’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. I never want you to be ashamed of me. Blueskin is booked. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. "Whatever you say—you, behind those stars there, if you are a God. ‘Here we go again. Wood's famous 'prentice?" "What apprentice?" asked the stranger, in surprise.
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