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inspecting his manor, the Eastern Quarter where something like one and a half per cent of the population were said to owe him allegiance. Curdy always thought of it that way, the measured way. Converted into terms of individuals, it was staggering—made his eyes unfocus and sliced down his self-control.
    He got back on the sidewalk at the East Hundredth stage—East Hundredth being the street the yonder boys called Holy Alley because it was Jockey Hole’s, from the lodging blocks at the southern end to the warehouses at the northern. He dropped questions at the pleasure pad called the Venus, simply because it was the first hangout he passed. No one important was around.
    Four doors along, he tried the Octopus Bar, which was a spare headquarters of Jockey’s, the place where he was to be found most evenings. The boss wasn’t in. Someone said to try the Pleasuredrome because they were rehearsing a new historical pageant and Jockey had an interest. The Pleasuredrome was on Holy Alley.
    The Pleasuredrome, though, was closed when Curdy got down to it, it being the middle of the day and the ’drome being a nighttime haunt. It took Curdy a fair amount of searching to find a side entry; when he did, and when he emerged into the dark echoing empty interior, he ran into a one-eyed gorilla.
    The gorilla could have been a pug, only he looked more alert than pugs usually did. Curdy stood quite still, hands relaxed at his sides. He said, “Jockey Hole here?”
    The gorilla nodded, his one eye sharp and bright like a diamond. “So?”
    “So I bring news. Hot news. He’ll want to hear!”
    “Okay, so spit the string an’ I’ll spin it along.”
    Curdy would have spat in the diamond eye at that. Was he going to be cheated of his bonus? No gorilla going to take a split of it. But the gorilla was six foot three and his shoulders were naturally broad; Curdy was five eleven and his shoulders were padded. He weighed and measured and started talking persuasively. He was still at it when Jockey came out from the arena.
    Gaffles was with him, and six bodyguards; they weren’t matched up the way Lyken’s six giants were, but they still made a pretty impressive retinue. They paused when they came into the passage that Curdy and the gorilla were blocking; a word and a sign from Jockey, and Gaffles came forward alone. He was Jockey’s right hand; he was the gorilla’s size and if you hadn’t known you’d have said he had status, from the way he dressed, the way he spoke. Only not now. He barked at the gorilla in dregtalk.
    “Chay, Redeye! What’s with, what’s with?”
    The gorilla half-turned, sullenly, sensing opportunity slipping away. He grunted and drew back. Curdy addressed Gaffles.
    “I bring news, Gaffles. It was hot, but Redeye let it cool awhile. I been fifteen minutes here now.”
    “Hot hot he says!” The gorilla broke in contemptuously. “Prolly not worth a trip with Tacket!”
    Gaffles ignored him. His careful eyes studied Curdy’s face.
    “You’re Curdy Wence, ain’t that right?” he said. “Ah-hah. What’s the news, then? What’s it with?”
    “Lyken,” said Curdy succinctly.
    “With Lyken, that’s hot.” Jockey’s quiet voice cut in from the background, and he came forward with his guards. “Yes, Curdy—spit the string.”
    Curdy still hadn’t quite got over his automatic nervousness at speaking to Jockey face to face. The first time he’d nearly stammered with excitement. This time he measured it, all of it, and the words came smooth and easy.
    “Ahmed Lyken was in The Market this morning around eleven-forty. He left a few minutes after noon. He looked fury-o!”
    “Ah-hah! Something happen?”
    “There was this one in the crowd. Brown coverup, average height, automat barberclip, brown hair plain, all like anyone. But he didn’t look like a dreg, didn’t smell like a dreg, and when he shouted out to Lyken he didn’t sound like a dreg. In my tapes, that’s curio.”
    “In mine too.”