Peter whirled to catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil-ray
coming to point. He faded down and toward the other, almost in a fall
out of the path of the pencil-ray that flicked on and began a sweep
upward and in. Peter caught his balance at the same time he clutched the
wrist in his right hand. Then he went on down around and over, rising on
his knees to flip the other man heels high in an arc that ended with a
full-length, spine-thudding body smash on the pavement. Buregarde leaped
in and slashed at the hand clutching the pencil-ray, snapped his head
back and forth thrice and sent the weapon flying. Then with a savage
growl he set a soft mouth against the other's throat and let the man
feel the pressure of his fangs.
"Easy," said Peter.
Buregarde backed away a few inches. "Easy nothing," he snapped. "This
man is the noble dog's worst enemy. He wanted your blood."
"Take it easy. I want his information."
The man looked up. "Barbarian Terrestrial!" he snarled.
Peter sneered. "And this is the capital city of the glorious
civilization called Xanabar? Marble palaces with nobles of the blood,
and stinking alleys with human rats. Where is she?"
The stranger spat.
"Buregarde, want some red meat?"
"He'd make me upchuck. Only rodents eat their own kind."
"Just a bite?"
"Do I have to swallow?"
"No. Just slash--"
"Wait, barbarian--"
"Barbarian Terrestrial, am I? You were maybe going to invite me for tea
and cakes with that pencil-ray?"
"I--"
"Talk!" snapped Peter. "Where is she?"
"Who?"
"Buregarde--?"
"Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand?"
"All right--for the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in--and
we'll have two of you!"