The man came to with a start, stared at Chip Warren blearily. "W-whuzzup? Whuzzmatter? Don' shake me like that, ole boy. All pals t'gether. All good ole pals...."
His head dropped forward again, and Chip sighed. It was like kicking a pup, he thought, but it had to be done. His rousing slap jarred the drunk to grieved awareness.
"Hey! Don' do that! We're pals, ain't we? All—"
"I wouldn't know about that," snorted Chip. "But I do know these other 'pals' of yours are getting ready to dig you for that—that stuff in your pocket."
That did it. The warning drove its way through the miner's stupor. His head jerked up, his eyes widened, and a hand clawed at his pocket.
"What? My ekalastron? The filthy thieves—!"
His loud voice carried throughout the room clearly. Too clearly. For with a sudden fear, Chip could feel a tension tighten through the hard habitues of the bar. Nervous scrapings of feet, the frou-frou of suddenly intense voices. "Ekalastron! Eka—"
For a moment, Chip's guard relaxed. He twisted his head to survey a new and potent danger. And as he did so, a sharp cry burst from Amborg's lips. "Raat 'Aran! Torth!"
Chip whirled back to face immediate trouble. Shapes were plunging down upon him. He wheeled, slipped, tumbled to one side even as the scorching burst of a needle gun seared a hissing path past his shoulder. Someone behind screamed a high, thin scream that died in a choked gurgle....