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Istagam, and he must conduct himself accordingly.
    Hetzel enjoyed three days of leisure. He breakfasted in his sitting room, lunched in the Beyranion garden, took his evening meal in the hotel dining room. He strolled about the plaza, looked across the frontier into the Liss and Olefract sectors, explored Dogtown, and at all times he attended to the promptings of his subconscious. Once or twice he was tempted to investigate Far Dogtown, but decided that here, if anywhere, the risk might be real.
    At the northwest corner of the plaza was the Maz Transport depot. According to Kerch, anyone might freely ride the carriers, but he might not debark at any of the castle stations. Additionally, the adventurous passenger must be prepared to tolerate the unpleasant odor of the Gomaz. The carriers were slow, the routes indirect, the seats uncomfortable. The pilots of these carriers, thought Hetzel, might well provide meaningful items of information, and on the afternoon before the Triarchic session, he went to the landing plat and waited while the afternoon carrier landed.
    Three Gomaz alighted: tall chieftains magnificent in capes of black leather and ropes of braided green feathers. They wore cast-iron war helmets with three rows of spiked crests accentuating their own crests of white bone. Wonderful, terrible creatures, thought Hetzel as he watched them stalk off across the plaza. They were certainly more desirable as allies than enemies: a concept upon which the Triarchy was based, each party more fearful of conspiracy than of the Gomaz themselves.
    The pilot refused even to listen to Hetzel’s questions. “Ask at the tourist agency,” he said. “They’ve got all that information. I’m busy and I’m late; excuse me.”
    Hetzel shrugged and moved away. For want of any better destination, he strolled down the Avenue of Lost Souls into Dogtown. The girl in the tourist office might be leaving at about this time, and if he met her on the street, who knows what might ensue?
    The trifle of shiny tinsel which was the dwarf star Khis had dropped behind a field of herringbone cirrus, gray-green on the green sky; the light was rather poor, and Hetzel did not immediately recognize the man who stepped from Byrrhis’ office. Hetzel halted, stared, then ran forward. He called out, “Casimir! Casimir Wuldfache!”
    The man—Casimir Wuldfache?—hesitated not a step. He turned into the road leading to Far Dogtown, and when Hetzel reached the corner he was nowhere to be seen.
    Hetzel retraced his steps. The tourist agency was dark; the door into the premises of Byrrhis Enterprises was closed, and no one responded to his knock.
    Hetzel returned up the Avenue of Lost Souls, and around the edge of the plaza to the Beyranion.
    On the morrow: the Triarchic session, and the meeting, or interview, or confrontation—whatever it might be—with Sir Estevan Tristo.
    Hetzel awoke in the dark. What was the time? Midnight? The green moon Oloë, a great gibbous ellipsoid, almost filled the frame of the window. What had awakened him?
    Hetzel searched his recollection: a gnawing sound, a faint scratching, somehow sinister…Hetzel listened. Only silence. Now a quiet sigh, almost inaudible. Hetzel lay still a moment, gathering hiswits. The air seemed stale, a trifle acrid. Hetzel swung his legs to the floor, stumbled from his bed and out into the sitting room. Here the air also seemed acrid. He ran to the door; it refused to open. To the back window he tottered on legs which felt numb. He threw open the pane and the wind from off the downs blew into his face. Hetzel gasped, inhaled, exhaled, clearing his lungs. His senses swam; he leaned on the window-sill.
    Hetzel awoke to find himself back in bed. Morning sunlight slanted through the window; on a chair nearby sat a nurse. Hetzel rubbed his head, which throbbed and ached. Dreary recollections drifted into his mind. Death-gas? Sleep-gas? Murder? Robbery? Revenge?
    The nurse leaned over him and held a goblet