“About two more blocks,” announced Cain, checking the map once more.

“I’m starting to remember what I don’t like about populated planets,” said Terwilliger unhappily as they began walking through a residential section topped by hundreds of transparent spires. “Too damned crowded.” He looked up at the buildings. “The streets are too narrow, and you can’t see the sky.”

“Yes you can.”

“Well, it feels like you can’t,” persisted Terwilliger. “And it’s dirty.”

“So are most Tradertowns.”

“That’s clean dirt. This stuff is soot and grease and garbage.”

“An interesting distinction,” remarked Cain.

“It’s noisy, too. There’s too much traffic and too many people. Hell, even the slidewalk creaks and rumbles.”

“This is nothing,” replied Cain. “You ought to go to Deluros Eight sometime.”

“No, thanks,” said the gambler. “Visiting a whole planet covered by a single building just isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“Actually, there are a few million buildings. They’re just packed so close together that it seems like there’s only one.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Terwilliger, “but you’re not exactly piquing my interest. I was born on the Frontier, and I’ve got every intention of dying there.”

“Especially if ManMountain Bates catches up with you,” remarked Cain.

“Then I’ll just unleash you, and that’ll be the end of ManMountain Bates,” replied the gambler with a smile. He paused for a moment. “By the way, have you figured out how you’re going to get Socrates to talk?”

“The same way people have always gotten him to do things—with money.”

They crossed a street and Cain checked the number on the corner building. “We’re just about there,” he announced.

When they came to the building they sought, a sleek high rise boasting four separate penthouse towers and taking up half a block at its base, they went to the main entrance and found themselves in a spacious foyer. A uniformed alien that resembled nothing more than a six-legged kangaroo with a panda’s face approached them and spoke into a translating mechanism.

“Greetings and salutations, joy be upon you,” it said. “My name is Wixtol; I am the concierge of the Tudor Apartments. How may I help you?”

“We’ve come to visit an old friend,” said Cain. “Where can we find the building directory?”

“I will be immeasurably pleased to direct you to your party,” replied the alien, “if you will only be so generous as to furnish me with its name.”

“Whittaker Drum.”

“Infinite sorrow, dear friends,” announced Wixtol. “I prostrate myself to inform you that we have no such resident.”

“He also uses the name Socrates,” said Cain.

The alien gave them a delighted grin. “Joy supreme! Socrates lives in apartment twenty-nine fourteen, praise be. If you will condescend to follow your humble servant, I will lead you to the elevator.”