"A cigarette?" Angelo proffered the leader.
There was surprise on the man's face. "You mean you can make—"
"Just crude paper and tobacco grown in the soil," Angelo said apologetically. "Untouched by any rays but the sun's, I'm afraid, and our few medicine-men—we have all kinds of hobbies here of course—just won't comment. Here ... and a light...."
The leader had almost finished his cigarette when the Master of Letters arrived.
"Angelo, you churl, sir! Do you know how long I've been working on that line? You know how difficult it is for me to get a decent trochee when I'm—oh, company? Capital! 'Come fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring—'"
"Please, Forsyth. These men are here on business. They want you to do them a favor."
Resignedly, Forsyth kept quiet. And listened for good measure.
He listened for ten minutes. And then the leader was finished and Forsyth said "A pox on't!"
"Please, Forsyth—"
"He's right!" came Tharn's voice. "I told you I didn't like it, and I don't, and—"