The solitary inn in Rahasta is the Scapegoat, and above it hangs a painted sign showing such an animal being pursued by cleaver-wielding mutants. I walk in and order some of the local beer. It tastes revolting, but after such a hot day I could drink almost anything. The hunchbacked landlord stares pointedly at you, and his cat (which actually has nine tails) tries to bite my hand as it paws in the air for one of the succulent fat blowflies hovering by the meat pies.