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expression became one of disapproval, in keeping with her character, the director beamed and said with a nod, “At least you’re honest. Please, go right ahead and take it.”
    “Much obliged.”
    Hunching his massive form, Beatrice opened the bag, pulled out two coins, and looked at them with distress before nodding to himself and putting one back.
    Fighting back a laugh, Director Manpoole bowed to him politely.
    “Mrs. Denon, take this,” she said, entrusting the bag to the assistant director.
    “So, what might be your connection to Franco Gilbey?” she inquired.
    “Er, his father asked me to do this.”
    “Franco still has a father?”
    “Yeah, sort of.”
    “Where is he, and what does he do?”
    Beatrice hastily replied, “Well, it’s—nothing special, really. He’s a traveling painter.”
    “Well, I’ll be.”
    “A month ago, I made his acquaintance in a town in the eastern Frontier, you see. That’s where he gave me those coins. Well, there must be a lot of dough—I mean, money —to be made painting pictures. He said he really hated to admit it, but he had a kid he’d left with this orphanage ten years ago. He couldn’t face him. So he asked if I could at least go see if he was growing up fine—and, well, that’s about all there is to it, sure enough.”
    “In that case, please take all the time you need.”
    “Well, we’re in a hurry.”
    “I see. I’ll have him summoned,” she said, nodding to the two men.
    “No, you don’t have to do that. If I can see him from a distance, that’ll be fine. That’s all I was asked to do, so there’s no need to talk to him. I figure I can write his father a letter about how it went.”
    Miss Manpoole looked bemused, but since occasionally they had this sort of request, she quickly got to her feet.
    “Well, then, come with me. You too, Mrs. Denon.”

LEGEND OF THE SUPERNATURAL TROOPS

    CHAPTER 3
    —
    I
    —
    The group of four went out into the courtyard. All across the school grounds, which looked like a perfectly cleared section of the plains, children were running around. Looking them over, the director’s eyes came to rest on a certain cluster. Pointing, she said, “The littlest one is Franco.”
    It was obvious at a glance that what they were kicking around wasn’t a leather-covered ball. It was bound in a flexible cloth that hardly bounced at all, but still it sailed through the air when the boys kicked it. A bunch of them were running toward it. Just when one of their feet kicked the ball, a little figure flew between them like a gust of wind, stole it away with some exquisite footwork, and kicked it toward a goal fashioned from sticks. Though the keeper made a horizontal dive across the front of the net, there was a gap between his hands and the ball reached the goal. Cheers erupted from the spectators. The victor’s teammates hugged him—and then even the members of the opposing team ran over en masse, clapped the boy with the pearly white grin on the shoulder, and walked off. They were all smiling.
    “That’s him?” Beatrice asked.
    “Absolutely. You sure you don’t want me to call him over?”
    There was no reply. The hirsute giant looked as if he were all alone. His eyes squinting as if blinded by the light, he watched as the diminutive boy kicked the ball again. Everyone chased after it. A cheer went up.
    The director began to speak softly, saying, “That boy came to our orphanage in the year his father mentioned to you. He was three at the time. We call that the critical age. How a child’s been treated up until that point will decide the better part of his life.”
    “You don’t say,” Beatrice replied, seeming to accept the truth of this. “So, how was it with him?”
    “Franco Gilbey’s parents must’ve been exceptional,” said the cold schoolteacher.
    The director nodded.
    “I won’t bore you with every little detail of his life here. However, I can tell you something that every member of the staff accepts.