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"I'll turn you over to the household detachment. After that you can disappear any time you like, just so I get a receipt from the desk sergeant first, OK?"
    "Be calm, Sergeant," O'Leary soothed. "I'm not going to vanish just yet." He shook his head admiringly. "This if the fanciest police station I ever saw."
    "You kidding, mac? I mean," the noncom amended hastily, "uh, this is the palace. Where the King lives, you know. King Goruble the First."
    "I didn't know," said Lafayette, starting in the indicated direction. He stumbled and grabbed for his hat. It was difficult, walking in unfamiliar boots across uneven paving stones, and the sword had a disconcerting way of attempting to get between his legs.
    The rigid sentries snapped to as the detachment mounted the wide steps; one barked a challenge. The sergeant replied and urged O'Leary on into the well-lit interior of a high-vaulted, mirror-lined hall, with a floor of polished marble in red and black squares. Elaborate gilt chandeliers hung from the fretted ceiling; opposite the mirrors, vast, somber draperies reflected woodland scenes.
    Lafayette followed his escort along to a desk where a man in a steel breastplate sat, picking his teeth with a dagger. He cocked an eyebrow at O'Leary as the party came up.
    "Book this, uh, gentleman in, Sarge," Lafayette's escort said. "And give me a receipt."
    "Gentleman?" The desk sergeant put the dagger away and picked up a quill. "What's the charge?"
    "A 902." Lafayette's cop looked defiantly at the pained expression that appeared on the other's lined face.
    "Are you kidding, Sarge?" the desk man growled "Grow up! You can use a 902 to hold a drunk overnight, but you don't book 'em into Royal Court—"
    "This one's the real article."
    "That's right, Sarge," Shorty chimed in. "You oughta see what he done to Gertrude!"
    "Gertrude? What is this, an assault?"
    "Naw, Gertrude's the wife. He took fifty pounds off'n her and put the old shake back in her hips. Wow!" Shorty made lines in the air indicating Gertrude's new contours, then looked guiltily at O'Leary.
    "Sorry, Bud," he whispered behind his hand. "I appreciate the favor, but—"
    "You guys are nuts," the desk man said. "Get out of here before I lose my temper and have the lot of you clapped into irons!"
    The musketeer sergeant's face darkened. He half-drew his sword with a rasp of steel. "Book him and give me a receipt, or I'll tickle your backbone from the front, you paper-pushing son of a—"
    The desk sergeant was on his feet, whipping a saber from the sheath hung on the back of his chair, which fell over with a clatter. "Draw on a member of the Queen's Own Light Cavalry, will you, you flat-footed night watchman—"
    "Quiet!" someone barked. Lafayette, who had been watching the action open-mouthed, turned to see a dapper, gray-haired man in short sleeves frowning from an open doorway, surrounded by half a dozen elaborately garbed men in fantastic powdered wigs.
    "What's the meaning of this altercation, right outside our gaming room?" The newcomer aggrievedly waved the playing cards clutched in a hand heavy with rings.
    Everyone came to attention with a multiple clack of heels.
    "Ah, Your Majesty, sir, this police officer," the desk sergeant stumbled, "he was wising off, sir, and—"
    "I beg your Majesty's pardon, Your Majesty," the arresting sergeant cut in, "but if Your Majesty would—"
    "See here, can't you go somewhere else to argue?" the king demanded. "Confound it, things are coming to a pretty pass when we can't play a few quiet hands of stud without some unseemly interruption!" The monarch turned to re-enter the room, his courtiers scattering from his path.
    "If it please your Majesty," the formerly mustached musketeer persisted, "this prisoner is—"
    "It doesn't please us in the least!" The king thrust out his mustached lip. "Scat, we say! Begone! And silently!"
    The sergeant's face grew stubborn. "Your Majesty, I got to have a receipt for my prisoner. He's a dangerous