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"You have a name," he said.
    "Jas Worthing."
    "Jason Harper Worthing, a most remarkable young man. Jason Harper Worthing, don't get any clever ideas about escaping from me. Because where Mother's Little Boys trust to brute strength, I rely on technology." The cockle flashed momentarily in his hand, safety off.
    "Who are you?" Jas asked.
    "A question I've been trying to answer ever since adolescence. Shall we walk?" They walked. "I finally decided I was neither God nor Napoleon. I was so disappointed I didn't try to narrow it down any further."
    The stout man escorted Jas to the officials — only door in the station and they went down the lift to the private cars. They got into one that looked rather old and shabby. And ridiculously out of date.
    "I'm an archaist," the man said. "Like you. I collect old things. The difference is that you, being poor, can only collect ideas. I, being rich, can collect things. Things are worth much more money than ideas."
    The man chuckled gently, and as the car took off, skimming the tube on its delicate magnetic balance, he laid a kind hand on Jas's knee. A good, strong hand, though small, and the gesture of affection was all it took to push Jas over the edge. The tension before had been too great — the relief now too sudden. Jas began to tremble and his breath came in short gasps like sobs.
    "Please try to avoid hysteria," the man said, and then continued his pleasant conversation. "I also collect new things. But new things are hard to judge. One never knows if they'll last. One never knows if they'll appreciate or depreciate. Quite a risky investment, new things. Here we are."
    The car stopped. It hadn't traveled far. The man led Jas to a door and they stepped into a lift and rose for a long time. When the ceiling was right above their heads they stepped onto a bare wooden floor.
    Wood. Jas realized that it didn't feel like wood. He said so.
    "Ah, your curiosity is beginning to function again. Good. It doesn't feel like wood because you've never touched wood in your life, you've touched plastic. This, Jason Worthing, is wood. From trees. I needn't tell you that you can't buy any of it on your credit allowance."
    And then they were through a door and Jas gasped.
    At first, for a moment, he had thought it was a park. But it was too large, and there was no ceiling. Instead the walls just ended, and a dazzling bright blue arch crested over him, just like the pictures of sky. The trees seemed to go on forever. The grass underfoot was real. Something living moved in the branches of a tree.
    "I collect old things and new things," the man said. "But mostly I collect living things. Like you."
    Jas turned to look at him and suddenly realized that the eyes were no longer soft and kind — had they really been before? And the man seemed to be staring past Jas's clothing and his skin and into his soul. Jas realized he had trusted this man without reason, and he looked behind his eyes.
    The man's name was Abner Doon. (Silly name — never heard of him.)
    His job was assistant minister of colonization. (Colonies again. Mother.)
    He honestly believed he ruled the world. (Crazy? Or am I?)
    And he knew Jas was a Swipe.
    "I'm dead," Jas said, suddenly feeling despair. Why had he thought he was no longer in danger with this man?
    "Very nearly," Doon said. "It depends on some decisions you make in the next few hours. You know my name, of course."
    Jas shook his head to say no.
    "You know my name, you know my title, you know my real function, and you know that I know what you are."
    Jas took a step back. Abner Doon only smiled. "Surely you don't fear any kind of physical attack?"
    "You're insane," Jas said.
    "That's been said before," Abner answered mildly, "by men and women with better credentials than yours."
    "I often wondered who really ruled Capitol and the Empire, but I really never supposed it was the assistant minister of colonization," Jas said, wondering how quickly he could get the door open again.