From: Lester <maxim@netcom.com>
Date: Tue, 21 Oct 1997 17:40:17 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Logo Fyles #8
Message-id: <Pine.3.89.9710211735.A7849-0100000@netcom8>
"You mean S--" Brond checked himself. Find out what Skudler wanted first, then decide what to tell him. "He looks like someone I might have run into."
Brond felt Skudler's distrustful eyes on him as he looked through the folder. He'd heard of most of them, of course. Divi Boygs. Nyas Markman. The two Jolls, Surfman and Wampish. Ront. Robinia Putlock. And the last two, Blip Twankay and Addeem Loglog. The ones who had passed themselves off as the Sneb brothers. Last night's events at the casino began to surface, sans one important detail.
Skudler pointed to the folder, "Brilliant polymaths and Wordgame combaters by day, but tregetours and something else at night. Something nasty. We've had our eye on these bovvers for years. They are behind some indescribably heinous acts. As yet, we have nothing concrete to engaol them with. They have been too careful. Or lucky." Skudler's eyes were accusing, as if Brond was one of them.
Brond ignored him, eying the folder. So the "Snebs," supposedly in town for the remediat spelling seminar, were part of the logo aristocracy. Laughy.
Skudler pulled out another folder, and held up some photos containing scenes of horror and carnage. "No navarin is too noxious for these chefs to prepare." Brond reached for the folder, but Skudler pulled it away and locked it up. "Not for your classification, I'm afraid."
"Okay, they are nasty. Where do I fit in?"
"You fancy yourself a verbile, don't you? A rank amateur, to be sure, but still. The indunas upstairs think you might be able to get close to these cullions during the tournament. They will be concentrating on their games, and may be vulnerable."
"The World's tournament? You want me to attend it?"
Skudler's lip curled in a facsimile of a smile. "No, Brond, not attend it. They want you to compete in it."