themselves in prudent speed. He felt cold of a sudden, standing there, his thief
in rout, the passers-by giving him curious stares as they jostled about him,
perhaps seeing a stranger a little tall and a little fair to be standing on this
particular streetcorn-er, this low in the town. A battlefield had its terror:
noise and dust and craziness; but this day by day walking through streets full
of knives, full of sly stares and calculations where he stood out like a whore
at an uptown party-
-he was in the minority down here, that was what. He was thunderously alone.
Uptown was where a Rankan belonged.
-in the sunlight-
-at the head of armies-
“Hsst.”
He turned with a start, caught the sudden dart of an eye from a curly-headed
brat, the inviting jerk of head toward alley, down beyond the donkey-crowd. Come
along, the gesture insisted.
He froze, there on the street. It was not one of the regular contacts. It was
someone who knew him. Or who knew him only as Rankan and a target and any target
would do to raise the prestige of some damned death squad crazy who wanted a
little claim to glory-
Any Rankan would do, any Beysib, any uptowner.
He walked on down the street, slipping his shoulders through the crowd, ignoring
the invitation. It was not a situation he liked-crowds, bodies pressing close
against him, pushing and shoving; but there was one way away from that alley.
Another tug at his belt; he reached and turned and lost momentum in the crowd as
his hand protected his purse. Another hand was there, on his wrist.