threads as on the taut strings of a musical instrument. Twang one here, and the vibration continues along it. Other threads with which it comes in contact resonate in sympathy, more or less. A great deal of control is possible. She has not said anything to Knard about that.
Luis Nevada faces, shaking and cursing, a new world, into which he bought admittance without knowing what he was doing.
Curdy Wence faces the same world, chewing on another pad of tranks, as measured as time in spite of the situation he has got into. He feels exceptionally proud of himself. He doesn’t waste time hoping, or worrying. He plans.
Kingsley Athlone sweats in his police cruiser, his jacket unbuttoned and his face grooved with a giant scowl, which is so deep it seems it will be permanent. The radio crackles with news of the violence abroad in the city, and he barks orders and sweats anew. He thinks less of the forces under his command than of the man he has hunted for weeks andmonths and who is now laughing at him from beyond the Tacket portals—immune to revenge, immune to anything.
His search of Nevada’s lodging was fruitless, he recalls, and damns Clostrides. He damns the call which fetched him off Nevada’s track with news of the rioting. He damns his own self-preserving desire to interfere, which led him to order his policemen to hinder the ’cruiters instead of the cultists. Even that far his need for vengeance was driving him! Even to such an overt act against Lyken who had snatched Nevada away!
Of course, if Lyken lost out, no doubt Clostrides would be grateful for the assistance. But what difference would that make, if Nevada did not survive?
And by now it must be known to hundreds, if not thousands, of people, that the police had orders to concentrate on the ’cruiters and let the cultists be when possible. That alone made this extended rioting possible.
Athlone shivers in spite of sweating so much. There will be complaints, inquiries, investigations. All he can do now is clear up the mess he permitted the rioters to create.
He barks further orders, and the fire of the fury begins to flicker out.
Jockey Hole knows about the police’s orders. He has known for hours. He thinks that Clostrides probably gave the orders to Athlone at their interview. Anyone else would have assumed that automatically. Jockey only entertains it as a possibility.
From his nighttime headquarters at the Octopus Bar on Holy Alley, he reaches out and feels the city’s feverish pulse. His eyes and ears are everywhere in the Quarter. So far the all-important string has not fallen into his grasp.
High in the white tower of The Market, the Directors meet for the last time before the invasion. Two things trouble them particularly. By blowing up his base, Lyken has cut himselfoff from the world, and that is unprecedented. Other concessionaries in the past have fought to hold what they had; all of them have fought on both fronts, and some of them have held out for the necessary length of time.
And Hal Lanchery—always brash, always eager and defiant—tonight is glum and speaks only in harsh monosyllables.
The Directors are very rich, probably as rich as any man has been in history. Yet they know they are not
sure
of defeating Lyken. Their wealth lies in a slender margin of profit on a truly gigantic investment. They can afford to fight Ahmed Lyken only until the drain on their resources is greater than the continued profit. Therefore, the victory must come swiftly, or it will be pointless. Likewise, there must be something to show for it: there must be Lyken’s franchise in operating order, or else they will have wasted their man power and money to gain something no better than a raw, undeveloped franchise for which they could have bought the rights cheaply.
Lyken’s strange action, and Lanchery’s gloom, make the Directors feel that the balance is swinging the wrong way.
Ahmed Lyken has made his choice. There is no longer any point in
Luis Nevada faces, shaking and cursing, a new world, into which he bought admittance without knowing what he was doing.
Curdy Wence faces the same world, chewing on another pad of tranks, as measured as time in spite of the situation he has got into. He feels exceptionally proud of himself. He doesn’t waste time hoping, or worrying. He plans.
Kingsley Athlone sweats in his police cruiser, his jacket unbuttoned and his face grooved with a giant scowl, which is so deep it seems it will be permanent. The radio crackles with news of the violence abroad in the city, and he barks orders and sweats anew. He thinks less of the forces under his command than of the man he has hunted for weeks andmonths and who is now laughing at him from beyond the Tacket portals—immune to revenge, immune to anything.
His search of Nevada’s lodging was fruitless, he recalls, and damns Clostrides. He damns the call which fetched him off Nevada’s track with news of the rioting. He damns his own self-preserving desire to interfere, which led him to order his policemen to hinder the ’cruiters instead of the cultists. Even that far his need for vengeance was driving him! Even to such an overt act against Lyken who had snatched Nevada away!
Of course, if Lyken lost out, no doubt Clostrides would be grateful for the assistance. But what difference would that make, if Nevada did not survive?
And by now it must be known to hundreds, if not thousands, of people, that the police had orders to concentrate on the ’cruiters and let the cultists be when possible. That alone made this extended rioting possible.
Athlone shivers in spite of sweating so much. There will be complaints, inquiries, investigations. All he can do now is clear up the mess he permitted the rioters to create.
He barks further orders, and the fire of the fury begins to flicker out.
Jockey Hole knows about the police’s orders. He has known for hours. He thinks that Clostrides probably gave the orders to Athlone at their interview. Anyone else would have assumed that automatically. Jockey only entertains it as a possibility.
From his nighttime headquarters at the Octopus Bar on Holy Alley, he reaches out and feels the city’s feverish pulse. His eyes and ears are everywhere in the Quarter. So far the all-important string has not fallen into his grasp.
High in the white tower of The Market, the Directors meet for the last time before the invasion. Two things trouble them particularly. By blowing up his base, Lyken has cut himselfoff from the world, and that is unprecedented. Other concessionaries in the past have fought to hold what they had; all of them have fought on both fronts, and some of them have held out for the necessary length of time.
And Hal Lanchery—always brash, always eager and defiant—tonight is glum and speaks only in harsh monosyllables.
The Directors are very rich, probably as rich as any man has been in history. Yet they know they are not
sure
of defeating Lyken. Their wealth lies in a slender margin of profit on a truly gigantic investment. They can afford to fight Ahmed Lyken only until the drain on their resources is greater than the continued profit. Therefore, the victory must come swiftly, or it will be pointless. Likewise, there must be something to show for it: there must be Lyken’s franchise in operating order, or else they will have wasted their man power and money to gain something no better than a raw, undeveloped franchise for which they could have bought the rights cheaply.
Lyken’s strange action, and Lanchery’s gloom, make the Directors feel that the balance is swinging the wrong way.
Ahmed Lyken has made his choice. There is no longer any point in
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