"But, if you are discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. But, what brought you here?" "Excuse me, Sir Rowland. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner.
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