One of Thalvan Dras’ human servants came into the room, coughed apologetically, and said: 

“A visiphone-call for His Valor, the Mavrad of Nerros.”

Vall went on nibbling ham and wine sauce; the servant repeated the announcement a trifle more loudly.

[Illustration:]

“Vall, you’re being paged!” Thalvan Dras told him, with a touch of impatience.

Verkan Vall looked blank for an instant, then grinned.  It had been so long since he had even bothered to think about that antiquated title of nobility—­

“Vall’s probably forgotten that he has a title,” a girl across the table, wearing an almost transparent gown and nothing else, laughed.

“That’s something the Mavrad of Mnirna and Thalvabar never forgets,” Jandar Jard drawled, with what, in a woman, would have been cattishness.

Thalvan Dras gave him a hastily repressed look of venomous anger, then said something, more to Verkan Vall than to Jandar Jard, about titles of nobility being the marks of social position and responsibility which their bearers should never forget.  That jab, Vall thought, following the servant out of the room, had been a mistake on Jard’s part.  A music-drama, for which he had designed the settings, was due to open here in Dhergabar in another ten days.  Thalvan Dras would cherish spite, and a word from the Mavrad of Mnirna and Thalvabar would set a dozen critics to disparaging Jandar’s work.  On the other hand, maybe it had been smart of Jandar Jard to antagonize Thalvan Dras; for every critic who bowed slavishly to the wealthy nobleman, there were at least two more who detested him unutterably, and they would rush to Jandar Jard’s defense, and in the ensuing uproar, the settings would get more publicity than the drama itself.

* * * * *

In the visiphone booth, Vall found a girl in a green blouse, with the Paratime Police insigne on her shoulder, looking out of the screen.  The wall behind her was pale green striped in gold and black.

“Hello, Eldra,” he greeted her.

“Hello, Chief’s Assistant:  I’m sorry to bother you, but the Chief wants to talk to you.  Just a moment, please.”

The screen exploded into a kaleidoscopic flash of lights and colors, then cleared again.  This time, a man looked out of it.  He was well into middle age; close to his three hundredth year.  His hair, a uniform iron-gray, was beginning to thin in front, and he was acquiring the beginnings of a double chin.  His name was Tortha Karf, and he was Chief of Paratime Police, and Verkan Vall’s superior.

“Hello, Vall.  Glad I was able to locate you.  When are you and Dalla leaving?”

“As soon as we can get away from this luncheon, here.  Oh, say an hour.  We’re taking a rocket to Zarabar, and transposing from there to Passenger Terminal Sixteen, and from there to the Dwarma Sector.”

“Well, Vall, I hate to bother you like this,” Tortha Karf said, “but I wish you’d stop by Headquarters on your way to the rocketport.  Something’s come up—­it may be a very nasty business—­and I’d like to talk to you about it.”