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The tiny craft flipped over, dumping its rider into the cold black water.
    Beardo, who had seen the palm frond fall away, and knew that this underground mariner was only a puzzled-looking young man, slithered under the rope bridge-rail and dropped into the water ten feet below. He caught the floundering intruder and pushed him toward the ladder rungs set in the brick wall. The young man caught the rungs and began to haul himself out of the bad-smelling tide. His black hair was down across his face, and he stared up through it with bloodshot eyes. Morgan wailed and scrambled on all fours off of the bridge; she disappeared into one of the tunnel mouths, still wailing.
    The dark-haired youth pulled himself up onto the bridge and sat there shivering. Beardo climbed up right behind and sat down beside him. The old scavenger was smiling and cleaning his hideous fingernails with a long knife.
    “And what might they call you at home, lad?” Beardo queried.
    “What?”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Francisco Rovzar. Uh, Frank… what’s yours?” asked the young man.
    “Puddin’ Tame,” answered Beardo gleefully. “Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.” The old man giggled like a manic parrot, slapping his thigh with his free hand.
    “Where is this?” asked Frank. “Am I in Munson?”
    “Oh aye,” nodded Beardo. “Or
under
it, to be more precise. What port was it you sailed from, sir?”
    “I’ve been drifting east on the Malachi from the Barclay Transport Depot.” Frank wished the old man would put away the knife. He didn’t like the look or smell of the ancient stone watercourse, and he wondered just how far under Munson he was.
    “Barclay, eh? You a jailbird?”
    Frank considered lying, but this old creature didn’t look like he had police connections; and Frank desperately needed friends and food and safe lodging. It’s almost certainly an error to trust this guy, he thought. But the next one I meet could be a lot worse.
    “Yes,” he answered. “That is, I was a prisoner until about eight this morning.”
    “Released you, did they?”
    “No. I escaped.”
    Beardo started to laugh derisively, then noticed Frank’s scrapes and bruises and ruined ear. “You
did?” he
asked, surprised. “Well, that’s the first time I ever heard of
that
being done. Anyway, Frank, what I really want to … uh …
ascertain
, is whether or not you have a family that would be willing to pay an old gentleman like myself for your safe return. Do you understand?”
    “No,” said Frank.
    “Ransom, Frank, ransom. Do you have a rich family?” Before Frank could think of a safe answer, Beardo answered himself. “No, I suppose you don’t. If you did, they would have bought you out of Barclay. Or maybe the whole family got arrested, hmm?”
    Frank shook his head. “No family at all,” he said hopelessly. “My father was all I had, and the Transports shot him yesterday.”
    “Ah!” said Beardo sadly, testing his knife’s edge with a discolored thumb. “I’m afraid that narrows down the possibilities for you, Frank my boy.”
    Do I have the strength to fight old Puddin’ Tame? Frank asked himself. I don’t think I do. Maybe I could get into the water again.
    “Your father and you were thieves, I take it?” Beardo asked, squinting speculatively at Frank’s bared throat.
    “No!” Frank exclaimed, stung now in his much abused pride. “My father is … was Claude M. Rovzar, the best portrait painter on this planet.”
    Beardo blinked. He was inclined to doubt this, but then saw the paint stains on the ragged remains of the youth’s shirt.
    “You’re full of surprises, Frank,” he said. “All right, let’s say you
are
Rovzar’s son. Why would the Transports shoot Claude Rovzar?”
    “I don’t know. My father was doing a portrait of Duke Topo yesterday. Transport troops invaded the palace. Costa was with them, and he killed the old duke. The Transports grabbed my father and me, and my father resisted.