One of the robot police, a little more perceptive than the others, watched this cat-man who walked with preternatural assurance through the crowds of men, but “C’roderick” did nothing but enter the market from one side, thread his way through it, and leave at the other side, still carrying his package; the robot turned away: his dreadful, milky eyes, always ready for disorder and death, scanned the marketplace again and again with fatigue-free vigilance.
Rod went down the ramp and turned right.
There was the underpeople commissary with the bear-man cashier. The cashier remembered him.
“It’s been a long day, cat-sir, since I saw you. Would you like another special order of fish?”
“Where’s my girl?” said Rod bluntly.
“C’mell?” said the bear-cashier. “She waited here a long time but then she went on and she left this message, ‘Tell my man C’rod that he should eat before following me, but that when he has eaten he can either follow me by going to Upshaft Four, Ground Level, Hostel of the Singing Birds, Room Nine, where I am taking care of an offworld visitor, or he can send a robot to me and I will come to him.’ Don’t you think, cat-sir, that I’ve done well, remembering so complicated a message?” The bear-man flushed a little and the edge went off his pride as he confessed, for the sake of some abstract honesty, “Of course, that address part, I wrote that down. It would be very bad and very confusing if I sent you to the wrong address in people’s country. Somebody might burn you down if you came into an unauthorized corridor.”
“Fish, then,” said Rod. “A fish dinner, please.”
He wondered why C’mell, with his life in the balance, would go off to another visitor. Even as he thought this, he detected the mean jealousy behind it, and he confessed to himself that he had no idea of the terms, conditions, or hours of work required in the girlygirl business.
He sat dully on the bench, waiting for his food.
The uproar of HATE HALL was still in his mind, the pathos of his parents, those dying dissolving manikins, was bright within his heart, and his body throbbed with the fatigue of the ordeal. Idly he asked the bear-cashier,
“How long has it been since I was here?”
The bear-cashier looked at the clock on the wall, “About fourteen hours, worthy cat.”
“How long is that in real time?” Rod was trying to compare Norstrilian hours with Earth hours. He thought that Earth hours were one-seventh shorter, but he was not sure.
The bear-man was completely baffled. “If you mean galactic navigation time, dear guest, we never use that down here anyhow. Are there any other kinds of time?”
Rod realized his mistake and tried to correct it. “It doesn’t matter. I am thirsty. What is lawful for underpeople to drink? I am tired and thirsty, both, but I have no desire to become the least bit drunk.”
“Since you are a c’man,” said the bear-cashier, “I recommend strong black coffee mixed with sweet whipped cream.”
“I have no money,” said Rod.
“The famous cat-madame, C’mell your consort, has guaranteed payment for anything at all that you order.”
“Go ahead, then.”
The bear-man called a robot over and gave him the orders.
Rod stared at the wall, wondering what he was going to do with this Earth he had bought. He wasn’t thinking very hard, just musing idly. A voice cut directly into his mind. He realized that the bear-man was spieking to him and that he could hier it.
“You are not an underman, Sir and Master.”
“What?” spieked Rod.
“You hiered me,” said the telepathic voice. “I am not going to repeat it. If you come in the sign of the Fish, may blessings be upon you,”
“I don’t know that sign,” said Rod.
“Then,” spieked the bear-man, “no matter who you are, may you eat and drink in peace because you are a friend of C’mell and you are under the protection of the One Who Lives in Downdeep.”
“I don’t know,” spieked Rod, “I just don’t know, but I thank you for your welcome, friend.”
“I do not give such welcome lightly,” said the bear-man, “and ordinarily I would be ready to run away from anything as strange and dangerous and unexplained as yourself, but you bring with you the quality of peace, which made me think that you might travel in the fellowship of the sign of the Fish. I have heard that in that sign, people and underpeople remember the blessed Joan and mingle in complete comradeship.”
“No,” said Rod, “no. I travel alone.”
His food and drink came. He consumed them quietly. The bear-cashier had given him a table and bench far from the serving tables and away from the other underpeople who dropped in, interrupting their talks, eating in a hurry so that they could get back in a hurry. He saw one wolf-man, wearing the insignia of Auxiliary Police, who came to the wall, forced his identity-card into a slot, opened his mouth, bolted down five large chunks of red, raw meat and left the commissary, all in less than one and one-half minutes. Rod was amazed but not impressed. He had too much on his mind.
At the desk he confirmed the address which C’mell had left, offered the bear-man a handshake, and went along to Upshaft Four. He still looked like a c’man and he carried his package alertly and humbly, as he had seen other underpeople behave in the presence of real persons.
He almost met death on the way. Upshaft Four was one-directional and was plainly marked, “People Only.” Rod did not like the looks of it, as long as he moved in a cat-man body, but he did not think that C’mell would give him directions wrongly or lightly. (Later, he found that she had forgotten the phrase, “Special business under the protection of Jestocost, a chief of the Instrumentality,” if he were to be challenged; but he did not know the phrase.)
An arrogant human man, wearing a billowing red cloak, looked at him sharply as he took a belt, hooked it and stepped into the shaft. When Rod stepped free, he and the man were on a level.
Rod tried to look like a humble, modest messenger, but the strange voice grated his ears:
“Just what do you think you are doing? This is a human shaft.”
Rod pretended that he did not know it was himself whom the red-cloaked man was addressing. He continued to float quietly upward, his magnet-belt tugging uncomfortably at his waist.
A pain in the ribs made him turn suddenly, almost losing his balance in the belt.
“Animal!” cried the man, “Speak up or die.”
Still holding his package of books, Rod said mildly, “I’m on an errand and I was told to go this way.”
The man’s senseless hostility gave caliber to his voice: “And who told you?”
“C’mell,” said Rod absently.
The man and his companions laughed at that, and for some reason their laughter had no humor in it, just savagery, cruelty, and — way down underneath — something of fear. “Listen to that,” said the man in a red cloak, “one animal says another animal told it to do something.” He whipped out a knife.
“What are you doing?” cried Rod.
“Just cutting your belt,” said the man. “There’s nobody at all below us and you will make a nice red-blob at the bottom of the shaft, cat-man. That ought to teach you which shaft to use.”