McKie glanced accusingly at the Wreave lieutenant.
"It asked what kind of human you were," the Wreave explained.
"I'm glad you rendered such an accurate description," McKie said. He faced the Palenki. "What do you think?"
"I think not possible, Ser McKie. Sentients no longer permit such barbarities." The turtle mouth rendered the words without emotion, but the arm dangling to the right from its headtop juncture writhed with uncertainty.
"I may do something worse," McKie said.
"What is worse?" the Palenki asked.
"We'll see, won't we? Now! You can account for every member of your phylum, is that what you claim?"
"That is correct."
"You're lying," McKie said, voice flat.
"No!"
"What's your phylum name?" McKie asked.
"I give that only to phylum brothers!"
"Or to the Gowachin," McKie said.
"You are not Gowachin."
In a flat splatting of Gowachin grunts, McKie began describing the Palenki's probable unsavory ancestry, its evil habits, possible punishments for its behavior. He concluded with the Gowachin identification-burst, the unique emotion/word pattern by which he was required to identify himself before the Gowachin bar.
Presently the Palenki said, "You are the human they admitted to their legal concourse. I've heard about you."
"What's your phylum name?" McKie demanded.
"I am called Biredch of Ank," the Palenki said, and there was a resigned tone in its voice.
"Well, Biredch of Ank, you're a liar."
"No!" the arm writhed.
There was terror in the Palenki's manner now. It was a brand of fear McKie had been trained to recognize in his dealings through the Gowachin. He possessed the Palenki's privileged name; he could demand the arm.
"You have compounded a capital offense," McKie said.
"No! No! No!" the Palenki protested.
"What the other sentients in this room don't realize," McKie said, "is that phylum brothers accept gene surgery to affix the identity pattern on their carapaces. The index marks are grown into the shell. Isn't this true?"
The Palenki remained silent.
"It's true," McKie said. He noted that the enforcers had moved into a close ring around them, fascinated by this encounter. "You!" McKie said, snapping an arm toward the Wreave lieutenant. "Get your men on their toes!"
"Toes?"
"They should be watching every corner of this room," McKie said. "You want Abnethe to kill our witness?"
Abashed, the lieutenant turned, barked orders to his squad, but the enforcers were already at their shifty, turning, eye-darting inspection of the room. The Wreave lieutenant shook a mandible angrily, fell silent.
McKie returned his attention to the Palenki. "Now, Biredch of Ank, I'm going to ask you some special questions. I already know the answers to some of them. If I catch you in one lie, I'll consider a reversion to barbarism. Too much is at stake here. Do you understand me?"
"Ser, you cannot believe that . . ."
"Which of your phylum mates did you sell into slave service with Mliss Abnethe?" McKie demanded.
"Slaving is a capital offense," the Palenki breathed.
"I've already said you were implicated in a capital offense," McKie said. "Answer the question."
"You ask me to condemn myself?"
"How much did she pay you?" McKie asked.
"Who pay me what?"
"How much did Abnethe pay you?"
"For what?"
"For your phylum mates?"
"What phylum mates?"
"That's the question," McKie said. "I want to know how many you sold, how much you were paid, and where Abnethe took them."
"You cannot be serious!"
"I'm recording this conversation," McKie said. "I'm going to call your United Phyla Council presently, play the recording for them, and suggest they deal with you."
"They will laugh at you! What evidence could you . . ."
"I've your own guilty voice," McKie said. "We'll get a voicecorder analysis of everything you've said and submit it with the recording to your council."
"Voicecorder? What is this?"
"It's a device which analyzes the subtle pitch and intonation of the voice to determine which statements are true and which are false."
"I've never heard of such a device!"