I did not understand him, so I assumed he was talking nonsense. Many people do. "Why are you here?" I asked. "Did Festina Ramos send you?"

"Nope, a friend of hers. Well, not exactly a friend — a fellow admiral. Alexander York."

Uclod leered as though he believed the name would shock me. It did not. "Who is this Alexander York person? And why should I care about him even a little bit?"

The small man’s grin faded. "Missy, you have been out of touch, haven’t you?"

"I have been right here. It is everyone else who has been out of touch."

"You got me there." Uclod wiped sweat from his forehead. "Can we talk about this outside? My skin blocks most of the radiation in here, but I’m still getting my gizzards cooked."

"There is no radiation in this tower," I told him, "there is simply an abundant supply of light. But I do not want your gizzards to cook, for then you might smell even worse than you do already. Let us go."

A Clear Path To The Exit

Together we headed for the exit. The route was unobstructed, which I found most odd: usually Ancestral Homes have dozens of elderly persons littering the floor, particularly near the front entrance. Those with brains on the verge of exhaustion have a deplorable habit of walking in from the street and flumping straight down on the closest patch of unoccupied ground. After several generations, there is no space at all in the first few rooms.

But here, the clutter had been partly cleared. Though many senile persons still sprawled about, they were all shoved against the glass walls to make an open path up the middle.

The path led straight to where I had lain.

"Did you do that?" I asked Uclod. "Did you move these people out of the way?"

"Not me, toots. It was like this when I got here."

"Then it is a Mystery," I told him. "I enjoy solving mysteries. I am excellent at rational deduction."