Nibblers were, in some ways, the antithesis of Niemeyer, because their bite was definitely worse than their bark. The little predators were native to Basalt, ran up to sixty centimeters in length and fifteen kilos in weight. Thoroughly disagreeable creatures, they would hunt and scavenge anything, consuming its bone, sinew, hair and meat. It was highly recommended that folks should not go camping alone in Basalt’s parks because if you happened to die in your sleep, or fall down and get injured, the only traces of you that would ever be found would be badly dented metal like belt buckles and jewelry.

A smaller species of the creatures had entered the cities, occupying the same ecological niche as rats on other worlds. As a result, animals that were considered pets on Basalt tended to be medium to large dogs with a history of ratting. Someone once had the plan of introducing large snakes to Basalt to clear off the nibblers, but the beasts got to gathering at the point where the snakes were released into the forests. They just loved that wriggle-steak.

In fact, the only thing that kept them in check is that they were as cannibalistic as they were territorial. I definitely had the feeling that Niemeyer saw me as a nibbler, along with the others he’d alluded to. The analogy seemed rather apt and when I got back to Terra I was going to convince Consuela to change from jackals to nibblers as her totem creature for troublemakers.

In one more way the idea of our being nibblers was appropriate because, twenty years ago, the locals made an effort to soften the image of nibblers. Cuddly plush toys were created in their image. A local author started a series of children’s books featuring one as the hero. The “Nifty the Nibbler” character had even starred in a series of Tri-Vid shows I remember seeing as a kid—not that I knew what he was or where he was from.

I suspected that any effort made by those folks in Handy’s employ and our opposition would similarly be dressed up and softened to make it more palatable to the citizenry. In essence, we would be two groups of nibblers fighting for territory, with each side trying to take on the role of Nifty and painting the other side as his evil cousin, Naughty.

Regardless, nibblers we would be, and hiding our nature would be difficult. In fact, Niemeyer’s comments to me suggested he knew a lot about us. I had to assume nothing much had happened yet, but that talent had been gathering rather noticeably and no one had taken the good Colonel up on his offer to send us home.

I waited for a half hour after Niemeyer left before I headed out again. I spent the time clipping tags and labels from my clothes, then dressed in things that would sink me into anonymity in the crowds. I walked out of the hotel and watched for any tails, but saw nothing. I flagged down a hovercab, or tried to. The first two were driven by Dracs and refused to pick me up. Finally a Capellan who was adventurous or just really hungry stopped. I climbed in, then asked the driver to take me to a place where the liquor wouldn’t kill me, but some of the patrons might. He started to laugh, then caught my look in the rearview and just started driving.

He took me north along the east side of the river. Manville had grown up around the downtown. The river became navigable to the north of the city, so the docks, warehouses and industrial sectors had sprung up there. To the south, where the three rivers allowed for a lot more in the way of waterfront property, the suburbs had grown. The hilltops became the Olympian domains of the rich like Emblyn. The Germayne palace covered a hill to the southeast and shone like a fairy-tale castle when the clouds broke and a lance of sunshine pierced it.

The driver began talking cautiously as he drove into a commercial area in the industrial district. It seemed pretty clear to me that thirty years ago some regentrification had been tried here, with factories being converted into lofts and other things to attract the rich, but they had wandered elsewhere, letting the area begin to slide back down into decay.

I had him drop me a block south of a place called the Cracked Egg. We drove past it once and then circled the block. He picked up speed as we went by it, which I took as good omen. The fact that the place’s sign showed an ovoid Union–class DropShip that had been ripped open by savage fire told me this was the sort of dive I was seeking.

He grumbled about the lack of a tip, but I snarled at him. His comment in Chinese pertained to my ancestry and doesn’t bear repeating here. He sped off angrily and I gestured eloquently and obscenely in his direction.

He turned the corner and I turned my attention to the bar. I watched the Egg for a little while and didn’t see too much traffic going in or out. I did notice some activity at a fourth-floor window in the building across the street and down one. I figured it was Niemeyer’s Public Safety Department hard at work. My wandering into the Egg so quickly after he spoke to me would likely engender a return visit to my room, so I’d have to be careful.

I walked down the block and into the tavern. The door opened into a small corridor made of corrugated steel that forced you to turn left, walk three paces, then turn right again. I was fairly certain that on that short walk before the second turn I got scanned for weapons. I didn’t see anyone in position to stop me if I did have them. My eyes had not yet adjusted enough to the darkness for me to glance up and see if there were walls that would slip down and trap someone coming in with heavy gear, but that wouldn’t have surprised me.

The Egg looked as if it had once been a department store as it was deeper than it was wide and a lot taller than it needed to be. Thick pillars held the ceiling up. It had four bars, the largest being along the first quarter of the left wall. In the right corner, halfway down the right wall, and then a bit further down on the left were the others. That last one serviced the tables where folks were playing cards. Back in the far right corner a Tri-Vid projection system had been set up and was playing old music Tri-Vids. The one they had on showed little Becky Shaw gyrating. Apparently they didn’t know she’d gone and grown up and had been repackaged as Rebecca! when her career was relaunched.

I stood in the opening and felt more thoroughly scanned by eyes than I’d been when dropping into a hot zone. There were probably a hundred people in the Egg, excluding staff, and easily half had a feral sense to them. They were sizing me up as trouble, as a possible ally, and most certainly as a potential kill.

I let them have a good look, then walked to the bar. A bartender came over to me and glanced a question. I pointed to a neon sign. “That sign true? I’ll have one.”

The heavyset guy wearing a sleeveless shirt to my left hunched his shoulders and chuckled into his beer. “The only way there’d be Timbiqui Dark in the place is if you drink it someplace else and pee it out here.”

I looked at him. “Do you realize you have more hair on your shoulders than you do on your head?”

He had so much beer in him, or so little sense, that it took him a moment to realize I’d meant that as an insult. As he began to get up I found it easy to imagine him being Boris’ little, dumber brother—an assessment I did mean as an insult. His left hand tightened on the barrel of his mug. He intended to splash the beer in my face, crash the glass against my forehead, then pound glass splinters into my skull with his fists.

Everyone does need a hobby and, from a glance at his scarred knuckles, I gathered he rather enjoyed his.

A hand landed on his right shoulder. “At ease, Sergeant.”

He moved up for another second, then turned to look at the speaker with confusion knotting his brow. “Did you hear what he said?”

“He asked for a beer.” The dark-haired woman moved to slide between me and Boris Junior, but she had to wait for me to take my right foot off the back leg of his bar stool to do so. When I did, she bellied up to the bar and rapped her knuckles on it. “Tina, two bottles of Diamond Negro.”