Susan leaned past Ran for a better view. The mob—this lot wasn’t a crowd or a gathering—filled both opposite lanes of the boulevard and was trampling the bushes of the divider. Ran could hear metal ring under heavy blows.
“The Grantholm embassy,” Susan said. “The staff left yesterday, all but a caretaker or two.”
“Come on,” Ran said harshly. He turned and strode back toward the pedestrian way, half dragging the woman with him when she hesitated.
“The authorities shouldn’t let that happen,” Susan muttered. “The host country is responsible for the safety of all embassy—”
Someone at the rear of the mob saw the woman’s blond hair and shouted, “There go a couple of Grantholm dog-fuckers!”
“Go!” said Ran at the alley mouth. He gave Susan a push in the right direction and released her.
The shop nearest the corner specialized in carved jade. Chromed steel rods two and a half meters long slanted from the wall to support the plush marquee. Ran grabbed one of the rods and wrenched it free. He backed a few steps down the alley, out of the pool of the streetlight at its mouth. His hands were set a meter apart at the center of the rod.
Well-dressed Nevasans, their faces contorted with fury, foamed around the bollard like the tide racing past a bridge pier. One of the leaders brandished a pistol. Ran stepped toward the mob, swinging the rod with all the strength of his torso behind the motion.
The man with the gun screamed as his skull cracked. He jerked a shot into the ornamental brick pavement at his feet
Ran backed, stabbed with the tip of the rod, and swung in another broad arc. This time he used the opposite end of his weapon. A Nevasan gripped the rod. Ran judged his angle, smiled like the angel of death, and thrust forward with all his weight. The glittering tube slid through the Nevasan’s hands and punched his front teeth into his palate.
Ran backed another step. The shot had spooked some of the mob, and those still thrusting forward stumbled over the ruin of their front rank. Ran scanned his target Both ends of his rod were black with blood.
“Don’t breathe!” Susan Hatton said sharply. She hadn’t run when he told her to. She reached past Ran, bracing her left hand on his shoulder.
The canister in her right hand went poom! and belched a cloud of gas toward the mob. The recoil lifted her arm. Nevasans sprawled.
“Now run!” she shouted. They fled together. No one followed. Stun gas lay as a bitter haze at the alley mouth.
Under the light at the end of the block, Ran threw down the steel tube. It was kinked at both points his grip had formed the fulcrum for his blows.
Susan led him across the street, dodging the light vehicular traffic. “The hotel?” he said.
She stopped at a grillwork gate. The building beyond the courtyard was of four stories, with balconies shielded by carved screens at each level. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked as she touched the thumbprint lock.
“On a Cold Crew. In sponge space,” said Ran. His eyes were dilated. “Only we used cutting bars and adjustment tools, and sometimes a man’s line broke and he went sailing off forever.”
There was no expression in Ran’s voice. His eyes stared all the way to Hell.
“Ran?” the woman said. She brushed his cheek wonderingly. Her fingers came away smeared with the blood that had spattered him.
He shuddered. “I’m all right,” he said. It was a prayer, not a statement. “I’m fine.” He hugged her fiercely.
“Not here,” she said, but she kissed him anyway. “Come on, inside my apartment.”
“I’m all right,” Ran Colville whispered as she thumbed the lock to the entrance elevator. “I’m fine . . . .”
* * *
The phone rang. It had a pleasant-sounding mechanical bell. Ran didn’t associate the chime with the cause until Susan Hatton lurched over him to lift the handset “Four-two-four-one,” she said crisply.
A voice squeaked from the unit. Susan looked puzzled and gave the phone to Ran. “It’s for you,” she said.