"What should he do?" Tarb asked, handing Stet the paper. "Or is the question academic by now? The letter's five days old."
Stet sighed. "I'll find out whether the consulate has been notified. Native police usually do that, you know. Very thoughtful fellows. If this Bloxx hasn't been bailed out already, I'll see that he is."
"But how will we answer his letter? Advise him to sue for false arrest?"
Stet smiled. "But he has no grounds for false arrest. He is guilty of assault. The native was entirely within his rights in trying to sell him a brush. Now—" he put out a foot—"brace yourself. Privacy violation is not a crime on Terra. It is perfectly legal. In fact, it does not exist as such!"
At that point, everything went maroon.
When Tarb came to, she found herself lying upon Drosmig's desk. A skin-faced native woman was offering her water and clucking.
"Are you all right, Tarb—Miss Morfatch?" Stet demanded anxiously.
"Yes. I—I think so," she murmured, raising herself to a crouch.
"Better ... have died," Drosmig groaned from his perch. "Fate worse ... death ... awaits you."