Bill gasped. He felt dazed. Good Lord, these were the Uvans.
"Caviar?"
One of the grapes on the grape-cluster head of the Uvan flashed a yellow light. It blinked on and off like a busy signal on a telephone operator's switchboard. For an instant, the Uvan tried to look menacing.
Bill whipped out his credentials. The pass seemed to strike a responsive chord in the Uvan for the latter's two eyes saddened. "No caviar," he murmured. "No caviar. A sadness. Up revolution."
The last phrase had some sort of magical effect for no sooner had it been uttered, than the streets were filled with more Uvans. They crowded around, muttering, taking up the refrain—"Up revolution. No caviar. Up revolution."
Bill backed away cautiously. There was a sudden empty feeling at the pit of his stomach. Why hadn't Castlebottom or the Patrol told him about this business of caviar? Why hadn't they warned him the Uvans were touchy about revolution?
Some fifty of them gathered in the street now. The individual grape cells on their heads flashing brilliant lights. They were a motley array, like nothing Bill had ever seen. Somehow, they didn't attempt to attack. They just strung along behind him, muttering "revolution" left and right with amazing persistence.
Then Bill spied the Interworld Government flag, bright gold on crimson, fluttering above a rambling low building—the American Commissioner's residence. He moved cautiously toward the doorway, afraid to excite the Uvans by too sudden a motion. At last he looked back. That was strange! The Uvans stood at a respectful distance.
Bill let out a sigh of relief and pushed the doorbell buzzer. He let out a wild yell. A fiery something grabbed his finger. Knives seemed to jab up his arm and slid down his spine. He reeled back among the Uvans who watched him as though this were all a very lively experiment.
"What the devil happened?" Bill gasped.