Hector cleared his throat noisily. “This is no place to have an argument ... besides, here comes our dinner.”
Odal ignored the Watchman. “You heard me, professor. Will you leave? Or do you accuse me of murdering Massan this afternoon?”
“I—”
Hector banged his fist on the table and jerked up out of his chair—just as the waiter arrived with a large tray of food. There was a loud crash. A tureen of soup, two bowls of salad, glasses, assorted rolls, vegetables, cheeses and other delicacies cascaded over Odal.
The Kerak major leaped to his feet, swearing violently in his native tongue. He sputtered back into basic Terran: “You clumsy, stupid oaf! You maggot-brained misbegotten peasant-faced—”
Hector calmly picked a salad leaf from the sleeve of his tunic. Odal abruptly stopped his tirade.
“I am clumsy,” Hector said, grinning. “As for being stupid, and the rest of it, I resent that. I am highly insulted.”
A flash of recognition lighted Odal’s eyes. “I see. Of course. My quarrel here is not with you. I apologize.” He turned back to Leoh, who was also standing now.
“Not good enough,” Hector said. “I don’t, uh, like the ... tone of your apology.”
Leoh raised a hand, as if to silence the younger man.