“Fish, then,” said Rod. “A fish dinner, please.”

He wondered why C’mell, with his life in the balance, would go off to another visitor. Even as he thought this, he detected the mean jealousy behind it, and he confessed to himself that he had no idea of the terms, conditions, or hours of work required in the girlygirl business.

He sat dully on the bench, waiting for his food.

The uproar of HATE HALL was still in his mind, the pathos of his parents, those dying dissolving manikins, was bright within his heart, and his body throbbed with the fatigue of the ordeal. Idly he asked the bear-cashier,

“How long has it been since I was here?”

The bear-cashier looked at the clock on the wall, “About fourteen hours, worthy cat.”

“How long is that in real time?” Rod was trying to compare Norstrilian hours with Earth hours. He thought that Earth hours were one-seventh shorter, but he was not sure.

The bear-man was completely baffled. “If you mean galactic navigation time, dear guest, we never use that down here anyhow. Are there any other kinds of time?”

Rod realized his mistake and tried to correct it. “It doesn’t matter. I am thirsty. What is lawful for underpeople to drink? I am tired and thirsty, both, but I have no desire to become the least bit drunk.”

“Since you are a c’man,” said the bear-cashier, “I recommend strong black coffee mixed with sweet whipped cream.”

“I have no money,” said Rod.

“The famous cat-madame, C’mell your consort, has guaranteed payment for anything at all that you order.”

“Go ahead, then.”

The bear-man called a robot over and gave him the orders.

Rod stared at the wall, wondering what he was going to do with this Earth he had bought. He wasn’t thinking very hard, just musing idly. A voice cut directly into his mind. He realized that the bear-man was spieking to him and that he could hier it.

“You are not an underman, Sir and Master.”

“What?” spieked Rod.

“You hiered me,” said the telepathic voice. “I am not going to repeat it. If you come in the sign of the Fish, may blessings be upon you,”

“I don’t know that sign,” said Rod.

“Then,” spieked the bear-man, “no matter who you are, may you eat and drink in peace because you are a friend of C’mell and you are under the protection of the One Who Lives in Downdeep.”

“I don’t know,” spieked Rod, “I just don’t know, but I thank you for your welcome, friend.”

“I do not give such welcome lightly,” said the bear-man, “and ordinarily I would be ready to run away from anything as strange and dangerous and unexplained as yourself, but you bring with you the quality of peace, which made me think that you might travel in the fellowship of the sign of the Fish. I have heard that in that sign, people and underpeople remember the blessed Joan and mingle in complete comradeship.”

“No,” said Rod, “no. I travel alone.”

His food and drink came. He consumed them quietly. The bear-cashier had given him a table and bench far from the serving tables and away from the other underpeople who dropped in, interrupting their talks, eating in a hurry so that they could get back in a hurry. He saw one wolf-man, wearing the insignia of Auxiliary Police, who came to the wall, forced his identity-card into a slot, opened his mouth, bolted down five large chunks of red, raw meat and left the commissary, all in less than one and one-half minutes. Rod was amazed but not impressed. He had too much on his mind.

At the desk he confirmed the address which C’mell had left, offered the bear-man a handshake, and went along to Upshaft Four. He still looked like a c’man and he carried his package alertly and humbly, as he had seen other underpeople behave in the presence of real persons.

He almost met death on the way. Upshaft Four was one-directional and was plainly marked, “People Only.” Rod did not like the looks of it, as long as he moved in a cat-man body, but he did not think that C’mell would give him directions wrongly or lightly. (Later, he found that she had forgotten the phrase, “Special business under the protection of Jestocost, a chief of the Instrumentality,” if he were to be challenged; but he did not know the phrase.)

An arrogant human man, wearing a billowing red cloak, looked at him sharply as he took a belt, hooked it and stepped into the shaft. When Rod stepped free, he and the man were on a level.

Rod tried to look like a humble, modest messenger, but the strange voice grated his ears:

“Just what do you think you are doing? This is a human shaft.”

Rod pretended that he did not know it was himself whom the red-cloaked man was addressing. He continued to float quietly upward, his magnet-belt tugging uncomfortably at his waist.

A pain in the ribs made him turn suddenly, almost losing his balance in the belt.

“Animal!” cried the man, “Speak up or die.”

Still holding his package of books, Rod said mildly, “I’m on an errand and I was told to go this way.”

The man’s senseless hostility gave caliber to his voice: “And who told you?”

“C’mell,” said Rod absently.

The man and his companions laughed at that, and for some reason their laughter had no humor in it, just savagery, cruelty, and — way down underneath — something of fear. “Listen to that,” said the man in a red cloak, “one animal says another animal told it to do something.” He whipped out a knife.

“What are you doing?” cried Rod.

“Just cutting your belt,” said the man. “There’s nobody at all below us and you will make a nice red-blob at the bottom of the shaft, cat-man. That ought to teach you which shaft to use.”

The man actually reached over and seized Rod’s belt.

He lifted the knife to slash.

Rod became frightened and angry. His brain ran red.

He spat thoughts at them—

pommy!

shortie!

Earthie

red duly blue stinking little man,

die, puke, burst, blaze, die!

It all came out in a single flash, faster than he could control it. The red-cloaked man twisted oddly, as if in spasm. His two companions threshed in their belts. They turned slowly.

High above them, two women began screaming.

Further up a man was shouting, both with his voice and with his mind, “Police! Help! Police! Police! Brainbomb! Brainbomb! Help!”

The effort of his telepathic explosion left Rod feeling disoriented and weak. He shook his head and blinked his eyes. He started to wipe his face, only to hit himself on the jaw with the package of books, which he still carried. This aroused him a little. He looked at the three men. Redcloak was dead, his head at an odd angle. The other two seemed to be dead. One was floating upside down, his rump pointing upmost and the two limp legs swinging out at odd angles; the other was rightside up but had sagged in his belt. All three of them kept moving a steady ten meters a minute, right along with Rod.

There were strange sounds from above.

An enormous voice, filling the shaft with its volume, roared down: “Stay where you are! Police. Police. Police.”

Rod glanced at the bodies floating upward. A corridor came by. He reached for the grip-bar, made it, and swung himself into the horizontal passage. He sat down immediately, not getting away from the Upshaft. He thought sharply with his new hiering. Excited, frantic minds beat all around him, looking for enemies, lunatics, crimes, aliens, anything strange.

Softly he began spieking to the empty corridor and to himself, “I am a dumb cat. I am the messenger C’rod. I must take the books to the gentleman from the stars. I am a dumb cat. I do not know much.”

A robot, gleaming with the ornamental body-armor of Old Earth, landed at his cross-corridor, looked at Rod and called up the shaft.

“Master, here’s one. A c’man with a package.”

A young subchief came into view, feet first as he managed to ride down the shaft instead of going up it. He seized the ceiling of the transverse corridor, gave himself a push and (once free of the shaft’s magnetism) dropped heavily on his feet beside Rod. Rod hiered him thinking, “I’m good at this. I’m a good telepath. I clean things up fast. Look at this dumb cat.”