being hungry. But he was definitely alive. Finally he decided that he might as well go toward the city. He took two steps more, when suddenly he heard something.”
There was silence over the intercom.
After he had allowed sufficient time for a dramatic pause, Let asked, “What was it? What did he hear?”
“If you ever hear it,” Petra said, “you’ll know it.”
“Come on, Petra, what was it?”
“I’m quite serious,” Petra said. “That’s all I know of the story. And that’s all you need to know. Maybe I’ll be able to finish it when I come back from the party tonight.”
“Please, Petra…”
“That’s it.”
He paused for a minute. “Petra, is the adventure I’m supposed to have, the war? Is that why you’re reminding me not to forget?”
“I wish it were that simple, Let. Let’s say that’s part of it.”
“Oh,” said Let.
“Just promise to remember the story, and what I’ve said.”
“I will,” said Let, wondering. “I will.”
* * * *
Jon walked down a long spiral staircase, nodded to the guard at the foot, passed into the castle garden, paused to squint at the sun, and went out the gate. Getting in was a lot more difficult.
CHAPTER III
The Devil’s Pot overturned its foul jelly at the city’s edge. Thirteen alleys lined with old stone houses was its nucleus; many of them were ruined, built over, and ruined again. These were the oldest structures in Toron. Thick with humanity and garbage, it reached from the waterfront to the border of the hive houses in which lived the clerks and professionals of Toron. Clapboard alternated with hastily constructed sheet-metal buildings with no room between. The metal rusted; the clapboard sagged. The waterfront housed the temporary prison, the immigration offices, and the launch service that went out to the aquariums and hydroponics plants that floated on vast pontoons three miles away.
At the dock, a frog-like, sooty hulk had pulled in nearly an hour ago. But the passengers were only being allowed to come ashore now, and that after passing their papers through the inspection of a row of officials who sat behind a wooden table. A flimsy, waist-high structure of boards separated the passengers from the people on the wharf. The passengers milled.
A few had bundles. Many had nothing. They stood quietly, or ambled aimlessly. On the waterfront street, the noise was thunderous. Peddlers hawking, pushcarts trundling, the roar of arguing voices. Some passengers gazed across the fence at the sprawling slum. Most did not.
As they filed past the officers and onto the dock, a woman with a box of trinkets and a brown-red birthmark splashed over the left side of her face pushed among the new arrivals. Near fifty, she wore a dress and head rag, that were a well-washed, featureless gray.
“And would you like to buy a pair of shoelaces, fine strong ones,” she accosted a young man who returned a bewildered smile of embarrassment.
“I…I don’t got any money,” he stammered, though complimented by the attention.
Rara glanced down at his feet. “Apparently you have no shoes either. Well, good luck here in the New World, the Island of Opportunity.” She brushed by him and aimed toward a man and woman who carried a bundle composed of a hoe, a rake, a shovel, and a baby. “A picture,” she said, digging into her box, “of our illustrious majesty, King Uske, with a real metal frame, hand-painted in miniature in honor of his birthday. No true cosmopolitan patriot can be without one.”
The woman with the baby leaned over to see the palm-sized portrait of a vague young man with blond hair and a crown. “Is that really the king?”
“Of course it is,” declared the birthmarked vendress. “He sat for it in person. Look at that noble face. It would be a real inspiration to the little one there, when and if he grows up.”
“How much is it?” the woman asked.
Her husband frowned.
“For a hand-painted picture,” said Rara, “it’s very cheap. Say, half a unit?”
“It’s pretty,” said the woman, then caught the frown on the man’s face. She dropped her eyes and shook her head.
Suddenly the man, from somewhere, thrust a half-unit piece into Rara’s hand. “Here.” He took the picture and handed it to his wife. As she looked at it, he nodded his head. “It is pretty,” he said. “Yes. It is.”
“Good luck here in the New World,” commented Rara. “Welcome to the Island of Opportunity.” Turning, she drew out the next gee-gaw her hand touched, glanced at it long enough to see what it was, and said to the man she now faced. “I see you could certainly use a spool of fine thread to good purpose.” She pointed to a hole in his sleeve. “There.” A brown shoulder showed through his shirt, further up. “And there.”
“I could use a needle too,” he answered her. “And I could use a new shirt, and a bucket of gold.” Suddenly he spat. “I’ve as much chance of getting one as the other with what I’ve got in my pocket.”
“Oh, surely a spool of fine, strong thread…”
Suddenly someone pushed her from behind. “All right. Move on, lady. You can’t peddle here.”
“I certainly can,” exclaimed Rara, whirling. “I’ve got my license right here. Just let me find it now.…”
“Nobody has a license to peddle in front of the immigration building. Now move on.”
“Good luck in the New Land,” she called over her shoulder as the officer forced her away. “Welcome to the Island of Opportunity!”
Suddenly a commotion started behind the gate. Someone was having trouble with papers. Then a dark-haired, barefoot boy broke from his place in line, ran to the wooden gate, and vaulted over. The wooden structure was flimsy. As the boy landed, feet running, the fence collapsed.
Behind the fence they hesitated like an unbroken wave. Then they came. At the table the officials stood up, waved their hands, shouted, then stood on their benches and shouted some more. The officer who had shoved the vending woman disappeared in the wash of bodies.
Rara clutched her box of trinkets and scurried to the corner, then melded with the herding crowd for two blocks into the slums.
“Rara!”
She stopped and looked around. “Oh, there you are,” she said, joining a young girl who stood back from the crowd, holding a box of trinkets like the other woman’s.
“Rara, what happened?”
The birthmarked woman laughed. “You are watching the beginning of the transformation. Fear, hunger, a little more fear, no work, more fear, and every last one of these poor souls will be a first class, grade-A citizen of the Devil’s Pot. How much did you sell?”
“Just a couple of units worth,” the girl answered. She was perhaps sixteen, with a strange combination of white hair, blue eyes, and skin that had tanned richly and quickly, giving her the large-eyed look of an exotic snow-maned animal. “Why are they running?”
“Some boy started a panic. The fence gave way and the rest followed him.” A second surge of people rounded the corner. “Welcome to the New Land, the Island of Opportunity,” Rara called out. Then she laughed.
“Where are they all going to go?” Alter asked.
“Into the holes in the ground, into the cracks in the street. The lucky men will get into the army. But even that won’t absorb them all. The women, the children…?” She shrugged.
Just then a boy’s voice came from halfway down the block. “Hey!”
They