All the chatter inside was in Spainish, too. No, I take that back: I heard a little clucking Nahuad, too. No English, not until people noticed us. I got the idea people who didn't look Aztedan didn't pop into Chocolate Weasel every day. The Aztedan community in Angels City is big enough to be a large city of its own, and doesn't have to deal with outsiders unless it wants to.

By the looks they gave us, we were outsiders they didn't want to deal with. Those looks got darker when we pulled out our EPA sigils, too. Suddenly everyone in the place developed a remarkable inability to understand English.

Michael foiled that ploy, though, by asking for the head of the firm in fluent Spainish.

I wondered if the secretary would fall back into Nahuad; she was one of the people I'd heard using it If she did, though, Michael would give her another surprise. I wondered how many pale blonds spoke the old Aztedan language. Not many seemed a fair guess.

But, rather to my disappointment, she didn't. In fact, hearing Michael use Spainish made her unbend enough to remember she knew some English after all, which put me back in the conversation. She took us down the hall to the consortium markgrave's office.

Jorge Vasquez looked at us with about as much enthusiasm as a devout Hindu confronted with a plate of blood-red prime rib. He was a handsome fellow in his early forties, and doing quite well for himself: unless I missed my guess, his suit would have run me dose to two weeks' pay.

He shoved our sigils back across the desk at us, then leaned forward to glare. "I am sick and tired of harassment by the EPA," he said. "You people have the attitude that our spells must be perverse because they are based on the authentic rituals of our people. It is not true; our procedures are no more wicked than the thaumaturgy the Catholic Church works through transubstantiation." He pointed to the crucifix on the wall behind him.

"That's a matter of opinion," I answered. "Myself, I'm Jewish." I didn't elaborate; what it meant was that I found any ritual of human sacrifice, no matter how symbolic, on the unpleasant side.

Vasquez didn't say anything, but his nostrils flared. So he wasn't real fond of Jews, eh? Well, that was his problem, not mine.

I went on, "In any case, this visit has nothing to do with the merit of your rituals, only with the way you're preparing your toxic spell byproducts for disposal. The Devonshire dump is leaking, and leaking something noxious enough to cause an outbreak of apsychic births in the neighborhood.

Considering some of the materials and cantrips you use, I hope you can understand how we might be concerned"

"I tell you again, Inspector Fisher, this is bigotry in action," Vasquez said. "We run a dean shop here. What do you think we are doing, attempting to bring about the dominion of Huitzuopochtii over Angels City?"

That was one of my major concerns, but telling him so didn't seem politic. I just said, "Why don't you take us over to your flayed human skin substitute processing facility? That's the likeliest source of thaumaturgic pollution here, I think."

"It is a legitimate sorcerous substance, permissible under the laws of the Confederation," Vasquez said hody. "I repeat, you are harassing Chocolate Weasel by singling us out-"

"Bullshit," I said, which made him sit up straight in his chain not the first time lately I'd surprised somebody by not talking the way an EPA inspector was supposed to. I didn't care. If he was hot, I was steaming. I went on, "You are not being singled out, sir. I've been visiting businesses that dump at Devonshire for weeks now. You're not being discriminated against because you're Aztecian, either - I've hit Persian places, aerospace firms, what have you. But even you won't deny flayed human skin substitute is a dangerous substance, I hope? Now we can do this politely on an informal level or I can go out, get a warrant, and turn this place inside out. How do you want to play it?"

He calmed down in a hurry. Somehow I'd thought he might. He said, "What sort of tests do you have in mind?"

I looked at Michael - he was the expert. He said, "I intend to use the similarity test with my own piece of skin substitute to see if uncontrolled Huitzilopochtlic influences are present." He was going to try the same test he'd used back at the dump, in other words.

I didn't know what Vasquez would say about that - maybe start complaining about theological discrimination. But he didn't; he just got up and said, "Come with me, gentlemen."

I concluded he was a lot like Ramzan Durani of Slow Jinn Fizz: plenty of bluster when he was excited, but a reasonable man underneath. Fine with me; I'd had it up to here with arguments.

As soon as we left the office, the racket from the mariachi minisingers came back full force. That kind of music has its enthusiasts. Unfortunately, I'm not any of them. And the minisingers, true to their Alemanic Ursprung, gave it a slight oompah beat that did nothing to improve matters.

The workers on the factory floor glared at Michael and me as we went by. Not everybody loves the EPA. Too bad.

The Confederation would be contaminated a lot worse than it is if we weren't around.

Squares of flayed human skin substitute lay at the bottom of vats. Even though the stuff was legal, it turned my stomach. Michael said, "Take one out for me, please." Vasquez translated his request into Spainish. One of his men reached in and fished out a dripping sheet "It's darker than the substitute you have in your lot," I remarked.

Vasquez said, "This is the residue of the tanning baths.

Proper cleansing will restore the usual shade."

Michael Manstein raised an eyebrow at that but he didn't say anything, so I let it ride. I said, "I trust you have proper import certificates for the flayed human skin substitute?"

"I shall fetch them immediately," Vasquez said. "Please do not let my absence delay you in your tests." He headed back toward his office.

Michael got to work with his sheet of human skin substitute and the one the worker had pulled out of the vat. I clutched my kabbalistic amulets. I was ready for anything from his sheet of substitute starting to bleed to all hell breaking loose. I was ready for what might have been worse than hell breaking loose: I was ready for Huitzilopochdi alive and in Person and in a bad mood. I wasn't sure I'd get out of Chocolate Weasel in one piece if that happened, but I had a chance.

Jorge Vasquez came back while Michael was still incanting. He handed me the certificates I'd asked for. Sure enough, they showed he was bringing in flayed human skin substitute produced by the law of similarity, as certified by some high sorcerer down in Tenochtitlan, the point of origin of the stuff. The certificate had Aztecian export stamps and Confederation import stamps right where they belonged. On parchment Chocolate Weasel was as legal as could be.

"Thanks very much, Mr. Vasquez," I said. "You maintain excellent documentation."

"I have to," he answered, his tone bitter, "It is the only way I can protect myself from harassment because I am an Aztecian businessman serving my people on Confederation soil." He was back to that song again. I let it alone; nothing I could say was going to make him change his mind.

Michael spoke a last couple of magical words, lifted the wet sheet of flayed human skin substitute from the one he'd taken out of his little black bag. "No skin of bleeding," he said, sounding as surprised as he ever did - which is to say, Vasquez, who didn't known him well, wouldn't have noticed any change in his voice. "I must conclude that the specimen from the vat is thaumaturgically inactive with respect to Huitzflopochtli."

"I could have told you as much," Vasquez said. "In fact, I did tell you as much, but you chose not to listen. Are you satisfied?"