"How?" Snow asked, narrowing her eyes with interest.
"First, I'm a stranger. Secondly, though not in a Security uniform, I'm toting a collapser, which means—unless I have the approval of IS—the death penalty. I've carried it openly, so they know I haven't stolen it anyplace. Okay, I'm a stranger who has an in with Security, a collapser on my belt, and the word is out that an Amnesty-bearer minus the Amnesty is in town. What would you do if you were a Neo-Martian and I walked into your bar?"
"I'd slip you a mickey," Snow said sweetly.
"Uh.... Yeah, okay." I muttered, declining an urge to snarl something back at her. Besides, she had a cruel blow coming.
"But why did they want you?" Snow demanded.
"Honey—" I said, before I could catch myself. But she hadn't flinched, so I decided to let the appelation stand."—they don't know the Scouts are missing! As far as Marsport is concerned, those kids took off in the Phobos II, see? So what do you suppose they decide the Amnesty-bearer is after?"
Snow's eyes widened into violet pools, and she exclaimed, finally getting the point, "Them!"
"At last a light dawns in that lovely skull," I sighed. "They figured I was here to round up the rebels among the Neo-Martians and stash them in that lousy prison I was blasted free of. So they lock me in that cellar, and have a meeting to decide what's to be done. Only, Clatclit, knowing I'm the guy the ancients have been waiting for, can't let these men keep me. So he goes to the meeting, too."
"But wouldn't the rebels be surprised at a sugarfoot—"
"Dearest girl, the rebels are well aware of the fact that sugarfeet are more than just dumb animals. Clatclit tells me that they're counting on the sugarfeet for support, if it even comes to open battle. Why do you suppose that bartender went to the trouble of learning that gosh-awful clacketty language of theirs?"