The hostile look was gone. Anger replaced it, but not anger at Campbell. The Taxil said, in a low, rapid voice:
"You're not lying about coming from the Kraylens?"
"No. No, I'm not lying." He opened his shirt to show the tattoo.
"The dirty scut! Mister Black, clear ship, and then make contact with one of the outer hulks on the lowest tier. You'll find emergency hatchways in some of the pipes. Come inside, and wait."
His dark eyes had a savage glitter. "There are some of us, Mister Black, who still consider Romany a refuge!"
Campbell cleared ship. His nerves were singing in little tight jerks. He'd stepped into something here. Something big and ugly. There had been a certain ring in the Taxil's voice.
The thin, gravelly Mr. Tredrick had something on his mind, too. Something important, about Kraylens. Why Kraylens, of all the unimportant people on Venus?
Trouble on Romany. Romany the gypsy world, the Solar System's stepchild. Strictly a family affair. What business did a Public Enemy with a low number and a high valuation have mixing into that?
Then he thought of the drum beating in the indigo night, and an old man watching liha-trees stir in a slow, hot wind.