The human population of the Gallimaufries was as tight-packed as the flowers. There were no wheeled vehicles, and everyone went on foot or was carried on swaying sedan chairs with a bearer at each corner. On these lower levels, gaudy yellow and vermilion was favored in clothing, trimmed with sequins and piped with gold, silver, and chartreuse. The people rivaled the flowers for color. They also, Flammarion realized, made a lot more noise and they smelled less pleasant. Blame the quarantine for that, packing them in ten to a box — except that Earth had been this way, crowded and dirty, long before the big Q.

Dougal MacDougal was sniffing the air and glowering around him. “Inconceivable.” He had to shout to be heard above the general racket. “Twenty-three years ago, Dalton returned a hero from the Stellar Group expedition to Travancore. He could pick anywhere in the solar system as his home. And he chooses to live here .”

“It’s where he started,” Flammarion replied loudly. “He was born and raised in the Gallimaufries.” Then he wished that he had kept his mouth shut. Earl Dexter’s behavior suggested that there was much more mystery to Chan Dalton than his choice of residence, and Flammarion didn’t want to get into that delicate subject with the Ambassador.

Instead he went on, “Are you sure we are looking for the right man?”

Dougal MacDougal had been conspicuously reticent about revealing to Flammarion just why it was so important to find the particular person of Chan Dalton; and as a fishing expedition for information, this latest effort also proved a failure. The Ambassador turned to favor Flammarion with another silent glare, then trudged on behind Earl Dexter. Kubo wheezed his way after them with his head down. Earth’s thick air and gravity were killers, no wonder all the people down here were crazy. Much more of this, and he would need one of those sedan chairs himself.