Gustaf’s fingers formed a bridge and he tilted back in his chair. “Do you see that ancient fan, Mr. Smith? The one in that case? It is the patent granted by the last ethnic Chinese emperor to his infant son. It was ratified by townsmen and elders up and down the Yangtze before the Manchu invaders arrived. The secret society that hid that child and his descendants is one of those that merged into the Bath and Garter hundreds of years ago. The child they protected was one of my ancestors.”

Hamilton blinked. “Then Cooper’s claims that you are this… this king’…”

Gustaf shrugged. “It’s all well documented, Mr. Smith. By all the old laws of inheritance I am the heir of the merged royal families of Europe, Asia, and large parts of the rest of the world.”

The robo-psychiatrist laughed when he saw Hamilton’s expression.

“Oh, you needn’t look so stunned, Mr. Smith. You are looking at no madman. I’m a perfectly modern and productive member of society—a society of which I approve in most parts. I don’t claim any of the privileges once due someone with my unique genetic heritage. That would be absurd. I’m merely the hereditary head of a ritual club—perfectly legal. Along with a few thousand others I take pleasure in maintaining a spiritual link with the past.”

Hamilton checked his recorder to make sure it was operating. He couldn’t believe this. “And members of your club, are they also…?”

“Hereditary? Well, yes, to a degree. Certainly new members are welcome, and the increase has been rather great of late. But patrilineal families have been our mainstay… families with names like Hsien, Orange, Stuart, Fujiwara…”

Gustaf spread his hands. “You must try to understand how things were just after the Amalgamation, Mr. Smith. Neosocialism was not, in those days, the pervasive, mostly benign set of assumptions it is today, but a powerfully emotional and violent movement. Among the scapegoats of that era was anyone who claimed distinction based on heredity or family name… although such things once had their purposes.