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from Fluter. We drifted here and there, but one day we settled upon the Coro-Coro spaceport. We would remain for three days only.
    “I spent one of these days with the senior official in the Office of Entry Formalities. Together we searched the files, but there was no record of either the man who called himself ‘Tremaine’ or my mother. The official was not altogether surprised. He told me, rather reluctantly, that certain rogues and blackguards avoided the immigration laws by arranging to be set down a mile or so out in the wilderness, then walking into town. This was a serious offense, he told me, and the perpetrators, if apprehended, were liable to penalties of the third order, since they were violating the basic canon of Flaut law: namely, the statutes controlling the population. Without valid entry permits, they were in constant danger of being taken up by a Civil Agent. This would be the case if they tried to book into a hotel.
    “I asked: ‘What if they use forged documents?’
    “‘Possible,’ he admitted, ‘but such documents must be renewed monthly, which would soon arouse attention. After two or three such renewals the permit would be voided and the guilty person — would suffer the appropriate penalties.’”
    Myron grimaced. “It seems rather extreme.”
    “Not when you know Flaut history. During their ‘Terrible Times’ they learned to accept death as the all-purpose punishment for any mistake whatsoever. It was easy and there was no quibbling.
    “The next day I went to the IPCC office. The commanding officer was Captain Harms, a crusty old veteran who had been sent out to rusticate at Coro-Coro, a post considered a safe and comfortable sinecure where the agent in charge could do no great damage. His assistant was an innocuous young lieutenant who had learned to exert no twitch of initiative for fear of Captain Harms’ displeasure.
    “I found Captain Harms sitting at his desk. He was in fact a man of formidable aspect, with the broad chest and thin legs of a pouter pigeon. His face had been weathered pinkish-brown, against which bristling white eyebrows, ferocious blue eyes, an ungovernable tuft of white hair and a bristling white mustache made a fine contrast.
    “I introduced myself and explained my problem. As I expected, he produced a dozen reasons why the IPCC could not stir its majestic bulk to interfere in the local jurisdiction. I told him that Tremaine almost certainly had killed my father and that the safety of my mother was at risk. Harms declared that these factors were extraneous to the case, and that I should report my suspicions to the Civil Agents. I explained that, by so doing, I would be exposing my mother to a penalty of the third order. Harms shrugged, implying that she should have foreseen the eventuality before she indulged in a criminal act. I mentioned Tremaine’s tattoo. Harms said that it identified his native village. He could not help in this regard since he had no list or compendium of the Flaut tattoos. For such information I might apply to the Office of Civil Dispositions, or the Bureau of Vital Statistics, or the Population Registry. I bade Captain Harms farewell and left the agency. The next day I followed his suggestion. I presented myself first to the Office of Civil Dispositions. After two hours they referred me to the Population Registry, where after another two hours I was told that the information could most easily be had at the Office of Vital Statistics. After another wait I learned that the clerk who might have this information had gone off to a houseboat for a two-week vacation, and nothing could be done until her return. They suggested that I make inquiries at the Bureau for Archaeological Research, but by this time I was certain that they were playing a game with me. I returned to the Glicca in a very bad mood.
    “On the next day we departed Fluter. But now the Glicca is back and I will resume where I left off.”
    “So there you have it. Is it