"You," Verkan Vall continued, "are a complete, deliberate, malicious,
and unmitigated liar. The Lady Dallona of Hadron is a scientist of
integrity, incapable of falsifying her experimental work. What's more,
her father is one of my best friends; in his name, and in hers, I
demand a full retraction of the slanderous statements you have just
made."

"Do you know who I am?" the beefy one shouted.

"I know _what_ you are," Verkan Vall shouted back. Like most ancient
languages, the Akor-Neb speech included an elaborate, delicately-shaded,
and utterly vile vocabulary of abuse; Verkan Vall culled from it
judiciously and at length. "And if I don't make myself understood verbally,
we'll go down to the object level," he added, snatching a bowl of soup from
in front of the monkish-looking young man and throwing it across the table.

The soup was a dark brown, almost black. It contained bits of meat,
and mushrooms, and slices of hard-boiled egg, and yellow Martian rock
lichen. It produced, on the light tunic, a most spectacular effect.

For a moment, Verkan Vall was afraid the fellow would have an
apoplectic stroke, or an epileptic fit. Mastering himself, however, he
bowed jerkily.

"Marnark of Bashad," he identified himself. "When and where can my
friends consult yours?"

"Lord Virzal of Verkan," the paratimer bowed back. "Your friends can
negotiate with mine here and now. I am represented by these
Gentlemen-Assassins."