"No," said Meek, "I won't do that. Because it wouldn't be man to man. It would be me against your entire gang."
Hoffman started to back away, slowly, step by furtive step. Step by step the Prowler stalked him there in the silent street.
Then Hoffman, with a scream of terror, broke and ran.
"Get him!" Meek roared at the Prowler.
The Prowler, with one lightning lunge, one flip of its whip-like neck, got him. Got him, gently, as Meek had meant he should.
Howling in mingled rage and terror, Hoffman dangled by the seat of his pants from the Prowler's beak. Neatly as any circus horse, the Prowler wheeled and trotted back to the Silver Moon, carrying Hoffman with a certain gentle grace that was not lost upon the crowd.
Hoffman quieted and the crowd's jeers rang against the dome. The Prowler pranced a bit, jiggled Hoffman up and down.
Meek raised a hand for silence, spoke to Hoffman. "O.K., Mr. Hoffman, call out your men. All of them. Out into the middle of the street. Where we can see them."
Hoffman swore at him.