He walked inside and was immediately struck by just how dark it was. Empty, too. There were only three other customers there and they were all seated alone. One of them was reading a newspaper from several months ago, while another was huddled shivering next to the heater.

The barman looked up, obviously surprised. "Uh…. my taxes are all paid up," he said. "And I'm a personal friend of Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, so if you're after any…. trouble, then…."

Smith paused. "Is that the regional variant of 'We don't like strangers round 'ese parts'? I'm just here for a drink."

The barman sighed with relief. "Ah, well then. You're very welcome, sir. I was just…. er…. You can't be too careful in these troubled times."

"Troubled times?" he said, approaching the bar and taking a seat. "I thought things were going well."

"Oh, maybe for those that live up in the better sectors, maybe, but not much changes down here in three-o-one. So, what can I get you, stranger? Oh, where are my manners? Name's Bo."

"Dexter. Um…. what lager do you do? I don't see anything I recognise, but then it has been a while."

"Ah, we do the Pit Bull. A local drink, brewed not far away."

"Really? A bottle of that, then."

"Right you are. Where are you from, then? You don't look like you belong in three-o-one, no offence meant."

Smith took the bottle and sipped it slowly. As Bo had said, you couldn't be too careful, least of all with strange drinks. To his surprise, it wasn't too bad. "Ah, I've been away for the last couple of years. Business of a sort. I recently…. left my old job and decided to come back here."

"You came to three-o-one? That's a pretty unusual choice. Not that I mind, mind." He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, you look a little familiar. Have I seen you before somewhere? Ah, probably have. Be forgetting my own head next."

"I used to live here, in three-o-one. When I was a child. Tell me, is the Emperor Bibulos still open? It used to be around here somewhere. A Centauri theme pub. The landlord was a really old guy, grey hair."

"The Emperor? You have been away a long while. It was torn down in the Pit Riots of…. of…. ah when was it? The year after Orion fell, the same year my cat died…. Ah, well. You know when it was. The folks here were a little…. unhappy that winter, and a lot of blame went on the aliens. The Emperor was a natural target, I guess, so they tore the place down, pretty much. Security restored order, in the end. They waited a bit, but then we're lucky they got here at all, is my way of looking at it. Fair few people up top like who didn't really care about us here in three-o-one."

Smith fell silent, looking at his drink. He'd never known that. Even when he heard about the Pit Riots, it had never sunk in. He had been serving on the Preacher for a couple of years by that point, before the ship was destroyed at Orion. He'd been stuck in limbo afterwards, like so many Earthforce personnel. He had spent that winter in the barracks at Dome Seven, and news of the Pit Riots had gone straight past him. None of it had connected at all.

"I used to go in there when I was a child," he said. "For the warmth and the company, and to listen to the customers. They told the silliest stories…. I liked all the Centauri decor as well. At the time I thought it was like visiting another world." He shook his head. "Nothing lasts forever."

"Just what I say," added Bo. "You can't take it with you, so why not make the best of it while you can?" There was the sound of the door opening. Smith didn't notice it; he was still staring into his drink, lost in a world twenty years gone. Bo certainly did, though.

"Nelson, my friend. A pleasure to see you again. Your usual, is it? On the house, of course." Bo disappeared behind the bar.

Smith felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder and turned round. A man was there, tall and well-dressed. Next to Smith himself he was probably the best-dressed person in the whole sector. It was a fairly old-fashioned suit, but it was clearly chosen to accentuate his sense of menace. He didn't need it. He looked quite menacing enough as it was.

"A new customer," he said jovially. "How about that, Bo? Your advertising must have worked. Where did you come from, stranger?"

"Here and there," came the reply. Smith found he really did not like this person.

"A comedian. We could do with some entertainment in here. The most we normally get is throwing small change at Jinxo over here and watching him scramble around trying to pick it up. Bo, are you fermenting that drink yourself?"

"Coming right up, Mr. Nelson sir," came the reply from the back of the bar.

Nelson chuckled. "That's our Bo, all right. A decent enough sort, but he ain't exactly the fastest barman this side of the Proxima Hilton. Now, stranger, your name, if you don't mind?"

"Dexter. And you are?"

Another laugh. "Very funny. You mean you don't know me?" Smith shook his head. "I'm Nelson Drake. I work for Mr. Trace. You'll have heard of him, of course."

"I can't say I have."

Nelson reached out and grabbed the lapel of Smith's shirt, pulling him up from the chair. "Listen to me, you worthless lump of garbage," he hissed. "Trace owns this sector, and if you want to live a long and happy life here, you'll remember that. Cross me or Mr. Trace, and your life will be anything but long and happy." He pushed Smith back into his chair and smoothed his shirt.

"That's free advice I'm giving you. Think of it as an introductory offer." Bo slowly raised his head from behind the bar, and handed over a small glass containing a drink that seemed to be glowing. Nelson took it from him, never lifting his eyes from Smith, and drained it in one go. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed the empty glass back to Bo.

"You know," Nelson said, "I'm sure I've seen you before. Any idea why that could be, smart man?"

"Couldn't say."

"No, I guess you couldn't. Well, I'd better be off. Places to go, people to see, you know how it is." He shifted his gaze to the barman. "See you tonight, Bo. Me and Mr. Trace and the others are looking forward to your hospitality, same as always."

He turned and left the pub.

Smith waited until he was gone, and then looked back at Bo. There were times when he just got strange hunches, mysterious ideas he couldn't explain properly. He had one of them now. "Who was that?" he asked.

"Oh…. that's Nelson Drake. He's a…. bodyguard of some sort for Mr. Trace."

"And this Trace is…?"

"A good man. Oh yes, a really fine man. He really cares for us here in three-o-one. He looks after us, makes sure no one's causing any trouble…. you…. you know how it is."

"Protection rackets." Smith sighed. "Why don't Security do anything?"

"Security? Hah…. They don't care about us here. Mr. Trace…. he…. he cares. He looks out for us."

"Based on what I've just seen, I don't think I'd want to be looked after by people like him. I think it's time to take a trip to see someone. Which way is it to the local Security Headquarters?"

The Shadow ship stopped dead in space, paralysed and helpless, held there as if by a giant hand from heaven.

"Now!" roared Corwin. "Hit it!"

Forward cannons blazed into life and rammed into the body of the vessel. It trembled slightly.