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off to the side to pluck a flower, which a moment later he flung over his shoulder in flamboyant disregard for the law. Wingo watched benignly and paused to pick up Schwatzendale’s litter, which he tucked into his pocket.
    The two passed the Labor Exchange: a long open-sided shed thatched with tawny palm fronds, overhung by talisman trees. Behind a counter, a single clerk attended to the needs of a stout woman wearing black boots and wide orange pantaloons. The pilgrims, meanwhile, stood in a glum huddle reading notices on a bulletin board, striking from time to time at flying insects.
    Wingo and Schwatzendale continued along the way. Wingo was inclined to commiserate with the pilgrims, citing the inconveniences of their present plight. Schwatzendale was more detached. “They were not compelled to march off on this fateful expedition! Had they stayed at home, they might have slept in their own beds, or performed religious rites whenever the notion took them, each to their heart’s content.”
    “They are driven by something called ‘afflatus’,” Wingo told him. “It is an all-consuming force which cannot be explained.”
    Schwatzendale nodded his comprehension. They proceeded, passing the premises of the Tarquin Transit Company, which offered rental vehicles of all kinds, some fanciful and ostentatious, others built for speed, low in front with tall spindly wheels behind. There were flitters of local construction, so fragile and light that it seemed as if the wind might carry them away.
    Taking in the sights Schwatzendale and Wingo went on, dodging the occasional skitter which trundled along the boulevard. They noticed several bungalows, almost hidden in the foliage, then came upon a rambling structure built of old boards and panels of compressed grass, under a high-peaked roof of palm thatch. A sagging porch ran along the front, with three wooden steps connecting porch to ground. Above the porch hung a sign: Pingis Tavern. Wingo and Schwatzendale stopped short. They appraised the raffish structure with practiced eyes, then with one accord they turned aside, mounted the steps and entered the tavern.
    They were met by a familiar odor: the scent of old wood permeated by generations of spilled beer, along with the must of dry palm. At this time of day, business was slow. The interior was dim and quiet. At the back a pair of stout ladies gossiped earnestly over small beers. A gentleman of evident respectability leaned against the bar, clasping a goblet of pale liquor in his right hand. He wore a smart blue tunic, breeches of black whipcord, black ankle-boots of good quality. His face was long and sober, under a neatly ordered ruff of crisp brown hair. A short square beard emphasized the sobriety of his features. He nodded politely as Wingo and Schwatzendale seated themselves at a scarred wooden table.
    On the wall behind the bar a board listed a dozen special drinks in an illegible scrawl. The brown-bearded gentleman watched tolerantly for a moment, then volunteered advice: “Balrob, our host, is a man of good reputation, and I can vouch for his bitter ale.”
    Balrob bowed in gratification. “Thank you, Sir Agent! Your commendation carries weight.”
    The gentleman straightened to an erect posture. “Allow me to introduce myself; I am Efram Shant, Land Agent, at your service.”
    Wingo and Schwatzendale mentioned their own names, and the Land Agent continued his remarks. “If you are partial to toddies, the Tingletown, the Importunata and the Old Reliable are all well-regarded! Balrob, however, feels that his first speciality is Pooncho Punch, and I am inclined to agree.”
    “Hm,” mused Wingo. “I am not familiar with this drink.”
    Schwatzendale gave his head a doubtful shake. “I have tested many formulations, but never Pooncho Punch.”
    “I am not surprised,” said Balrob. “There are four versions of Pooncho; all have been developed locally, using local ingredients only. The recipe is, of course, a