Fruntkin grasped his ladle angrily.
'Look-' he began.
'No, it's all right,' said the prospective diner. 'The slugs have formed a defensive ring.'
There was a commotion by the door. Detritus the troll waded through the diners, with Cut- me-own-Throat Dibbler strutting along behind him.
The troll shouldered the queue aside and glared at Fruntkin.
'Mr Dibbler want a word,' he said, and reached across the counter, lifted the dwarf up by his food-encrusted shirt, and dangled him in front of Throat.
'Anyone seen Victor Tugelbend?' said Throat. 'Or that girl Ginger?'
Fruntkin opened his mouth to swear, and thought better of it.
'The boy was in here half an hour ago,' he squeaked. 'Ginger works here mornings. Don't know where she goes.'
'Where'd Victor go?' said Throat. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. It jingled. Fruntkin's eyes swivelled towards it as though they were ball bearings and it was a powerful magnet.
'Dunno, Mr Throat,' he said. 'He just went out again when she wasn't here.'
'Right,' said Throat. 'Well, if you see him again, tell him I'm looking for him and I'm going to make him a star, right?'
'Star. Right,' said the dwarf.
Throat reached into his moneybag and produced a tendollar piece.
'And I want to order dinner for later on,' he added.
'Dinner. Right,' quavered Fruntkin.
'Steak and prawns, I think,' said Throat. 'With a choice of sunkissed vegetables in season, and then strawberries and cream.'
Fruntkin stared at him.
'Er-,' he began.
Detritus poked the dwarf so that he swung backwards and forwards.
'An' I', he said, 'will 'ave . . . er . . . a well-weathered basalt with a aggregate of fresh-hewn sandstone conglomerates. Right?'
'Er. Yes,' said Fruntkin.
'Put him down, Detritus. He doesn't want to be hanging around,' said Throat.
'And gently.' He looked around at the fascinated faces.
'Remember,' he said, 'I'm looking for Victor Tugelbend and I'm going to make him a star. If anyone sees him, you must tell him. Oh, and I'll have the steak rare, Fruntkin.'
He strode back to the door.
After he had gone the chattering flowed back like a tide.
'Make him a star? What'd he want a star for?'
'I didn't know you could make stars . . .
I thought they were like, you know, stuck to the sky . . . '
'I think he meant make him a star. You know, him himself. Turn him into a star.'
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