splintering sound. “The unpleasant one there,” and he
nodded toward Hathcar, “was right. This was none
of my business. I don’t trouble to involve myself in
the affairs of you social types. But I can’t stand to
see anyone backshot.” He turned his magnificent head,
the thin golden goatee fluttering, and glared back at
Hathcar.
“Yo ah a true gentlemale, suh,” said Roseroar approvingly.
“You should have stayed out of this, fool.” Hathcar
moved quickly to join his gang. “Anyway, he lies. No
doubt this insect,” and he kicked at the miserable Faset,
“was trying to put a bolt through you. But that has nothing
to do with me.”
“You called him by name,” Jon-Tom said accusingly.
“A casual acquaintance.” Hathcar continued to retreat.
His backers muttered uneasily.
“Glad you don’t know ‘im, friend.” Mudge’s arrow
followed the cuscus’s backpedaling. “I’d ‘ate to think you
‘ad anything to do with ‘is little ambushcade.”
“What about your invitation?” Hathcar wanted to know.
“I think we’d rather dine alone,” Jon-Tom smiled
thinly. “At least until we can sort things out.”
“That’s not very friendly of you. It’s not polite to
withdraw an invitation once extended.”
“My back,” the mongoose blubbered. “I think my
back is broken.”
“Shut up, asshole.” Hathcar kicked him in the mouth
and blood squirted. The cuscus tried to grin at the tall
man. “Really, this thing has nothing to do with me.” His
band was beginning to melt into the forest. “Always
hanging around, looking for sympathy. Sorry our visit
upset you. I understand.” Then he too was gone, swallowed