smoke off in some other direction.”
“Say, that’s an idea!” Jackspurt agreed. “And I think I know just the direction.” He gave instructions to the big blue Spism, who hurried away.
The Archbishop had retreated to a corner, eyes goggling, his hands describing mystic passes in the air. More Spisms were crowding into the room now: tall blue ones, tiny darting green ones, sluggish purple varieties—all cocking their eye-stalks at the prelate.
“Help!” he croaked weakly. “The minions of the netherworlt are ubon me!”
Magnan drew out a chair from the table. “Just have a seat, Your Voracity,” he said soothingly. “Let’s just see if we can’t work out a modus vivendi suitable to all parties . . .”
“Gome to terms with the Enemy? Id will mean the ent of the jurch!”
“On the contrary, Your Voracity; if you ever succeeded in eliminating the opposition,