Earl Dexter halted abruptly at a corridor that connected two chambers. “This is it, squire.”

“This is what ?” MacDougal, Flammarion was pleased to see, was wheezing even worse than he was. On Earth, being big and heavy had its drawbacks.

“This is where I leave you,” Dexter said. He pointed. “Dalton’s right ahead, sitting at the far end. You don’t need me any more.” He looked at Flammarion and held out his hand. “I did my bit, like I said. So if you wouldn’t mind …”

“You get the rest when I’m sure it’s Dalton, and not before.” Flammarion squinted into the dimly lit chamber ahead. “Where is he? I can’t see a bloody thing, and there’s dozens of ’em.”

“You’ll know him easy enough. Soon as you get used to the light.” Dexter tried to eel away, but Dougal MacDougal caught and held him. “Look, I don’t need to go in there. I told him you were coming, I got no business with the Boz.”

Kubo Flammarion took no notice. His eyes were adjusting, and he could see a long, darkened room. A score of men and women stood in a line that stretched to a tall, elevated dais at the far end. On the dais was one enormous and flower-bedecked seat, and on that throne sat one man in stiff robes of dark green. He was wearing a ridiculous yellow hat perched like a beehive on top of his head.

Kubo peered, swore, and peered again. One man was walking forward to go down on one knee before the seated figure. After a few seconds of conversation, inaudible to anyone but the two of them, he rose to his feet, bowed, and retreated. He walked right past Flammarion and his companions without even a glance.

The next person in line, a woman in a long dress of pale yellow, stepped forward toward the dais. Kubo pulled a little image cube from his pocket and stared at it.