“On the other hand, Comrade,” one of the lumpy-faced men said, “we have orders also.”
“My orders—” Petkoff began.
“Your orders do not exist,” the other lumpy man said. “We are to arrest this man. Our orders say so.”
“You are fools,” Petkoff said. He spread his arms wider, blocking both of them. Malone edged back against the bar, feeling behind him for a bottle or maybe a bungstarter. Instead, his hand touched a sleeve.
A voice behind him bellowed: “Cease!”
The two lumpy-faced men goggled. Petkoff did not move.
Malone turned, and saw a tall, thin civilian with dark glasses. “Cease,” the civilian repeated. “It is the girl we are to arrest! The girl!”
“This is not a girl,” one of the lumpy men said. “Sir. We are to arrest this man. Our orders say distinctly—”
“Never mind your orders!” Petkoff said. “Go and reduce your orders to shreds and stuff them up your nostrils and die of suffocation! My orders say—”
“The girl!” the civilian said. “Where is the girl?”