"You are an excellent man with a speech," said Kring. "That I admit. But there is more which you pretend not to know."
"Is there?"
"Much more. You may or may not choose to recall—Druro."
Rastol chose to say nothing. Druro had been one of the blackest marks against the Rockhead regime. It was the name of an infamous concentration camp, in which thousands of prisoners had died of malnutrition and overwork and thousands more had been put to death because of their political views.
"I can tell you something about Druro," said Toby Black. "I was there as a guest of your government—the Rockhead government is the one I'm talking about, Rastol, not the one you claim you're suddenly so fond of."
Toby put out his cigarette and leaned forward. His thin face got hard.
"Kring is a gentleman even when he's dealing with a louse, Rastol, but I'm no diplomat. I'm just a hardheaded old trader from Earth, and maybe some people think my language is crude. But I say what I think, and I don't like you and your kind. Usually I don't mix in politics—my business is construction. I started when I was a young squirt and built things with my hands, and they got calloused. Now I sit in a fine office and scoot around in a fine air-car, and other men do the dirty work. But that's honest work. The dirty work I can't stomach is your kind, Rastol, and since I've got the chance to undo some of it, or maybe prevent some more of it, I asked Kring to let me speak my piece."
Scott could easily have been persuaded, if he hadn't known better, that World Government Investigator Toby Black was just that rockribbed businessman-with-a-conscience that he was pretending to be.
Toby went on: "The reason I saw Druro the way mighty few people saw it was that somebody slipped up. Druro was also a factory town and there was room there for a new plant. God knows you had enough slave labor to make it damned profitable. So I was invited by your Rockheads to look over parts of the town so my company could make a bid on building the plant they wanted. But I saw more than you fascists intended, Rastol. I'm an old country boy and I get up early. One day I got up earlier than those gorillas who were supposed to tag around with me to keep my nose clean. And my nose got good and dirty, Rastol. The stench of Druro is still in it. I got out and talked to the people in town, and the people had plenty to tell me about that camp just over the hill. Some of the people I spoke to had been inside it, and they knew what they were talking about."
"An interesting anecdote, Mr. Black," Rastol interrupted, "but I must confess that I see no relevance."