His eye lit on a worn-out washtub . . . then he was under it. It was a tight fit, with knees to his chin and splinters in his spine. He was afraid that his clout was sticking out but it was too late to correct it; he heard someone coming.
Footsteps came toward the tub and he stopped breathing. Someone stepped on the tub and stood on it
“Hi there, mother!” It was a man’s voice. “You been out here long?”
“Long enough. Mind that pole, you’ll knock the clothes down.”
“See anything of a boy?”
“What boy?”
“Youngster, getting man-tall. Fuzz on his chin. Breech clout, no sandals.”
“Somebody,” the woman’s voice above him answered indifferently, “came running through here like his ghost was after him. I didn’t really see him — I was trying to get this pesky line up.”
“That’s our baby! Where’d he go?”
“Over that fence and between those houses.”
“Thanks, mother! Come on, Juby.”
Thorby waited. The woman continued whatever she was doing; her feet moved and the tub creaked. Then she stepped down and sat on the tub. She slapped it gently. “Stay where you are,” she said softly. A moment later he heard her go away.
Thorby waited until his bones ached. But he resigned himself to staying under that tub until dark. It would be chancy, as the night patrol questioned everyone but nobles after curfew, but leaving this neighborhood in daylight had become impossible. Thorby could not guess why he had been honored by a turnout of the guard, but he did not want to find out. He heard someone — the woman? — moving around the yard from time to time.
At least an hour later he heard the creak of ungreased wheels. Someone tapped on the tub. “When I lift the tab, get into the cart, fast. It’s right in front of you.”
Thorby did not answer. Daylight hit his eyes, he saw a small pushcart — and was in it and trying to make himself small. Laundry landed on him. But before that blanked out his sight he saw that the tub was no longer nakedly in the open; sheets had been hung on lines so that it was screened.
Hands arranged bundles over him and a voice said, “Hold still until I tell you to move.”
“Okay . . . and thanks a million! I’ll pay you back someday.”
“Forget it.” She breathed heavily. I had a man once. Now he’s in the mines. I don’t care what you’ve done — I don’t turn anybody over to the patrol.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Shut up.”
The little cart bumped and wobbled and presently Thorby felt the change to pavement Occasionally they stopped; the woman would remove a bundle, be gone a few minutes, come back and dump dirty clothes into the cart. Thorby took it with the long patience of a beggar.
A long time later the cart left pavement. It stopped and the woman said in a low voice, “When I tell you, get out the right-hand side and keep going. Make it fast.”
“Okay. And thanks again!”
“Shut up.” The cart bumped along a short distance, slowed without stopping, and she said, “Now!”
Thorby threw off his covering, bounced out and landed on his feet, all in one motion. He was facing a passage between two buildings, a serviceway from alley to street. He started down it fast but looked back over his shoulder. The cart was lost disappearing. He never did see her face.
Two hours later he was back in his own neighborhood. He slipped down beside Baslim. “No good.”
“Why not?”
“Snoopies. Squads of ’em.”
“Alms, gentle sir! You swallowed it? Alms for the sake of your parents!”
“Of course.”
“Take the bowl.” Baslim got to hands and knee, started away.
“Pop! Don’t you want me to help you?”
“You stay here.”
Thorby stayed, irked that Pop had not waited for a full report. He hurried home as soon as it was dark, found Baslim in the kitchen-washroom, paraphernalia spread around him and using both recorder and book projector. Thorby glanced at the displayed page, saw that he could not read it and wondered what language it was — an odd one; the words were all seven letters, no more, no less. “Hi, Pop. Shall I start supper?”