"Dworken, you were a sap to string along with him even that far," I said wearily. "I hope you hadn't paid the guy any money."
He shook his head. "No, my old and best," he said. "Dworken no fool is, even on Mars. No, no money. But wait! De animals go on without the owner. Same stage business, same talk, same jokes, and even funnier yedt. What?"
I started at Dworken. He did not smile, but finished off the eleventh shchikh—the fifth I had bought him.
"Listen," I said. "Are you sitting there telling me you have a tllooll and a shiyooch'iid that can really talk?"
"You listen, my vriend. Like you, I t'ink something is wrong. I say to Martian owner, 'My vriend, maybe I buy your act, if you tell me how it is done. But you know as well as I do dat it is impossible to dese animals to talk. Tell me what is de trick?'"
Dworken lifted his glass and shook it, as though he could not believe it was empty, then looked at me questioningly. I shook my head. He snorted, looked melancholy, writhed up from his chair and reached for his fur cape.
"Vell, thanks for de drinks," he said.
A dark suspicion crept into my mind, but I could not restrain myself.
"Wait, Dworken!" I shouted. "You can't just leave me up in the air like that! What happened then?"
Dworken snorted into his green handkerchief.