They took in Miranda’s path again, the feel of her thread through time and space, and looked for the nearest node. They found one, brief but sufficient. She picked up a report from the chief pathologist’s office, and he greeted her casually on his way out to lunch. With his height and his high, domed head fringed with graying hair, he resembled one of the marble statues outside the Citadel Hall, the very stamp of the ancestral elders, with a full, curving mouth framed by deep creases that could be either stern or laughing depending on how he pursed his lips. He nodded to his secretary and hailed his waiting chauffeur with an absentminded courtesy. He was a noble of the professional class, and he bore himself accordingly.

His luncheon meeting was with another of that same class, a man of similar height and bearing whose thick, wavy hair proclaimed him to be of some origin other than the City’s most common lineage. He stood, and they clasped hands carefully, observing the correct grip and movement, for they were brothers of a fraternity.

“Doctor Boadu.”

“Professor Malveaux.”

Dr. Boadu waved the professor back to his chair, a simple act of offered permission that indicated he was, in some minute sense, the senior of the two. “We should have done this a long time ago. How many years have we worked together on Club projects?”

“Three. Four. I don’t recall. But don’t feel a way. There are plenty of opportunities for food and fellowship at the Club. The fact that you wanted to meet somewhere else tells me this isn’t Club business.”

The lines on Dr. Boadu’s face laughed in appreciation of the swift, blunt reasoning. He did not answer immediately but took up a menu and turned the conversation to the various dishes available.

Chance took the opportunity to whisper to the Trickster as they stood silently and invisibly observing. “The Club they’re speaking of is the foremost professional fraternity of the City. If Professor Malveaux has been a member for four years, it means that he only recently obtained Freeman status.”

“I figured as much,” said the Trickster. He paused and then asked, “Shall I look inside his mind?”

Chance winced. “That old trick? I’m not sure Maa would approve. It’s too much like interference.”

His brother regarded him with eyebrows raised. “You had fewer scruples when last I worked with you.”

“Yes,” Chance acknowledged. “And look where it got me. We observe; we do not invade, intrude, or possess. We must tread lightly with this one. It touches our human lives too closely.”

That last bit silenced the Trickster. Of the two of them, he was the one more closely connected to the City, and the small fact that he had not yet passed through its gates did not release him from the burden of caution.

The conversation at the table turned from the trivial to the significant.