquets of artificial flowers. At the back of the lot several lordly way-cars were ranked, awaiting the pleasure of those who wished to roam the wilderness in comfort, if not luxury. The firm also announced itself as agent for the rental of houseboats moored in every river and waterway of Fluter.
    Maloof and Myron continued along the boulevard, almost brushed by the white dangling blossoms. They came to the Pingis Tavern and stopped short to appraise the rustic structure. Maloof mused: “It is early, of course, but I wonder if Wingo and Schwatzendale might have paused here to test the local ale. This is a subject they always find of interest.”
    “Not unlikely,” said Myron. “The idea would certainly occur to them.”
    Without further words the two climbed the three steps to the porch and entered the tavern. Halting, they surveyed the dim interior. Behind the bar was a bartender of middle age; in a corner two old women sat engrossed in a game of some sort.
    Maloof asked the bartender: “Have our friends looked in this morning? One is plump, round-faced, with a rather pink complexion and going bald. He would be wearing a pale brown cloak. The other is dark-haired and nervous, wearing a shirt of striking green and black diaper pattern, so that he seems a harlequin.”
    The bartender placed both hands on the bar and frowned toward the old women, then his face cleared into remembrance. “Two gentlemen stepped in this morning. One was sturdy, with a kind pink face. The other was all elbows and knees, with eyes that looked in two directions at once.” He grinned and shook his head, caught up by some marvelous recollection. “Now I recall everything. They drank three tankards each of Number Three Pooncho Punch. Despite my earnest advice, they called for a fourth tankard, which they consumed. They are now resting in the back room; in due course they will arouse themselves and manfully set out to face what remains of the day. I could have given them a gill each of the Number Four Pooncho, but I thought better of it. The Four sometimes has startling effects. While you wait, will you each take a Pooncho to foster your own vigor?”
    “At this moment, no,” said Maloof. “Perhaps the next time we pass. You say that our friends are resting in comfort?”
    “Just so. They are as limp as dead eels.”
    Thus reassured Maloof and Myron left the tavern. Not far ahead the boulevard entered