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lobby.
    “Well, Mister... Smith. That is a rather nice gift.”
    “Look at the label,” John said. The Worker did, then started to quiver.
    “This... this is actually signed by Yitzhak Goldman ?”
    “The man himself,” John said. “I’m gonna head up, got some business upstairs. You’ll make sure there’s no images of us, right?”
    The Worker nodded violently, a difficult maneuver considering his relative lack of a neck. “No one will know you and your friend were here.”
    John rapped his knuckles on the desk twice, then walked around it, heading for the elevators. Quentin followed.
    An elevator hissed open and they got in. John pressed a button for the fifteenth floor.
    “John, what was that all about? An autographed bottle of gin?”
    “Stuff is like gold,” John said. “Really expensive, the Workers are crazy for it. And a signature from Yitzhak? That Worker will do whatever we ask.”
    “Yeah, but why wouldn’t you use my autograph? I’m the starting quarterback.”
    John pulled a fresh Miller from the beerdoleer and popped the top. The mag-can frosted up instantly. “Get used to it, Q.” He drained half the can. “The Quyth are going to root for you like crazy, but no matter what you do they will always like their own better. Yitzhak is the native son, and that’s that.”
    Quentin still found it odd the Quyth adored a Human that much. Yitzhak wasn’t even their species. Zak’s family had lived on Ionath going back something like three generations. He’d been born right here under the Ionath City dome. It seemed the Quyth didn’t see race — they only saw borders. You didn’t have to be a Quyth to be a Concordia citizen; you just had to want to be part of the Concordia. Learn the culture, learn the history, swear allegiance to the Concordia above all others — all others, including your original homeland — and the Quyth would welcome you with open pedipalps.
    The elevator stopped. Quentin followed John out. The lobby hadn’t looked new, but it had been neat and clean. Everything on this floor seemed damaged. The place smelled musty. The walls had once been smart-paper, but no longer had the ability to flicker images and patterns. Now the material just sagged.
    Splatters of dried brown covered one spot.
    “John,” Quentin said, and pointed to the stain. “Is that blood ?”
    John finished his mag-can and tossed it down the hall. “Yeah, probably. A lot of private investigators in this building, some bounty hunters and the like. Everyone needs an office for tax purposes, you know?”
    Quentin nodded, although he really had no idea how taxes worked.
    John stopped in front of a door marked with a placard that showed one line repeated in fifteen languages. Quentin read the line in English: SUITE 1510 — GONZAGA INVESTIGATIONS.
    “Remember,” John said. “Don’t embarrass me.”
    He knocked on the door. Quentin heard a buzzing sound, then metallic clicks — which sounded like several big deadbolts sliding back. The door opened and John walked in. Quentin followed, glancing at the edge of the door as he did. Holes in the thick door were an inch in diameter. The door’s frame had matching, recessed circles. When the door was closed and the bars extended, a hover-tank couldn’t get through.
    The office was a long room with walls and floor made out of irregular, flat, red stones. At the end of the room sat a white desk. Behind the white desk, a man dressed in a business suit made out of some shiny pink material. In front of the desk, two white chairs. Above the two white chairs, something that looked like a stubby-legged horse all done up in a frilly green, blue, and yellow material.
    Quentin stopped in his tracks. The whole thing made him feel oddly uncomfortable. He pointed to the strange, frilly horse. “John, what is that?”
    “That’s a piñata,” John said.
    “What’s a piñata?”
    “A piñata,” the man in pink said, “is fab ulous. Uncle Johnny Boy the Awesome, walk