The Guardsman said thickly: "You give me the boot and I swear to God I'll find you and cut you to ribbons if it takes me the rest of my life." _Good_, Charles thought. _Now he can tell himself he scared me. Good._ He let go of the forearm, straightened and took his foot from the man's elbow, stepping back. The Guardsman got up stiffly, flexing his arm, and stooped to pick up and sheath his knife without taking his eyes off Charles. Then he spat in the dust at Charles' feet. "Yellow crud," he said. "If the goddam crow was worth it, I'd cut your heart out." He walked off down the alley and Charles followed him with his eyes until he turned the corner into the street. Then he turned, irritated that the woman had not spoken. She was Lee Falcaro. "Lee!" he said, thunderstruck. "What are you doing here?" It was the same face, feature for feature, and between her brows appeared the same double groove he had seen before. But she didn't know him. "You know me?" she asked blankly. "Is that why you pulled that ape off me? I ought to thank you. But I can't place you at all. I don't know many people here. I've been ill, you know." There was a difference apparent now. The voice was a little querulous. And Charles would have staked his life that never could Lee Falcaro have said in that slightly smug, slightly proprietary, slightly aren't-I-interesting tone: "I've been ill, you know." "But what are you _doing_ here? Damn it, don't you know me? I'm Charles Orsino!" He realized then that he had made a horrible mistake. "Orsino," she said. And then she spat: "_Orsino!_ Of the _Syndic_!" There was black hatred in her eyes. She turned and raced down the alley. He stood there stupidly, for almost a minute, and then ran after her, as far as the alley's mouth. She was gone. You could run almost anywhere in New Portsmouth in almost a minute. A weedy little seaman wearing crossed quills on his cap was lounging against a building. He snickered at Charles. "Don't chase that one, sailor," he said. "She is the property of O.N.I." "You know who she is?" The yeoman happily spilled his inside dope to the fleet gob: "Lee Bennet. Smuggled over here couple months ago by D.A.R. The hottest thing that ever hit Naval Intelligence. Very small potato in the Syndic--knows all the families, who does what, who's a figurehead and who's a worker. Terrific! Inside stuff! Hates the Syndic. A gang of big-timers did her dirt." "Thanks," Charles said, and wandered off down the street. It wasn't surprising. He should have _expected_ it. _Noblesse oblige._ Pride of the Falcaro line. She wouldn't send anybody into deadly peril unless she were ready to go herself. Only somehow the trigger that would have snapped neurotic, synthetic Lee Bennet into Lee Falcaro hadn't worked. He wandered on aimlessly, wondering whether it would be minutes or hours before he'd be picked up and executed as a spy. PART II X It took minutes only.