Levels: The Host by Peter Emshwiller Page A

dangers of the neighborhood, they turned and headed down an alley that was even darker than the street. A few shadowy forms moved about up ahead. The donor squinted but kept on. To the left and right were more piles of garbage and pieces of scrap metal. Chunks of broken cemeld lay in powdery mounds. The shadowy figures moved closer. Soft mewings of a new litter came from some far corner.
    “What you got inna bag, cuffer?”
    “The bag for some sets?”
    “You a pain-freak, donor?”
    Watly felt trickles of sweat dribbling down his back. Still more drops came down his forehead and stung his eyes. Whatever the donor was feeling, the guy was feeling it strongly. For rape’s sake, don’t turn into a pain-freak on me, fella. I like excitement as much as the next person—dangerous neighborhoods, strange characters—but I’ve had my fill today, thank you.
    Watly was on the verge of another chant recital when his donor tripped over a pipe and fell head first into an oily puddle. There was a soggy splash. And thump. Watly was temporarily stunned. Nothing seemed to be seriously hurt. Then there was a frenzied sound of footsteps rushing forward and within seconds Watly could tell they were closely surrounded. Lots of them. A terradamn crowd. The shoulder bag was violently ripped from his arm.
    Watly’s donor turned and half sat up, leaning on one arm. Watly’s eyes slowly scanned the faces. All around were strange and frightening people. They wore tattered clothing in browns and blacks and grays, but all had extremely ornate makeup on. Bright splashes of abstract shapes in vivid colors covered each face. Masklike. Most of these creatures were of indeterminate gender. They looked dangerous—coiled. Behind the paint they had hatred in their eyes. They seemed to be waiting for Watly’s donor to make a move—any move at all. One of them was ripping open the shoulder bag and spilling out what remained of the donor’s money. It looked like a lot—thousands, maybe.
    “Well, look here, girls and boys. Mucho dinero. Look at all this, will you? Isn’t that nice.”
    The one speaking turned and looked directly into Watly’ s eyes.
    “What’re we gonna do with you now, huh? You like this stuff? You a fade-out? You a pain-freak? You’ve got Second Level eyes, fella. I can tell. I hate them Second Level eyes. You want me to take those eyes out?” He/she opened a long blade that looked well worn and squatted in front of Watly’s splayed body. “You want me to take ‘ em out?”
    Watly could feel the donor try to clear his throat and move his tongue. The mouth was bone dry. No sound emerged. The person with the knife leaned forward. The knife’s heavy plastic handle was stained a dark color and there were flecks of something brownish dried on the blade itself. The point was just a few inches from Watly’s face, hovering there, swaying gently back and forth. Watly’s donor seemed frozen in position, going cross-eyed staring at the chipped metal.
    A piercing female voice cried out back at the mouth of the alleyway.
    “The Ragman!” she yelled. “The Ragman’ s coming!”
    The crowd surrounding Watly turned to look. The one with the knife backed off. Watly could hear mumbling and whispering.
    “The Ragman. Ragman comes here?”
    “Here he comes!”
    “Here comes the Ragman!”
    There was respect—almost reverence—in the way the group pulled apart to let the short, dark figure pass through. Watly’s donor kept his eyes glued to the man. The Ragman. He was bearded, stocky, and only about five feet tall. His eyes were dark and his skin smooth and free of makeup. He wore clothes similar to the others, but here and there—at a seam or torn edge or wrinkle or cuff—tiny points sparkled and glittered like gold or brass. His eyes held them. Held them all. There was a charisma to the man, an intensity you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He seemed brighter, somehow. Lit from within. The Ragman approached.
    “What’s