"Barge, or slink?" asked the dog.
"Slink."
"Have it your way," said Buregarde.
Outside, the place looked closed. The door was solid, a plastic in imitation of bronze through which neither light nor sound passed. The windows were dark. But once the door was cracked, the wave of sound came pouring out along the slit of light and filled the street with echo and re-echo.
"Slink, now," said the dog.
"So everybody makes mistakes."
Inside, a woman leaned over a low counter. "Check your weap ... say! You can't bring that animal in here!"
Buregarde said, "He isn't bringing me. I'm here because I like it."
The woman's eyes bugged. "What ... kind—?"