“Which was?” Corve demanded.

“Oh, a deal of shouting and bellowing, and the odd low mutter from Shacklar, but nothing you could make out in words. It slackened, though, got softer and softer, till we couldn’t hear nothing at all. And that’s just about when we thought to see if the General’d maybe been careless with his intercom again.”

“You just checked it, of course.”

“Of course; I doubt that we listened for a full thirty seconds.”

Dar coughed delicately. “We, uh, certainly wouldn’t want you to violate a confidence or anything, but …”

“No fear. Not much we could violate, anyway; ‘bout all we heard was, when we pressed the button, the Honorable saying, ‘… started when I was four. That’s when my mother became involved with the amateur holovision programming club, you see, and of course it demanded a great deal of time. Our district child-care center was very nice, really, but most of the children were older than I was, and looking back on it, I see that they all must have been rather disturbed…’ Shacklar murmured something sympathetic, but that’s just about when the rat-faced aide noticed us and started saying something about telepaths’ eavesdropping couldn’t be avoided, but … Well, we decided the intercom was working, and switched it off.”

“The ethical thing to do,” Dar agreed. “How long ago was that?”

Cosca glanced at his ring. “ ‘Bout half an hour. I’d expect that by this time he’s into the traumas of grade school.”

“Ever Shacklar’s way,” Cholly grinned. “ ‘If you can’t beat ‘em, analyze ‘em.’ What were his henchmen doing, Cosca?”

“Oh, the usual—sitting around waiting, and bothering us for coffee, and wondering how the psi who’d swiped their credentials had known they was comin’. I mean, he’d’ve had to, wouldn’t he, to’ve been able to set up a fake Customs Office in time to catch ‘em comin’ off the ferry?”

“Makes sense,” Dar said judiciously. “Did they?”

“Not a bit.” Cosca shook his head. “The rat-faced one, he said this proved there must be a conspiracy of psis, all the way from Terra to here, ‘cause that was the only way word could’ve come out faster than an FTL starship could carry it—at the speed of thought, which he claimed to be faster than the speed of light…”

“Ridiculous,” Sam snorted.

“Isn’t it just? There’s nothing so unbeatable as wanting to stay ignorant. But even Ratty wasn’t about to believe one single telepath could hear thoughts on Terra from all the way out here on Wolmar; so, he claimed, there must’ve been a network of psis, each one relayin’ the message, till a telepath here picked it up and set up a reception for ‘em. He didn’t quite say Shacklar was a part of the conspiracy, and a telepath, too, but …”

“But that’s when you decided you’d best take a beer break and cool off under the collar, hey?” Cholly guessed.

Cosca nodded. “Got my perspective back on the way over, though, and got to seeing the humorous side of it. Well! I’m recovered, and I’d best get back to the office.”

“And let one of your mates come out and cool off?”

Cosca nodded. “And hope there’s no mayhem been done while I’ve been gone. Well! Ta, chaps!” He headed for the door.

“And to yerself, Cosca.” Cholly waved. “Corve, would you mind the store for a bit? Dar and Sam and me got to talk over their list for the next trading trek.”

“Eh? Eh, surely now, Cholly!” Corve heaved himself up, ambled round behind the bar, and began whistling through his teeth as he poured himself another mugful.

Dar looked up at Cholly, already halfway to the back room, and frowned. Then he nodded to Sam and followed.

“What’s this all about?” she muttered as she caught up with him.

“Don’t know,” Dar answered softly, “but something’s gone wrong. I wasn’t supposed to go trading so soon.”

They stepped into the back room, and Sam stared.

Books. All around. Ceiling to floor, and the ceiling was high. Books bound, micro-books, molecue-books, holotapes, and readers for everything. Even some antique paper books.

“Just your average hole-in-the-wall tavern,” Dar said cheerfully. “What’s up, boss?”

“Sit down, lad, sit down.” Cholly pulled a large box from a drawer and set it on the table. Dar sat down, looking wary. “The problem is,” Cholly said, shaking out a large white cloth and fastening it around Dar’s neck, “that the General’s likely to give the Honorable and his troop the freedom of the planet.”

Dar blanched. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No, nor did I. Understandable lack, I’m sure, in view of the rush we were under; still, there it is. So you two’ve got choices: to hole up till it all blows over, or to go in disguise while they’re here.”

“We can’t be so well disguised that they won’t recognize us,” Sam blurted.

Cholly held up a hand. “Have faith. I had occasion, one time, to travel with a group of wandering actors …”

“The cops were after him,” Dar explained.

“Be that as it may, be that as it may.” Cholly took some putty out of a can and started kneading it. “Took a small part now and again, myself, and didn’t do badly, if I do say so… Well. The long and the short of it is, I became reasonably good with theatrical makeup, and accumulated a trunkful.”

“Which we are now about to get the benefit of,” Dar interpreted.

“Close yer mouth, now; you don’t need no prosthesis on yer tongue.” Cholly pressed the lump of putty to Dar’s nose and began shaping it into a startlingly natural hook. “ ‘Robex,’ this is—best way of changing the shape of the face that the theater ever came up with. Beautiful, ‘tis—just knead it till it gets soft, set it on cartilage, shape it, and it’ll adhere as tight as yer natural-born skin.”

“How do I get it off?” Dar muttered.

“With the solvent—and it tastes terrible, so close yer great gape of a mouth. Then it dries as hard as cartilage, this being Robex # 1.”

“It’s changing color,” Sam pointed out.

Cholly nodded. “That’s part of the beauty of it, don’t yer see—it starts out pasty-gray, but takes on the color of the flesh it’s on. Now, back in the old days, you’d’ve had to choose the premixed sort of base that came closest to yer natural skin tone and paste it on all over yer flesh—you would’ve had ‘Dark Egyptian,’ lad. But with Robex, you see, all you do is blend it into yer skin, and it does the rest. No need for base.”

“That’s great for cartilage. But if it hardens that way, won’t it be just a teeny bit obvious if I use it to shape my cheeks?”

“Oh, we use Robex # 2 for that—dries to the consistency of whatever flesh it’s on.” Cholly opened another can and scooped out a lump of dough. “Yer own mother’ll never know ye when I’m done with you, lad.”

“My own mother,” Dar mumbled, “never wanted to know me at all.”

About an hour later, the door opened, and Corve stuck his head in. “Uh, Cholly, I believe as how ya might want to be out here.”

“Do I indeed, do I indeed!” Cholly whisked the cloth off Sam and over his makeup chest. “Ayuh, Corve, certainly.”

“Who’s the strangers, Cholly?” Corve frowned dubiously.

“Why, this here’s Enib Mas, Corve.” Cholly gave Sam a pat on the head, incidentally setting the roots of her wig into the adhesive. “And that there’s Ardnam Rod. Just in off the freighter. Turns out Enib’s had a year of college, and Ard’s had two, so I thought they’d like a look back here.”

“Oh! Welcome, welcome!” Corve bustled in, holding out a hand. “What ya up for?”

“Rather not say,” Dar rumbled in his deepest voice. He pumped Corve’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Me, too,” Sam said in a high, nasal tone. “Do you ever get used to this place?”

“Quick enough, quick enough.” Corve shook her hand. “You don’t look too well, lad—but don’t worry, Wolmar’ll put meat on yer bones. Well! Afraid I gotta be off, Cholly—if I know the boss, he’ll’ve got over his miff, and be open for business again.”