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scores of little electronic gadgets behind in each case.
    Roman looked from one to the other. His nostrils flickered. “You mentioned, sir, a commission.”
    “Yes.” Maijstral rose, put his feet on the floor, and leaned toward the others. “Sit down, Gregor. I’ll tell you about it.” He knew better than to offer a seat to Roman— it was not a servant’s place to sit in the presence of his employer. He waited for Gregor to seat himself and then went on.
    “A woman named Amalia Jensen wants us to locate an artifact within the estate of one Admiral Scholder, HCN, retired, deceased. There’s going to be an estate auction in a few weeks and Miss Jensen fears she might be outbid.”
    Roman’s ears pricked up. “The current owner, sir?”
    “Scholder’s heir is his nephew, a Lieutenant Navarre. I met him tonight. I don’t think he’s very interested in his uncle’s estate— certainly not in its security. He seemed to find the whole situation fraught with personal inconvenience.”
    Gregor grinned again. “They might not notice for weeks that the thing’s missing.” His fingers were tapping his thighs in some private rhythm. Usually some part of him or another was in motion.
    “That’s a good point. We should continue with our other plans. But tomorrow, Roman, I’d like you to initiate some inquiries about Miss Jensen. I doubt she’s an agent or a provocateur, but one never knows. And she declined to give us media rights, which I suspect means there are undercurrents here we don’t know about.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “She also had a companion, a young man named Pietro Quijano. He might be a part of this and he might not. At any rate he might be worth an inquiry.”
    “First thing tomorrow, sir.”
    Maijstral turned to Gregor. “I’d like you to fly over to the Scholder estate and take a look at it. Check for— well, you know.”
    Gregor gave a breezy, two-fingered salute. “Only too, boss.”
    Maijstral thought for a brief moment. “Oh. Yes. Our other business. If any of your surveys turn out to be of property owned by a General Gerald of the marines, disregard it. He’s filled with unnecessary complications.”
    Roman gazed at him levelly. “May I inquire their nature, sir?”
    Maijstral took a breath while he considered what manner of lie to offer. “Security matters relating to the defense of the planet,” he said. “I would prefer not to be involved with counterspies. It would be contrary to the image I wish to present here.”
    “Certainly, sir. I understand.”
    Maijstral put his feet up on the couch and pillowed his head on his hands. “And while you’re off having fun, I’ll be laboring at the Elvis recital.”
    “It must be hell, boss.”
    Roman’s diaphragm spasmed once, then again, the Khosali equivalent of a deep, heartfelt sigh. Definitely Non-U.
    Maijstral’s irregularities were sometimes completely incomprehensible.

CHAPTER THREE

    The Elvis was human and dressed in white and sequins. His movements— the way he leaned into the chrome microphone, the pelvic thrusts, even the gesture used in wiping sweat from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief— all were highly stylized, as ritualized as the steps of a Balinese dancer.
    A holographic band stood in partial shadow behind. Stacks of obsolete and highly unnecessary amplifiers were placed on the wings of the stage, and the sound was arranged to boom from them as though they were real.
    “ Hunka hunka burnin’ love ” sang the King of Rock and Roll. The screaming of debutantes centuries dead wailed up around the stage in answer to the meaningless pre-Standard lyrics. The Elvis leaned forward, mopped sweat from his brow, and presented the handkerchief to one of his assistants in the audience. The assistant brought it to Nichole, the guest of honor, who bowed and accepted it graciously, momentarily illuminated by spotlights. The audience offered polite applause.
    “Now what the hell do I do with it, Maijstral?” Nichole