One or two wore Dry-town shirtcloaks, and I
even thought I saw an Earthman in the crowd, though I was never sure and
I fervently hope not. They were squatting around small crescent-shaped
tables, and all intently gazing at a flickery spot of light at the front
of the cellar. I saw an empty place at one table and dropped there,
finding the floor soft, as if cushioned.
On each table, small smudging pastilles were burning, and from these
cones of ash-tipped fire came the steamy, swimmy smoke that filled the
darkness with strange colors. Beside me an immature _chak_ girl was
kneeling, her fettered hands strained tightly back at her sides, her
naked breasts pierced for jeweled rings.
Beneath the pallid fur around her pointed ears, the exquisite animal
face was quite mad. She whispered to me, but her dialect was so thick
that I could follow only a few words, and would just as soon not have
heard those few. An older _chak_ grunted for silence and she subsided,
swaying and crooning.
There were cups and decanters on all the tables, and a woman tilted
pale, phosphorescent fluid into a cup and offered it to me.
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