The Velvet Comet spun slowly in space, resembling nothing more than a giant barbell.

Once its metal skin had glistened a brilliant silver, and its array of flashing lights could be seen from literally tens of thousands of miles away.

Seventeen different engineering firms had worked on its design, thousands of men and machines had spent millions of hours on its construction, and in its heyday it had housed a permanent staff of more than six hundred men and women.

Owned and financed by the Vainmill Syndicate, the largest of the Republic's conglomerates, it had been built in orbit around the distant planet of Charlemagne, but now it circled Deluros VIII, the huge world that would someday become the capital planet of the race of Man.

During its lifetime it had become a byword for opulence and elegance, a synonym for hedonism and dissipation. Its fame had spread to the most remote worlds of the Republic, and while its sybaritic luxuries and even its air of exclusivity had often been imitated, they had never been equaled.

The Velvet Comet, after more than three decades of gestation, had been born in space, and almost ninety-three years to the day after its birth it had died in space, mourned by few and forgotten by most--but during its glory years it had done its living with a grace and style that would not be seen again for many millennia.

It had been the crown jewel in the Syndicate's Entertainment and Leisure Division, a showplace where the rich and the famous--and occasionally the notorious--gathered to see and be seen, to conspicuously consume, and to revel in pleasures which had been designed to satisfy even the most jaded of tastes. For while the Velvet Comet had housed a compendium of the finest shops and boutiques, of gourmet restaurants and elegant lounges, while it had boasted a fabulous casino and a score of other entertainments, it had been first and foremost a brothel.

And it was the brothel, and the promises of secret delights that it proffered, that had enticed its select clientele out to the Comet. They had come from Deluros VIII and a thousand nearby and distant worlds. Money was no object to these men and women; they had come to play, and to relax, and to indulge.

And now, almost a quarter of a century after the last song had been sung and the last dance had been danced, the dead ship that had been the Comet beckoned from the grave to one last visitor.

As they approached their destination, Page noticed that the shops were lit up, their windows filled with exotic goods from all over the galaxy, their interiors bustling with activity.

"What's going on here?" he asked his driver. "I thought the whole place was shut down."

"Those are just holographic recreations, Mr. Page," said the young man. "They were set up to give the press some of the flavor of the Comet in its heyday."

"If I know the press, they'd rather check out the flavor in the bars and bedrooms," said Page.

The young man offered no reply, and a moment later the vehicle reached the end of the Mall and came to a halt before the entrance to a luxurious reception area that was filled with people in formal attire.

"Thanks for the ride," said Page, starting to get out of the vehicle.

The young man placed a restraining hand on his arm. "I believe that Mr. Carnegie wants a word with you first," he said. "If you'll wait here, I'll go and get him."

"You do that," said Page. He leaned back on the seat, clasped his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. The next thing he knew he was being shaken awake by a pudgy, balding little man who was wearing enough diamonds on his fingers to stock a small jewelry store.

"Wake up, Nate!" he snapped.

Page opened his eyes. "Hi, Murray."

"You're almost an hour late!" continued Murray Carnegie harshly.

"I'd prefer to think that everyone else was an hour early," said Page, blinking rapidly. "Is there any booze left?"

"You've had enough."

"It shows?"