Chapter 10

“Hey, everybody, quiet.” Scarf’s spit-and-phlegm bellow tamped the bar-room noise. It ground down.

Pointing at the solitary figure seated at the wall table, Scarf smirked and barked, “Give us the magic words, Drummer.”

The crowd’s eyes went from Scarf to Drummer and back. No one spoke.

“Drummer knows,” Scarf added sarcasm to his tone, raising his finger to tap his temple. “The future is open to him.”

Drummer sat, transfixed, staring at Scarf. His free hand closed into a tense fist, then opened to cap his knee.

“C’mon, Drummer,” Scarf went on, derisively, “tell us what you’re going to do to make things right for all of us, and how we’ll all be prosperous after Slingshot cuts away.”

His voice became harsher, gibing.

“You’ve been sittin’ on that Plutonian Council for years, Drummer, pushing your pet ideas to loosen up controls here and give more civil liberties there. You call yourself a Progressive, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. To me, you’re a revolutionist, undermining Narval’s government, and trying to cram your politics down our throats.”

Scarf moved away from the bar, drink in hand. Taking a long noisy swallow, he fixed his eyes on Drummer from above the rim.

Lowering his drink, he belched again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Placing the tumbler on a nearby table he took another step toward Drummer.

“Being on the Council saves your neck for now, Drummer,” he said with venom. “Soon as Narval gets wise to you, and kicks your tail off, I’ll be coming after you.”

He reached Drummer’s table.

“On second thought, why wait that long,” his voice changed to a snarl. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

He grasped the front of Drummer’s cloak and jerked him to his feet.

“Tell me, old man, what can you do that Narval can’t?”

The onlookers’ silence hung heavily. The stale incense rose in eddies and diffused the shadows cast by the glowing wall sconces.

“Show’s over, Scarf,” said Drummer in a low voice, trying to twist away. “I’ve got to be on my way.”

He placed his hand over Scarf’s huge paw to loosen its grip.

They were of equal height, but Scarf, more than twice Drummer’s mass and build, would have none of it.

“The hell you do,” he growled, tightening his hold.

Scarf began to shake Drummer, at first slowly, then with growing violence. Drummer, unable to maintain balance, slipped to his knees. Scarf jerked upward, raising Drummer on unsteady feet. Ramming his face close, he cursed in a loud, coarse monotone, swinging Drummer in one direction, then another. Unable to disengage, Drummer was confused. His cloak tore, his hair fluttered about his face, and specks of spittle flew from his lips.

Brad and Hodak watched the action from where they sat. Scarf’s sudden outburst was of more than passing interest. He had called his victim “Drummer,” a name familiar to Brad through the many intelligence briefings he had been given during indoctrination; also, “Scarf” was a name used in the immigration clerk’s call from the landing site.

Other than military, who and what was Scarf, and why was he tormenting Drummer? More important, could this bar-room brawl be exploited to the Sentinels’ advantage? They desperately needed contacts within Narval’s regime. Their mission did not allow the luxury of time. An opportunity had just fallen into his lap. Brad leaned toward Hodak.