The Swagman shook his head. “He may put his story in ballad form, but he’s not one to let meter interfere with what he wants to say. The last time he visited me I pointed out that the meter was all wrong in his songs about Socrates and Altair of Altair and One-Time Charlie, and he just smiled and said that he’d rather have his songs ring true than scan properly.”

“The man’s a fool.”

“If he is, then he’s a very popular fool.”

“You think so?” she said. “You ought to hear Cain’s opinion about being dubbed the Songbird.”

“Instead of complaining about it, he ought to be pleased,” said the Swagman. “Orpheus has made him famous.” He paused. “Hell, he’s made all of us famous.”

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, wiping her forehead again, “maybe we’re missing a bet here.”

“In what way?”

“Maybe we ought to hunt Orpheus up and ask him where we can find Santiago.”

“He doesn’t know,” said the Swagman. “He’s been hunting for him for the past ten years.”

“But he wrote him up!” protested Virtue. “I thought he never did that until he’d met his subject.”

“Santiago’s a special case. After all, an epic about the Inner Frontier that doesn’t mention him just doesn’t make much sense. Besides, Orpheus is like every other artist I’ve ever met: the further along he gets on a piece of work, the more frightened he becomes that he’s going to die before it’s finished and that some total incompetent will complete it for him. He wanted to make sure that the Santiago verses were done before that happened; I imagine they’ll be rewritten if he ever finds him.”

“Who commissioned this damned song, anyway?” asked Virtue.

“No one. He does it because he wants to.”

“Then I was right the first time,” she said decisively. “He’s a fool.”

“For doing something that makes him happy?”

“For giving it away for free.”

“Maybe he’s got enough money,” suggested the Swagman.

She turned and stared at him. “Do you know anyone who’s got enough money?”

The Swagman smiled. “Maybe he’s a fool,” he said at last.

The road suddenly dipped through a wooded hollow, and the Swagman began slowing down.

“What’s the matter?” asked Virtue.

“We’re almost there,” he replied, pulling off to the side of the road just after it climbed out of the hollow and ran across a narrow ridge. “See that clearing about half a mile ahead?”

“What are those weird-looking structures in the middle of it?” asked Virtue, peering through the trees.

“Wigwams,” replied the Swagman.

“What’s a wigwam?”