Follow I did, through the door—through a sophisticated suite of metal detectors and chemsniffers, I had no doubt—and into a kind of anteroom with three doors. Ortega turned around again, and again he gave me the top-to-bottom scan. "Yes, well," he said at last, "you must, of course, wear a jacket and tie for an audience with the Ali'i ." I almost chuckled aloud—the last time I'd heard words to that effect I'd been trying to sleaze my way into a restaurant called La Maison d'Indochine back in Seattle—but suppressed my amusement. Aide de camp, maitre d'—I guess there wasn't that much difference, when you thought about it. I watched the laser-eyed little man, surprised that he didn't look even slightly Polynesian, as he opened a closet set into the richly paneled walls and pulled out some clothes. "A one-oh-five regular should fit." (This seemed to be my week for meeting people with a haberdasher's eye.) He handed over a double-breasted jacket—deep blue with a conservative emerald pinstripe—and a white-and-navy paisley tie. And then he waited.