so

my God, on the bagpipe?”
“That’s the way it’s done. What else could sound so soulful?”
“Do you suppose anyone would get mad if I beat both of them to death?”
“I think it would spoil our watch.”
“Oh, yeah.” Harris suffered through eight more stanzas of the mournful musician’s troubles. He felt much better when the singer and piper sat to the audience’s inexplicable applause. Two other musicians rose and began a duel of hammered dulcimers.
Harris’ relief didn’t last long. Angus Powrie appeared at Eamon Moon’s side and leaned over to speak in the man’s ear. Harris stiffened.
“Better than I had hoped,” Doc said.
Powrie didn’t stay. He clapped Moon on the back with rough familiarity and walked toward the exit.
Doc dropped a coin on the table and rose. “A change in plans,” he said. “I’ll follow Powrie. You call the Foundation and have someone come out to join you. Jean-Pierre, preferably. Keep watching Eamon Moon.”
“Right.”
Doc walked after Angus Powrie with studied casualness.
Harris

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