Talon clung to a client. She hated to see them go, and when she heard the footsteps on the stairs she came out of her pokey little office, blinking in the harsh light of the passage. She crawled after the man who now stood in the doorway. She repeated the formula. “And at any time—if you or your friends want a room, gaoley”—the voice climbed up his back, droned in his ears—“just mention me, Talon’s the name. Sarah Talon. Just mention The Curving Light. Don’t mind gaoleys, don’t mind nobody much, so long’s they pay.” But the man was already descending the three stone steps, and moving quickly in the direction of the Tanner Dock. There, the Green Star had just finished her loading, and the quay was alive with people. There were many shouts, commands. Peter walked straight to the gangway, and looked up. There he stopped, and began plunging into every pocket for his ticket. The man watched him search. Peter’s manner was apprehensive, furtive, he hardly heard the man addressing him.
