"What a pity," he said easily. "I'm committed to some sort of rummage at Balali's. Tedious, but…" As he spoke, another idea formed. "Of course, earlier on…" he said suggestively.

"My club," the gray man said quickly.

"What club would that be?"

"Trident," the tall man said eagerly. "Willowinter. And of course, Apollo."

"I've never seen the Apollo," Bailey said roguishly.

"It's not the Fornax," his new acquaintance said, rolling his eyes. "But it has its charms."

"Suppose we say-at twenty-two hours…?"

"Splendid!"

The tall man pressed the plate; the car slid upward. His eyes held on Bailey, glistening. At the next intermediate, he stepped off, turned to face him. He shivered.

"The excitement," he hissed. "Don't be late-and if you should be early, call for my man Wilf…" The door closed on his eager expression. Bailey grimaced.

"Just so you're not early," he said as the car shot upward, to halt half a minute later at Level Blue One.

19

Two impeccably groomed attendants-Special Detail Peacemen, Bailey knew-glanced pleasantly at him as he stepped from the car into the soft gleam of a twilit evening on a quiet, curving, tree-lined avenue. With an effort he restrained himself from staring like a yokel at the green, leafy boughs through which the lamps shone on the smooth lawn edging the white pavement-and at the shining pinnacle of the Blue Tower looming five thousand feet sheer above the spotlessly clear dome, against the wide sky of purple and gold.

"Pleasant evening, sir," one of the two watchdogs said. He appeared to be doing nothing but smiling respectfully, but Bailey was aware that his fingers, diplomatically out of sight behind his back, were touching a key which would cause Bailey's counterfeit tag to be electronically scanned and its coded ident symbol transmitted to a local control station and checked for authenticity. He also knew that the false tag would easily pass this test but that on the ten-hours recap-in six more hours-against the master curve, the deception would be caught. A dummy tag, proof against visual examination, would have cost no more than a hundred Q's as against the ten M price tag of the model he wore, but the investment had bought him three hundred and sixty minutes of freedom on Level Blue One. It was worth it. With a casual nod, Bailey brushed past the guards, lifted a finger to summon the heli whose operator had been dozing at the curb. Sinking back in the contoured seat, he directed the man to take him to the Apollo.

"Surface," he added. "Briskly, but not breakneck, you understand."

In spite of himself, his heart was beginning to thump now with a gathering sense of anticipation. It was not too late, still, to turn back. But once he set foot inside the Apollo Club, the lightest penalty he could hope for if apprehended was a clean cortical wipe and retraining to gangman. The thought flickered and was forgotten. The business at hand outweighed all else. Already, Bailey's mind had leaped ahead to the next stage of the adventure. It was a long way from street level to the penthouse of the Blue Tower; but when the moment came, he would know what to do.

20

The doorman at the Apollo Club stepped smoothly forward as Bailey came up the wide steps between the white columns. With an easy gesture, Bailey flipped up his swagger stick in a seemingly casual swing which would have jabbed the attendant in the navel if he had continued his glide into Bailey's path. As the man checked, Bailey was past him.

"Send Wilf along, smartly now," Bailey ordered as the doorman, recovering his aplomb with an effort, fell in at his left and half a pace to the rear.

"Wilf? Why, I believe Wilf is off the premises at the moment, sir. Ah, sir, if I might inquire-"

"Then get him on the premises at once!" Bailey said sharply, and cut abruptly to his right, causing the fellow to scramble again to overtake him. He gave the man a critical glance. "Have you been popping on duty, my man?"

"Wha-no, no indeed, sir, indeed not, m'lord!"

"Good. Then be off with you." Bailey made shooing motions. The man gulped and hurried away. Bailey went down shallow steps into a long unoccupied room where soft lights sprang up at his entry. At the autobar, he punched a Mist Devil, sipped the deceptively smooth, purple liquor, simultaneously wondering at its subtle flavor and savoring it with familiar delight.

There were pictures on the wall, gaudy patterned space work for the most part, with here and there an acceptable early perforationist piece incongruous among the shallow daubs that flanked it. Bailey found himself clucking in disapproval. He turned as soft footfalls sounded behind him. A small, dapper man was hurrying toward him across the wide rug, a small, crooked smile on his narrow face. He bobbed his head almost perfunctorily.

"Wilf to serve you, sir," he piped in an elfin voice.

"I'm Jannock," Bailey said pleasantly. "I have some minutes to dispose of. I was told you'd show me about."

"A privilege, sir." Wilf glanced at the painting before which Bailey was standing. "I see you admire the work of Plinisse," he said. "The club has been fortunate enough to acquire a number-"

"Frightful stuff," Bailey said flatly. "You've a few decent Zanskis, badly hung and lighted."

Wilf gave him an alert glance. "Candidly, I agree, sir-if you'll forgive the presumption."

"Suppose we take a look at your famous gaming rooms," Bailey said patronizingly.

"Of course." The little man led the way through a wide court with an illuminated fountain of dyed water, along a gallery with a vertiginous view of dark forest land far below-whether genuine or a projection, Bailey didn't know.

"There are few members about so early, sir," Wilf said as they entered the garishly decorated hall for which the Apollo was famous. Chromatic light dazzled and glittered from scores of elaborate gambling machines, perched tall and intricate on the deep-rugged floor. A few men in modishly-cut garb lounged at the bar. Couples were seated at a handful of the tables on the raised dais at the far end of the room. Soft, plaintive music issued from an invisible source.

Genuinely fascinated, Bailey circled the nearest apparatus, studying the polished convolutions of the spiral track along which a glass ball rolled at a speed determined by the player. The object, he knew, was to cause the missile to leap the groove at the correct moment to place it in the pay-off slot of the disk rotating below it-the disk also being controlled by the player. The knowledge flashed into Bailey's mind that hundreds of M's changed hands every minute the device was in play.

"Looks simple enough," he said.

"Do you think so?" a bland voice spoke almost at his elbow. A man of middle age-perhaps over a hundred, being a Cruster, Bailey guessed-smiled gently at him.

"Sir Dovo," Wilf introduced the newcomer. "Sir Jannock, guest of Lord Encino."

Bailey inclined his head to precisely the correct angle. "Enchanted, indeed, Sir Dovo. And indeed I do think so."

"You've played Flan before, Sir Jannock?"

Bailey/Jannock smiled indulgently. "Never. My taste has been for games of a more challenging character."

"So? Perhaps Flan would prove more diverting than you suspect?"

"I could hardly refuse so intriguing an invitation," Bailey said with apparent casualness and waited tensely for the response.

"Excellent," Dovo said with hardly perceptible hesitation. "May I explain the play?" He turned to the machine, quickly outlined the method of controlling the strength of the electrostatic field, the scoring of the hits on the coded areas of the slowly spinning disk. He called for a croupier, keyed the machine into action, made a few demonstration runs, then watched with a slight smile as Bailey took his practice shots, with obvious lack of skill.