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cannot take eight bottles," complained another ratty voice.
"Whoreson! Just take one, all of yourselves will have to share it," snapped the first.
"What's up?" demanded Lynne Stark, seeing him freeze.
"Rats. Come on. Leave that. Let's run." If rats were here and looting, they'd have left open a way out. That was how rats worked.
They didn't see the rats, or the Blue-fur, but the security gate was open. Chip neatly closed it behind him.
"And now where?" he asked. "Besides a bit further away?"
"My car. The office to get that camera downloaded. And then the police station to lay charges," said Lynne Stark decisively. "I apologize, Connolly. You were right about his reaction. I didn't think anybody could be that bigoted-crazy."
"I don't see the point in a visit to the police. They're more likely to arrest me," said Chip bitterly.
"While I understand where you're coming from, let's get some charges in before your ex-boss does."
"Uh, Lynne. Why do you have that in your hand?" asked the photographer.
The INB boss looked at the tall conical glass, miraculously unbroken and mostly full. "I forgot. I'd grabbed it to throw, when we did a runner. Why did you decide to run just then? Not that it wasn't a good thing. The fracas was getting wild. I think your partisans in the crowd were outnumbered but they were doing a sterling job."
"Partisans?" asked Chip.
"Oh, there were some of the diners for you, and others who thought that the chef would be doing the world a favor by shooting an upstart Vat. There was quite a foodfight going on. Now what is this, anyway? I wouldn't normally think about it for pudding but it seems to be what we've got." She pointed at the conical glass.
"Au diplomate á l'anglaise. Basically what you would call a trifle, if you weren't being charged forty-five dollars for it."
"Trifle," Lynne Stark said wryly. "I should have guessed. Why couldn't it have been i