We returned to Blue Willy. The soldier looked our gear over. The only things that intrigued him were my bow and the fact that we were well armed. "Why so many weapons?" "Been talk about trouble with the tribesmen." "Must have gotten exaggerated. Just stealing." Goblin and One-Eye attracted no special attention. I was pleased. "You read the rules. Stick to them."

"I know them of old," I said. "I was stationed here when I was in the army."

He looked at me a bit narrowly, nodded, departed. We all sighed. Goblin took the spell of concealment off the gear he and One-Eye had brought. The empty corner behind Tracker filled with clutter.

"He might come right back," I protested. "We don't want to hold any spell any longer than we have to," One-Eye said. "There might be somebody around who could detect it."

"Right." I cracked the shutters to our one window. The hinges shrieked. "Grease," I suggested. I looked across the town. We were on the third floor of the tallest building outside the Guard compound. I could see the Bomanz house. "Guys. Look at this." They looked. "In damned fine shape, eh?" When last seen it was a candidate for demolition. Superstitious fear had kept it unused. I recalled pottering around in there several times. "Feel like a stroll, Tracker?"•

"Whatever makes you comfortable"-I wondered if he had enemies here-"I'd feel better if you were along."

He strapped on his sword. Out we went, down, into the street-if that expanse of mud could be so called. The corduroy ran only to the compound, with a branch as far as Blue Willy. Beyond, there were walkways only.

We pretended to sightsee. I told Tracker stories about my last visit, most cast near the truth. I was trying to assume a foreign persona, voluble and jolly. I wondered if I was wasting my time. I saw no one interested in what I might say.

The Bomanz house had been lovingly restored. It did not appear to be occupied, though. Or guarded. Or set up as a monument. Curious. Come supper I asked our host. He had me pegged as a nostalgic fool already. He told us, "Some old boy moved in there about five years ago. Cripple. Did scut work for the Guard. Fixed the place up in his spare time."

"What happened to him?"

"While back, couple four months I guess, he had a stroke or something. They found him still alive but like a vegetable. They took him over to the compound. Far as I know, he's still there. Feeding him like a baby. That kid that was here to inspect you is the one to ask. Him and Corbie was friends."

"Corbie, eh? Thanks. Another pitcher."

"Come on, Croaker," One-Eye said in a low voice. "Lay off the beer. The guy makes it himself. It's terrible."

He was right. But I was getting adjusted for some heavy thinking.