“Huh! I guess it did, at that! And you survived the zombie graveyard, too. Go figure,” the wolfman chortled. “Say! I been wondering about that weird noise you made, that night. How’d you do that?”

“What? You mean when I sneezed?”

“Har. Some sneeze! Can you do it again?”

The thought had already occurred to me, with his face just inches from mine. But I passed on the temptation to look around for a sharp light. We human emissaries are taught to use our secret weapons sparingly. Talk is almost always a better substitute.

“Lorg, this is a truce zone. I think you’d better put me down.”

“Yeah? Well I’m not afraid of you no more. So who’ll make me?”

I glimpsed Inspector Coalshack, returning this way with a grim expression, his hand raising a bulge inside his cloak. I had to settle this quickly. So I lifted a finger in front of Lorg’s tusky, aromatic face and pointed at one of the many little peepholes and spy lenses, scattered across the ceiling.

“Management,” I said.

One word can be more effective than twenty. Lorg considered, blinking rapidly. Then the hairy lycanthrope let his grip slacken.

“Oh. Yeah.” He looked left and right, nervously. “Guess I’m just irritable. Been constipated, lately.” He set me down. “Anyway, watch where you’re stomping, Standard. You could still find yourself on somebody’s menu.”

“Sure thing, Lorg,” I answered, straightening my clothes and nodding for Coalshack to hold back. “Till then, try adding fiber to your diet… and some mints.”

Joining Coalshack, I resumed weaving through the crowd, more carefully. “This way,” he said, eyeing me warily. I had been scanning the throng as we proceeded, and he clearly knew that I was considering all options. So I let him guide me through a shrouded entryway, rimmed with soft neon lights, into a dimly-lit bar.

A small band played onstage. The singer, who looked as if she had been sewn together from scrap parts, crooned a melody whose lyrics seemed to consist of many variations on the word “Uhn!” Still, there was something about her performance that made it alluring, instead of nauseating. Since coming to this planet, I had come to appreciate zombie musical harmonies. Moldy oldies. They kind of grow on you.

The others – Nuts and Dr. Katske – were already seated at a booth some distance from the stage, across from a pair of scruffy types. One of them was clearly a very tall were-creature of some sort. Not a wolfman. Maybe some lanky variety of Yeti. The other was a Standard humanoid, though tough-looking, with a three-day beard and a mean sidearm at his hip. By the time I approached, some kind of deal seemed to have been struck, because Katske pushed forward a bag that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins, Then, he and the man clasped each others’ thumbs in the local equivalent of a handshake. Everybody stood.