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Baw; he seems to have been the hero of the occasion.”
    “I did no more than my duty,” declared Captain Baw. “I’d do as much ten times a day.”
    “One fact is yet unclear,” said Hetzel. “Who was the assassin?”
    Captain Baw turned Hetzel a head-to-toe glance under raised eyebrows. He clearly had forgotten their previous meeting. Noting neither opulent garments nor aristocratic insignia, he began to formulate a curt reply, then meeting the gray clarity of Hetzel’s gaze, he cleared his throat and rendered a rather more respectful response. “The assassin was a crazy young Gaean: a vagabond with a grudge, a sectarian, a cultist. In my affable innocence I took him into the chamber and now you can imagine my remorse!”
    “Why, I spoke to that very man!” cried Vvs. Felius. “To think of it! It gives one an utter qualm! He wore no proper tokens, although he was so disheveled that they would never have been seen. Bold as a baron, he asked for Sir Estevan, and I sent him over to Captain Baw; why, he might have killed all of us!”
    “And what of this mad cultist? He is in custody?”
    Captain Baw spoke tersely. “He escaped. By now he’s safe in Far Dogtown.”
    Vv. Kylo uttered a rather tactless sound of astonishment. “Escaped? With you right beside him?”
    Captain Baw puffed out his cheeks and stared across the chamber. He spoke in a measured voice: “I was not at his very side; I had stepped forward to attract Sir Estevan’s attention. After the shots there was confusion, and at first I thought to blame the Gomaz until I saw that two of his fellows were down. By this time the assassin was halfway to Dogtown, curse his heels. Never fear, we’ll winkle him out by one trick or another, or maybe arrange his demise. I assure you, he’ll not escape so easily.”
    “A sad affair,” said Hetzel. He spoke to Vvs. Felius: “Inasmuch as my business with Sir Estevan is urgent, I prefer to see him now, rather than wait for another session of the Triarchy.”
    Vvs. Felius said in a haughty voice: “Sir Estevan is certainly too shaken to conduct business at this moment.”
    “Why not consult Sir Estevan on this score? I suspect that he has more fortitude than you give him credit for.”
    With a sniff, Vvs. Felius spoke into a mesh. She listened to the quiet reply, and, vindicated, turned back to Hetzel. “Sir Estevan is seeing no one today. I’m sorry, sir.”
    Hetzel stood on the great Gaean porch, wondering what to do next, and not particularly anxious to do anything. In the aftermath of last night’s adventure his legs were flaccid, his throat felt raw, his head seemed to expand and contract as he breathed. Had he been dosed with sleep-gas? Or death-gas? It would be interesting to know. The ramifications and possibilities were too large to grasp. Speculation at the moment was futile.
    Hetzel descended the steps to the plaza and moved off in the general direction of the Beyranion. He passed beside the Exhibitory and on sudden thought halted to re-examine the apathetic faces. None bore the semblance of Casimir Wuldfache. No surprise, of course, especially if that man he had glimpsed the previous evening had for a fact been Wuldfache.
    Hetzel turned away. On a bench nearby sat an unkempt young man in ragged garments and scuffed ankle-boots. Matted blond hair and a half-grown beard blurred his rather prominent and over-large features, but failed to disguise an expression of rage and hate. Hetzel halted to look the man over and received a lambent blue glare for his pains.
    Hetzel asked, “May I share the bench with you?”
    “Do as you like.”
    Hetzel seated himself. The man smelled of sweat and filth. “My name is Miro Hetzel.”
    The young man returned only a surly grunt. Hetzel inquired, “And your name is—?”
    “None of your affair.” A few seconds later he blurted, “Who are you? What do you want with me?”
    “As I say, I am Miro Hetzel. What do I want with you? Perhaps only a few minutes of