“I’m sorry, sir. I know it’s illegal on Ceres, but it’s standard practice in these parts. Leave it to me, I’ll take care of it.” Flammarion had been addressing MacDougal. Now he turned away from the Ambassador and led Earl Dexter a few paces farther along the corridor. There was a muttered conversation and then the dull glow of a trade crystal changing hands, while Dougal MacDougal studiously looked the other way.

“Thank you, squire.” Dexter instantly recovered his chirpiness. “And the moniker of the party, if you please, that you want me to find, and his address.”

“His name is Chan Dalton,” Flammarion began. “His address—”

He paused. Earl Dexter was staring at him, pop-eyed.

“Chan Dalton? You don’t need to tell me his address. And you mean that you” — he turned toward MacDougal — “that you — your Lordship — your Worship — you want to talk to Chan Dalton ?”

“You know Dalton?” MacDougal was reaching out again toward Dexter. “What about Dalton, why shouldn’t I want to talk to him?”

“No reason.” Earl Dexter had skipped out of the way, and now he turned and wriggled around a group of noisy newcomers hurrying along the broad corridor.

“No reason at all,” he called over his shoulder. “Chan Dalton! Give me an hour to make sure he’s there, then I’ll be back to take you right to him.” He laughed, a high giggling chortle of mirth as he scurried away through the crowd. “You can talk to him as long as you like, and good luck to you.”

* * *

Kubo Flammarion didn’t know what was going on; all he knew, with absolute gloom and certainty, was that so far as the Ambassador was concerned, whatever happened next was going to be Flammarion’s fault.

There was no justice in the world. He had done exactly what he had been asked to do. He had guided Dougal MacDougal all the way from Ceres to the correct location on Earth; he had located a busker who knew how to find Chan Dalton; they were even now on their way to meet with the man.