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O-Shar-Shan circus, across from the wonderful O-Shar-Shan terrace, where tourists wearing their most splendid regalia sat under gay parasols drinking fizzes, punches and toddies from tall bamboo mugs. They were on hand early, to see and be seen. In modes of feigned languor and sophisticated indifference, they covertly studied the folk at nearby tables, speculating as to their places of origin, social status and moral standards. From time to time charabancs stopped before the terrace. Passengers disembarked, others were loaded aboard, and the charabanc set off on a new sortie into the wilderness.
    Around the circus skitters of a dozen sorts rolled, veering in and out of the usual traffic patterns, careening from lane to lane, high wheels whirring and thumping. The drivers sat proudly erect in the approved posture, regarding other drivers with disdain as if questioning their competence. The three-wheelers appealed to persons of feckless disposition who rode high behind the two after-wheels, with the third wheel on a boom thrust forward like an instrument of attack. Vanities were raised aloft on struts clamped to the forward boom: a peacock’s fan, a winged cherub blowing a clarion, a grotesque head with features articulated to contort in hideous grimaces as the vehicle moved along. The drivers tended to be critical of each other, and easily became outraged by faulty or intemperate techniques. They called out advice, often waving their arms to indicate the nature of the other’s mistake, which usually evoked responsive comments and significant gestures.
    A few yards short of the circus a walkway led off under tall yews to an impressive stone structure. A vertical line of bronze capitals beside the door read: IPCC. At the approach of Maloof and Myron the door slid aside and after they had entered, slid softly shut.
    The two stood in a large high-ceilinged chamber which, like the exterior, conveyed a sense of uncompromising certitude. The walls were washed severely white and were unadorned except for the IPCC starburst emblem high on the back wall. The floor was paved with pale grey tile; there was a functional minimum of austere furniture. Behind the desk sat a man who might have been purposely selected for the office itself. He was in his early maturity, with dark golden hair and intelligent blue eyes. A plaque on his desk identified him as ‘Captain Skahy Serle’. He rose to his feet and waited as Maloof and Myron approached, then indicated chairs. “Good morning, gentlemen; be seated, if you will.”
    When they had seated themselves, he resumed his own place behind the desk. “Now then: introduce yourselves and tell me how I can be of service.”
    “Very well. I am Adair Maloof, master of the ship Glicca , now at the local spaceport; this is Myron Tany, my First Assistant. To begin with, we need information. After that, much depends upon what you can tell us.”
    “Please continue.”
    “We are trying to locate a certain Loy Tremaine, who may now be on Fluter. Do you care to hear the background details? They are a trifle sordid.”
    Serle smiled. “I am not easily disturbed! I have nothing better to do than make out the monthly reports, which I can easily assign to Jervis, my subaltern.”
    Maloof collected his thoughts. “About a year ago I took the Glicca to Traven on the world Morlock, for two reasons. The Glicca needed modifications and an overhaul, and I wanted to visit my father and mother who resided at Traven. My father had accumulated substantial wealth and I expected to find them in comfortable retirement in their home on Sunset Hill. I discovered that time had not dealt kindly with them.
    “Ill health had overtaken my father; he had lost most of his initiative and now demanded from life nothing more than quiet and the solace of his books. My mother, on the other hand, had thrown herself into a whirl of social activities. She had become giddy and a bit senile, and was desperately trying to recapture the