it isn't really not there. You can walk on it and pick it up and things, but—well, it's a little hard to describe. The kicker is this. Half-stuff is there only as long as you—the one who prepared a batch of it that is—keep the formula going. So if we voted those leeches out of office they'd relax their formula and the half-stuff would vanish and the rest of the buildings and bridges and highways and monuments would fall with a helluva noise and damage. How do you like that?"
"Efficiency plus," said Peter. "Where's this Almarish hang out?"
"The mayor?" asked his cell-mate sourly. "You don't think he'd be seen in the city, do you? Some disgruntled citizen might sic a flock of vampires on his honor. He was elected in absentia. I hear he lives around Mal-Tava way."
"Where's that?" asked Peter eagerly.
"You don't know? Say, you're as green as they come! That's a pretty nasty corner of Ellil—the nastiest anywhere, I guess. It's a volcanic region, and those lava-nymphs are pretty tough molls. Then there's a dragon-ranch around there. The owner got careless and showed up missing one day. The dragons broke out and ran wild; they're the killingest you could hope to see. Anything else?"
"No," said Peter, heavy-hearted. "I guess not."
"That's good. Because I think we're going to trial right now." A guard was opening the door, club poised. "His Honor. Judge Balthazar Pike will see you now," said the warden. Peter groaned.
The half-breed demon, his sar-torial
splendor of the preceding
afternoon replaced by judiciary
black silk, smiled grimly on the two
prisoners. "Mr. Morden," he said indicating
the erstwhile manufacturer,
"and Mr.—er—ah?"
"Packer!" exploded the man. "What are you doing here?"
"Haw!" laughed the judge. "That's what I was going to ask you. But first we have this matter of Mr. Morden to dispose of. Excuse me a moment? Clerk, read the charges."
A cowed-looking little man picked an index-card from a stack and read: "Whereas Mr. Percival Morden of Mahoora has been apprehended in the act of practicing mancy and whereas this Mr. Morden does not possess an approved license for such practice it is directed that His Honor Chief Judge Balthazar Pike declare him guilty of the practice of mancy without a license. Signed, Mayor Almarish. Vote straight Peace and Progress Reform Party for a clean and efficient administration." He paused for a moment and looked timidly at the judge who was cleaning his talons. "That's it, your honor," he said.
"Oh—thank you. Now, Morden—guilty or not guilty?"
"What's the difference?" asked the manufacturer sourly. "Not guilty, I guess."
"Thank you." The judge took a coin from his pocket. "Heads or tails?" he asked.
"Tails," answered Morden. Then, aside to Peter, "It's magic, of course. You can't win." The half-breed demon spun the coin dexterously on the judicial bench; it wobbled, slowed, and fell with a tinkle. The judge glanced at it. "Sorry, old man," he said sympathetically. "'You seem to be guilty. Imprisonment for life in an oak-tree. You'll find Merlin de Bleys in there with you, I rather fancy; You'll like him. Next
