Cooper fidgeted. For a moment he looked as if he were actually considering refusing to answer. Hamilton felt a thrill. One didn’t run into criminal acts every day.

But the man sighed at last and answered. “I have the honor and privilege of serving as a parttime valet to His Grace.”

Hamilton suppressed a groan. They might be here all day, tracing the relationship between the “Grand Imperial Poobah” and the “Master Gzork”—or whatever titles they used in this ritual club.

“Could you please define the function of a… a ‘valet,’ Mr. Cooper?”

Cooper enunciated slowly, with a queerly old-fashioned accent. “A valet is one who serves another as a personal aide, bodyguard, attendant, emissary… it is an honor to so serve one of the Blood.”

Hamilton caught Dan AnMan’s eye. Was that bemusement on the android’s usually passive face?

Hamilton cleared his throat. “You say that as a ‘valet’ you ‘serve’ this…” He referred to his notes. “This person you call His Grace.’ Is this person a dancer?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. Well, does he have any other titles in your club?”

Cooper’s eyes seemed to focus on something very far away. “His other titles are almost innumerable, Mr. Smith. They are all legitimate and have never been secret, though we’ve always avoided publicity. Now, I suppose, His Grace will have to decide what to do next.”

Hamilton had finally decided that Cooper was that rare commodity, a genuine lunatic. He wondered if there were still bounties offered for citizens who referred sick people to therapy.

“Well, since the titles aren’t secret, could you tell us a few of them?”