"I'm Owner Drgon, ah ... Great Owner," I said. I'd planned to give my host the friendly-but-dumb routine. I was going to find the second part of the act easy. There was something about Ommodurad that made me feel like a mouse who'd just changed his mind about the cheese. Qohey had been big, but this guy could crush skulls as most men pinch peanut hulls, and in his eyes was the kind of remote look that came of three millennia of not even having to mention the power he asserted. "You ignore superstition," observed the Big Owner. He didn't waste many words, it seemed. Gope had said he was the silent type. It wasn't a bad lead; I decided to follow it. "Don't believe in 'em," I said. "To your business then," he continued. "Why?" "Just been chosen Owner at Bar-Ponderone," I said. "Felt it was only fitting that I come and do obeisance before Your Grace." "That expression is not used." "Oh." This fellow had a disconcerting way of not getting sucked in. "Lord Ommodurad?" * * * * * He nodded just perceptibly, then turned to the foremost of the herd who had brought me in. "Quarters for the guest and his retinue." His eyes had already withdrawn, like the head of a Galapagos turtle into its enormous shell, and were remote, in contemplation of eternal verities. I piped up again. "Ah, pardon me." The piercing stare of Ommodurad's eyes was on me again. "There was a friend of mine--swell guy, but impulsive. It seems he challenged the former Owner of Bar-Ponderone...." Ommodurad did no more than twitch an eyebrow but suddenly the air was electric. His stare didn't waver by a millimeter but the lazy slouch of the six guards had altered to sprung steel. They hadn't moved but I felt them now all around me and not a foot away. I had a sinking feeling that I'd gone too far. "--so I thought maybe I'd crave Your Excellency's help, if possible, to locate my pal," I finished weakly. For an interminable minute the Owner of Owners bored into me with his eyes. Then he raised a finger a quarter of an inch. The guards relaxed. "Quarters for the guest and his retinue," repeated Ommodurad. He withdrew then ... without moving. I was dismissed. I went quietly, attended by my hulking escort. I tried hard not to let my expression show any excitement, but I was feeling plenty. Ommodurad was close-mouthed for a reason. I was willing to bet that he had his memories of the Good Time intact. Instead of the debased modern dialect that I'd heard everywhere since my arrival, Ommodurad spoke flawless Old Vallonian. * * * * *