Here it was. Some busy tribalist provocateur, some compatriot of Fede, had stirred the oats into Her Majesty's Royal Constabulary. Art snuck a look at Linda, who was no doubt being subjected to the same procedure by PC DeMoss. She'd lost her rigid, angry posture, and was seemingly — amazingly — enjoying herself, chatting up the constable like an old pal.
"How many more times have we got to do this, officer?"
"This is the last time you'll have to repeat it to me."
Art's professional instincts perked up at the weasel words in the sentence. "To you? Who else do I need to go over this with?"
The officer shook his head, caught out. "Well, you'll have to repeat it three times to PC DeMoss, once he's done with your friend, sir. Procedure."
"How about this," Art says, "how about I record this last statement to you with my comm, and then I can *play it back* three times for PC DeMoss?"
"Oh, I'm sure that won't do, sir. Not really the spirit of the thing, is it?"
"And what *is* the spirit of the thing? Humiliation? Boredom? An exercise in raw power?"
PC McGivens lost his faint smile. "I really couldn't say, sir. Now, again if you please?"
"What if I don't please? I haven't been assaulted. I haven't been robbed. It's none of my business. What if I walk away right now?"