"You haven't heard the news? The Conservator now allows us payment only in scrip. Tourists are no longer allowed to bring sols to Lutwen City: only scrip, which then must be spent at the Araminta commissary for approved goods."

Scharde chuckled.

"Evidently weapons are not on the list."

"I assume as much. The tactic is inept. We acquire as much hard currency as we need."

"How is that accomplished?"

"I see no need to advertise our resources."

Scharde shrugged.

"As you like, I am not here to discuss politics with you. I only want Zamian."

"And you shall have him. My inquiries are complete, and I too regard him as a miscreant. He worked for private gain at detriment to my personal interests."

Scharde chuckled again.

"In other words, he failed to cut you in for a share of the loot."

"Just so; He intended blackmail for his personal profit alone. He gave you to believe that one Xalanave was the blackmailer. In fact, Xalanave knew nothing, but nevertheless was killed."

"By whom?"

"That is irrelevant, from my point of view. I pressed no inquiries in that direction."

The statement, so Scharde noted, was not altogether responsive. He said: "I still do not grasp your meaning. Do you or do you not presume to know?"

"I see no reason to speculate other than to cite the possibility that Zamian himself might be, in this case, guilty."

"That's not a reasonable theory," said Scharde.

"If Xalanave in fact knew nothing of the original crime, Zamian had not the slightest reason either to harm him or to lee Araminta Station. It seems clear that he fled out of fear.

If we extend this idea further ..." Scharde fell silent. ;

"Continue," said Titus Pompo softly, and even the electronic trans-;

vocalization failed to eliminate an overtone of mockery, or savage glee;^ "Like you, I don't care to speculate," said Scharde.

"I am anxious5 only to hear what Zamian can tell me."

"Now it's Zamian you want? Go out into the corridor, descend the stairs; in the chamber immediately to the right you will find Zamian and members of the Oomps, who will conduct you to your flyer."

"I will intrude upon your time no longer. Thank you for your courtesy."

From behind the mesh came only silence; Scharde could not determine;

whether or not someone still stood there, watching him from the dark.

Beset by an emotion akin to claustrophobia, Scharde turned and.! marched on long strides from the room. He strode heavily down the! corridor, descended the stairs. On his right hand he found a bambooi door, painted dull red, which he pushed open. An Oomp sitting on a bench by the wall rose to his feet.

"You are here for Zamian?"

Scharde looked around the room.

"Where is he?"

"Over here in the hole, for safekeeping. He was a kitchen helper? Don't expect him to do his work like before; he's been used a bit." The Oomp went to where a rope hung from a windlass into a hole in the floor, and turned the windlass crank. Scharde looked into the hole. Ten feet below, the dim light revealed mounds and flats of black slime laced by rivulets of lagoon water. The rope stretched to the head of a naked man floundering in the slime. His arms had been taped behind his back; a strip of tape covered his mouth. He heaved and squirmed against the attack of what seemed to be a hybrid of rats and children, with mottled dark skin, pointed nonhuman faces. They gnawed at what remained of his legs and burrowed into his abdomen with furious avidity, and only reluctantly dropped away when the Oomp worked the windlass to lift Zamian from the slime, by the rope which had been glued into the hair of his scalp.

Zamian's head appeared above floor level, then his torso.

"The yoots have been getting to him," said the Oomp.

"I

don't know what good he'll be to you now."

"Probably none," said Scharde.

Zamian still lived. He saw Scharde with recognition, and made noises behind the tape.

Scharde jumped forward, cut away the tape.

"Zamian! Do you hear me?"

The Oomp said: "He can't talk, much less think; he's been dosed with nene so that he spilled all he knew to the Oomphaw. Now there's nothing left. That's the good and bad of the stuff. Still, he's yours;

take him away."

"Just a minute," said Scharde.

"Zamian! It's Scharde! Speak to me!"

Zamian made incomprehensible wet noises.

"Zamian, answer! Who drove the truck? Who killed the girl?"

Zamian's face contorted. His mouth opened; his voice came clear.

"When he came back I saw his fur. But no head."

"Who was it? Do you know his name?"

The Oomp said: "Take him if you want him; I'll hold him no longer."

"One moment," said Scharde, and to Zamian: "Tell me his name!"