For the sake of appearances, MacCauley threw a bill on number 28, lost it, and moved on. Nobody in the neighborhood of that table corresponded to the vague physical description he'd been able to glean from the scanty reports.
Nor, he found, did anyone in the house. That didn't prove anything, of course, except that the man Mac was after wasn't at this particular place at the time; or, naturally, that the description MacCauley'd been given was wrong from the ground up, but that wasn't a thing to think about.
He shrugged and moved toward the exit. The room was packed worse than ever; he had to shove his way through. He kept bumping into people, he noticed—then looked around. It wasn't so much that he was bumping into people, he found, as that people, represented by the Kiddie, were nudging him.
"Oh, for the Lord's sake!" he cried tiredly. "I tell you I won't give you anything. Now get away from me. And stay away, if you want to keep living."
The Kiddie shrank into himself and seemed to whimper voicelessly. The glow-glands set around his eyes shone a pinkish purple of fright. He started to say something—in the primitive sign-language that his race used to communicate with aliens—but halted the gesture and abruptly turned and slunk away. His slight frame, the size and appearance of a seven-year-old boy's, vanished almost immediately in the pack of hulking Venusians and attenuated, pallid stick-men from Mars.
MacCauley didn't pursue him; there was no reason, of course, for him to do so.
But that, "of course," like so many others, was wrong. There was a definite reason for Mac to follow the metals-mad asterite. Mac found the reason when he reached the cloakroom. He reached in his pocket to tip the pretty Terrestrial check-girl—and found not even a pocket. Just a slit that had been made not more than ten minutes before, through which the pocket itself and contents had been neatly extracted. Presumably by the Kiddie.
"Damn!" was the best Mac could do, but he said it with feeling. He was casting about in his mind for something he could say to the girl that might make her forget about tips when he saw the Kiddie himself, luminescing a vivid green, scuttling out the front door.
"Hey!" he yelled, and it wasn't only a desire to get away that kept the Kiddie from looking around; he couldn't hear any more than he could speak. Language failing, Mac took stronger measures. He left his sport-silk jacket on the arm of the bewildered girl and sprinted after the Kiddie. Intercepting him just previous to the door, he swung the Palladian around and gestured with frantic anger. The Kiddie, with a surprising show of strength in so frail a body, attempted no answer or denial of the charge of theft, but wrenched himself free and darted out the door.