"Don't make a scene, Mr. Dorlup," the man said in a soft voice. Then in a language which Dorlup had not heard for six months: "It is important that I talk with you." Dorlup's eyes bulged. "You're an Agent?" "Come with me, please." Dorlup told Beti to play with his chips, then followed the man from the gambling room into the bar. "Scotch," said Dorlup with a smile. "Might as well be your treat, eh?" "Two scotches, then," said the man. "You're in serious trouble, Dorlup." "Is that so?" "Quite. For a long time the Century Agents have played down stories about a time-tinkerer who had broken more rules than all the tinkerers before him. He was called the monopolist of despotism, although frankly the Agents neither invented nor particularly cared for the term. We played down the stories but we hardly doubted them. As I said, you are in trouble, Dorlup. You are under arrest." "This is fantastic. What's the charge?" "Time tinkering, of course. You are the monopolist, Dorlup." "What? WHAT?" "You are the monopolist." Beti played with Dorlup's chips until not one remained in front of her. The croupier was his old self again, calm, detached, indifferent. She looked all around the club for Dorlup but couldn't find him. No doubt the stranger had been an Agent. Beti hardly understood all that had happened in the last few months. First they told her to spy on Dorlup and she had--gladly, since she had done other small jobs for them in the past and the pay was good. _I'm not as dumb as he thinks_, she thought with a smile. And then, then they had told her to lie in her reports. She had lied cheerfully, at their direction. But why did they need to spy if she spied and found nothing, then reported all sorts of things? She shrugged her shapely shoulders. They had their reasons. They also had Dorlup, she concluded. Then her job was finished. She had a drink, listened to a sultry-voiced girl render the latest popular song, and went outside into the cool night air. A sleek car roared to a quick stop in front of her. The back door opened. "Get in," someone said in the darkness. She hesitated. Hands reached out, tugged at her, pulled her. She was too surprised to try fighting them off, but they were big, strong hands and it would have been futile anyway. She was deposited on the back seat of the car, between two men. The one on her right she had never seen before. She had seen pictures of the one on her left, the handsome man who was approaching middle age so attractively. He was Mulid Ruscar, Chief of the Century Agents. * * * * * "Where's my father?" Laniq demanded. "I'll take you to him." The man led them down a street lined with prefabricated, Quonset-like houses. People smiled at Laniq, but wanly--and most of the houses were deserted. An old man shook his head sadly, said, "There was great carnage in Afghanistan. We don't know how it happened; we can only guess. Someone was followed, despite all our efforts."