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of a child of six.
    “This is my room,” he continued, stamping his foot.
    “Now, now,” said Charion, his voice full of obviously synthetic honey, “you don’t want your new brother-in-law to sleep outdoors, do you?”
    The boy’s eyes widened, and he put his finger in his mouth: “That my new brother? What you mean? Got brother, Alaxius,” he mumbled past the finger.
    “I know, but Prince Rollin Something will marry your sister soon. Then he’ll be your brother-in-law.”
    “Don’t want such a funny-looking brother-in-law,” said the boy. “Let him sleep outdoors; I don’t care.”
    “Will you go,” gritted the chancellor, “or must I call your father?”
    The boy went, slowly, turning his head to stare at Hobart as he did so. Charion closed the door after him.
    “Who’s that?” asked Hobart.
    “Didn’t I introduce you? Prince Aites.”
    “Is he normal?”
    “Normal? Why—what do you mean?”
    “Well—how old is he?”
    “He’ll be thirteen day after tomorrow.”
    “He—uh—looks like such a child, in a way.”
    “What do you expect? You f—I mean, of course he’s a child! Being normal, he’ll become an adolescent when he’s thirteen, and not a minute sooner.”
    “Where I come from,” said Hobart, “you change from a child to an adolescent gradually.”
    Charion scowled. “I don’t understand you—either he’s a child or he isn’t. But then, I dare say you barbarians have peculiar customs.”
    “What do you mean, barbarian?” asked Hobart sharply.
    “You have yellow hair, haven’t you?” Charion dropped that subject and opened a chest full of clothes. “I suppose I should apologize for not having your room ready. In theory we always have a chamber prepared for the champion in case he defeats the androsphinx, but that has never happened hitherto, and the preparations have become lax in consequence. What color do you want?”
    The chancellor held up one of the skin-tight Logaian suits. Red. Others of yellow, blue, black, and white lay in the chest.
    “What? Oh—I’ll keep my own clothes, if you don’t mind.”
    “Those things? My dear man, they’re literally impossible: neither tight nor loose, and a color I can’t even name! Would you prefer a robe?”
    Hobart looked down at the cuffs of his shirt, the inside rims of which were showing the irregular dark stains that shirts acquire after a few hot hours of wear. But between a dirty shirt and a Logaian garment . . .
    “I’ll wear what I have on,” he said firmly.
    Charion shrugged. Hobart left the chancellor to his own devices while he washed up; he was agreeably surprised to find almost-modern plumbing. When he returned, Charion was seated in the best chair smoking a cigarette.
    Hobart looked at this with more surprise. Evidently the chancellor thought Hobart’s stare a hint, for he rasped: “Will you have one?”
    Hobart had two cigars in his pocket, which he would have much preferred. But he’d better save those for times when he could relax and enjoy them properly. “Thanks, I will,” he said.
    The cigarette was vile. Hobart coughed, and asked: “What’s the program?”
    “Don’t you know? There will be a grand state banquet to celebrate your betrothed’s rescue and approaching nuptials. Tomorrow there will be a royal hunt, and the day after comes Prince Aites’ birthday party.”
    “Hm.” Hobart wanted to ask how to get out of this predicament, but did not trust Charion that far. He inquired: “What’s the condition of this kingdom I’m supposed to get half of?”
    Charion opened his mouth halfway; it stuck silently for a few seconds before he said: “It is improving under my new policy.”
    “What policy’s that?”
    “Retrenchment.”
    “Good.” The word had an encouraging sound to Hobart. “But I’d like some more information—area, population, funded debt, and so on?”
    Charion stared coldly, muttered something about having to get ready for the banquet, and left.
    A queer bird and