“Right then,” Bolivar said. “We go stir up old Dirty Dorsky and get out of here…”

“…and do something about it,” James added, finishing the sentence. They did this often, many times thinking as one.

We marched. In step, at a good doubletime of 120 paces to the minute. Through the great hall and past all the skeletons in chains, up the main staircase, splashing through the water running constantly down it, and into the Head’s office.

“You can’t go in there,” his secretary-bodyguard said, surging to his feet, 200 kilos of trained fighting flesh. We scarcely slowed and only broke step going over his unconscious body. Dorsky looked up growling when we came through the door, gun ready in his fist.

“Put it away,” I told him. “It is an emergency and I have come for my sons a few days early. Would you be so kind as to give them their graduation certificates and expiration of term-served papers.”

“Go to hell. No exceptions. Get out of here,” he suggested.

I smiled at the unswerving gun and decided that explanation would be more fruitful than violence.

“This is a bit of an emergency. My wife, the boys’ mother, was arrested this morning and taken away.”

“It was due to happen. You lead undisciplined lives. Now get out.”

“Listen, you dough-faced, moron-brained, military dinosaur, I came here for neither your sympathy nor malice. If this was an ordinary arrest the arrestees would have been unconscious soon after opening the door. Detectives, cops, military police, customs agents, none of those could stand before the wrath of my sweet Angelina.”

“Well?” he said, puzzled, but gun barrel still ready.

“She went along quietly in order to give me time. Time that I will need. Because I checked the license plate numbers and these thugs were agents for…” I took a deep breath, “…agents for Interstellar Internal and External Revenue.”

“The income tax men,” he breathed and his eyes glowed redly.