"Hey, everybody, quiet." Scarf's spit-and-phlegm bellow tamped the bar-room noise. It ground down.
Pointing at the solitary figure seated at the wall table, Scarf smirked and barked, "Give us the magic words, Drummer."
The crowd's eyes went from Scarf to Drummer and back. No one spoke.
"Drummer knows," Scarf added sarcasm to his tone, raising his finger to tap his temple. "The future is open to him."
Drummer sat, transfixed, staring at Scarf. His free hand closed into a tense fist, then opened to cap his knee.
"C'mon, Drummer," Scarf went on, derisively, "tell us what you're going to do to make things right for all of us, and how we'll all be prosperous after Slingshot cuts away."
His voice became harsher, gibing.
"You've been sittin' on that Plutonian Council for years, Drummer, pushing your pet ideas to loosen up controls here and give more civil liberties there. You call yourself a Progressive, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. To me, you're a revolutionist, undermining Narval's government, and trying to cram your politics down our throats."
Scarf moved away from the bar, drink in hand.
Taking a long noisy swallow, he fixed his eyes on
Drummer from above the rim.
Lowering his drink, he belched again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Placing the tumbler on a nearby table he took another step toward Drummer.