“This way, sir.” Kubo Flammarion hustled MacDougal toward a long covered ramp that led below ground. Behind them, the pitch had started. “Nippers, oughta see nippers. Hottest line on Earth” … “Need a Fropper, gentlemen? Get you one easy, real cheap” … “Trade crystals, highest rates and no questions asked” … “Wanna see an execution? Beheading, first-class Artefact, never know it from the real thing” … “Needler lab visit, squire? Top of the line products, won’t see ’em any place else.”

Flammarion tried to ignore them. With luck, Dougal MacDougal wouldn’t be able to understand that confusing babble of poorly pronounced standard solar.

“Right along this way, sir.” Flammarion was used to being the shortest person, man or woman, in staff meetings on Ceres. Here he was half a head taller than most people, while Dougal MacDougal, striding along with his nose in the air and a pained expression on his face, towered high above everyone.

The corridor widened steadily as they moved deeper underground. Flammarion scanned the people they passed, most of whom seemed to have nothing at all to do. They were dressed in bright purples, scarlets and pinks, in striking contrast to the pristine Ambassadorial white of Dougal MacDougal or the stark black of Flammarion’s Solar Security uniform. They were not what Flammarion wanted. He sought one particular style of dress. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he could pretend that he knew what he was doing when he caught sight of a roly-poly little man with a round, smiling face and a patchwork jacket and trousers of green and gold, lounging against a steel support beam.

Flammarion changed direction and pushed his way through. “You’re a busker, right?”

The chubby man grinned. “That I am, squire,” he said, in very acceptable solar with only a touch of Earth dialect. “Earl Dexter, at your service. You’ll be newcomers here, right?”