The bellhop’s face turned up, pale and wide-eyed.
“No time for that now, though,” Vane said. “It would have to be the air weed.”
“Is that how you’re going to get me loose, afterward?” the bellhop asked. “Cut the jar, with that knife?”
“Mm? Oh, certainly,” said Vane, watching the graphite lump. Was there a change in its appearance, or not?
“I’m disappointed, in a way,” he said. “I thought you’d give me a fight. You Maracks are overrated, I suppose.”
“It’s all done,” said the bellhop. “Take it, please, and let me out.”
Vane’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t look done to me,” he said.
“It just looks black on the outside, sir. Just rub it off.”
Vane did not move.
“Go ahead, sir,” said the bellhop urgently. “Pick it up and see.”
“You’re a little too eager,” Vane said. He took a fountain pen out of his pocket and used it to prod the graphite gingerly. Nothing happened; the lump moved freely across the tabletop. Vane touched it briefly with one finger, then picked it up in his hand. “No tricks?” he said quizzically. He felt the lump, weighed it, put it down again. There were black graphite smears in his palm.
Vane opened his lapel knife and cut the graphite lump down the middle. It fell into two shiny black pieces. “Graphite,” said Vane, and with an angry gesture he struck the knife blade into the table.
He turned to the bellhop, dusting off his hands. “I don’t get you,” he said, prodding the oval bundle of the air weed experimentally. He picked it up. “All you did was stall. You won’t fight like a Marack, you won’t give in like a Marack. All you’ll do is die like a Meng-boy, right?” He shook his head. “Disappointing.” The dry wrappings came apart in his hands. Between the fibers a dirty-white bulge began to show.
Vane lifted the package to drop it into the jar, and saw that the bellhop’s scared face filled the opening. While he hesitated briefly, the gray-white floss of the air weed foamed slowly out over the back of his hand. Vane felt a constriction, and instinctively tried to drop the bundle. He couldn’t. The growing, billowing floss was sticky—it stuck to his hand. Then his sleeve. It grew, slowly but with a horrifying steadiness.
Gray-faced, Vane whipped his arm around, trying to shake off the weed. Like thick lather, the floss spattered downward but did not separate. A glob of it hit his trouser leg and clung. Another, swelling, dripped down to the carpet. His whole right arm and side were covered deep under a mound of white. The floss had now stopped growing and seemed to be stiffening.
The bellhop began to rock himself back and forth inside the jar. The jar tipped, then fell back. The bellhop rocked harder. The jar was inching its way across the carpet.
After a few moments the bellhop paused to put his face up and see which way he was going. Vane, held fast by the weed, was leaning toward the table, straining hard, reaching with his one free hand toward the knife he had put there. The carpet bulged after him in a low mound, but too much furniture was holding it.
The bellhop lowered his head and rocked the jar again, harder. When he looked up, Vane’s eyes were closed tight, his face red with effort. He was extended as far as he could reach across the table, but his fingers were still clawing air an inch short of the knife. The bellhop rocked hard. The jar inched forward, came to rest solidly against the table, pinning Vane’s arm against it by the flaring sleeve.
The bellhop relaxed and looked up. Feeling himself caught, the Earthman had stopped struggling and was looking down. He tugged, but could not pull the sleeve free.
Neither spoke for a moment.
“Stalemate,” said Vane heavily. He showed his teeth to the bellhop. “Close, but no prize. I can’t get at you, and you can’t hurt me.”
The bellhop’s head bowed as if in assent. After a moment his long arm came snaking up out of the jar. His fingers closed around the deadly little knife.
“A Marack can lift his arm higher than his head, sir,” he said.