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“Fratano is occupied with his own dressing and won’t wish to be bothered. I’ll take in your message, if you like.”
    “I must see to this matter myself.” Scharde stepped in front of Spanchetta, holding his breath against the warm and heavy scent, half perfume, half female fecundity, which she exuded. He entered Fratano’s private parlor and carefully closed the door, almost in Spanchetta’s face.
    Fratano, wearing a loose lounge robe, sat in an easy chair with one long pallid foot propped on a cushioned stool, while a Yip maidservant massaged his lower leg. He looked up with a questioning frown. “Well, then, Scharde, what is it now? Can’t you come at a more convenient time?”
    “The time will never be more convenient, as you will learn. Send the girl away; our conversation must be private.”
    Fratano made a peevish clicking sound with his tongue. “Is it so vital as all that? Paz is not interested in our talk.”
    “Possibly not, but I have noticed that Namour knows everything about everybody. Need I say more? Girl, take yourself from the room, and close the door as you leave.”
    After a glance at Fratano, the maid rose. She took up her pot of ointment and with a cool half-smile for Scharde, left the room.
    “So, now!” growled Fratano. “What is of such importance that it interferes with my massage?”
    “Today is Glawen’s sixteenth birthday, and he becomes a provisional.”
    Fratano blinked, suddenly thoughtful. “What of it?”
    “Have you been notified of his official SI?”
    “Yes, so I have.” Fratano coughed and cleared his throat. “Again - what of that?”
    “Spanchetta brought it to you?”
    “That is inconsequential, one way or the other. It has to arrive from Bureau A by some means. Usually Dame Leuta brings it over. Today it was Spanchetta. The SI is the same.”
    “Has Spanchetta ever handed it in before?”
    “No. Now tell me, once and for all, what are you up to?”
    “I think you know. You’ve looked at the number?”
    “Of course! Why not?”
    “And what is the number?”
    Fratano tried to draw himself up. “I can’t tell you that! The SIs are confidential!”
    “Not if Bureau B decides to concern itself.”‘
    Fratano pulled himself up in his chair. “Why should Bureau B interfere in House business? I insist on knowing what you are getting at!”
    “I am investigating what may be a criminal conspiracy.”
    “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
    “When Spanchetta claims to know Glawen’s SI, and tells Arles, who crows about his knowledge to Glawen, that is already wrongdoing. If the Housemaster is involved, the question of criminal conspiracy arises.”
    Fratano gave a poignant cry. “What are you saying! I am guilty of nothing!”
    “Where is the SI?”
    Fratano pointed to a square of yellow paper on the side table. “The number is there. It is the official printout.”
    Scharde looked at the paper. “30? You saw this number?”
    “Yes, naturally.”
    “And you were going to read it off at the House Supper?”
    Fratano’s loose-jowled face sagged even lower. “As matter of fact, I thought the number rather high.”
    Scharde gave a scornful laugh. “High, you say? What, at a guess, should be Glawen’s SI?”
    “Well, I would have guessed 24 or thereabouts. Still –,” Fratano pointed to the yellow paper. “It is not my place to argue with the computer.”
    Scharde grinned: a crooked sinister grimace which for an instant showed the tips of his teeth. “Fratano, I have just come up from Bureau A. The computer is functioning with its usual accuracy. But it must depend upon the information fed into it. Do you agree?”
    “That is so; yes.”
    “This morning, as is my right, I examined the input to the computer - the information upon which it had based its judgment - and do you know, someone had altered the records? To such an effect that Glawen was declared illegitimate – a bastard.”
    Once more Fratano cleared his throat. “If the