Pope

that the Babal judgment is ­fallible?”
“Not exactly; you’re just wrong,” Retief said. “I spilled the punch on him.”
The Pope’s face purpled; his mouth worked. He swallowed.
“It’s ben zo long zinze anyone contradicted me,” he said mildly, “that I’ve vorkotten the bunishment.” He waved two fingers in blessing. “You are apzolved, my zon,” he said airily. “In vact, I apzolv you for the whole weekent. Have fun; it’s on the house.”
“Why, isn’t that gracious of His Arrogance?” Magnan chirped, popping up beside the Pope. “What a pity we didn’t find the demon; but I—”
“That reminds me,” the Pope said ominously. He fixed an eye on Ambassador Straphanger as the senior diplomat came up. “I’m still waitink for results!”
“Look here, Your Arrogance! How can we find a demon if there’s no demon here?”
“That’s your broblem!”
There was a yell from the gate. Two guards were man-handling the bearer with the waste-paper bag, who jerked away, making indignant noises. The bag fell, split open, spilling garbage from the midst of which the fugitive Spism burst, sending scraps flying in every direction. With a bound, it was past the astonished guards, heading for the rear gate. More guards appeared in its path, jerking long-barreled guns from tooled holsters. A shot seared a long gouge in the deep grass, narrowly missed other Papal retainers dashing up to get a crack at the action.