baby! Where'd he go?"
"Over that fence and between those houses."
"Thanks, mother! Come on, Juby."
Thorby waited. The woman continued whatever she was doing; her feet moved and the tub creaked. Then she stepped down and sat on the tub. She slapped it gently. "Stay where you are," she said softly. A moment later he heard her go away.
Thorby waited until his bones ached. But he resigned himself to staying under that tub until dark. It would be chancy, as the night patrol questioned everyone but nobles after curfew, but leaving this neighborhood in daylight had become impossible. Thorby could not guess why he had been honored by a turn-out of the guard, but he did not want to find out. He heard someone—the woman?—moving around the yard from time to time.
At least an hour later he heard the creak of un-greased wheels. Someone tapped on the tub. "When I lift the tub, get into the cart, fast. It's right in front of you."
Thorby did not answer. Daylight hit his eyes, he saw a small pushcart—and was in it and trying to make himself small. Laundry landed on him. But before that blanked out his sight he saw that the tub was no longer nakedly in the open; sheets had been hung on lines so that it was screened.
Hands arranged bundles over him and a voice said, "Hold still until I tell you to move."
"Okay . . . and thanks a million! I'll pay you back someday."
"Forget it." She breathed heavily. "I had a man once. Now he's in the mines. I don't care what you've done— I don't turn anybody over to the patrol."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Shut up."
The little cart bumped and wobbled and presently Thorby felt the change to pavement. Occasionally they stopped; the woman would remove a bundle, be gone a few minutes, come back and dump dirty clothes into the cart. Thorby took it with the long patience of a beggar.
A long time later the cart left pavement. It stopped and the woman said in a low voice, "When I tell you, get out the righthand side and keep going. Make it fast."
"Okay. And thanks again!"
"Shut up." The cart bumped along a short distance, slowed without stopping, and she said, "Now!"
Thorby threw off his covering, bounced out and landed on his feet, all in one motion. He was facing a passage between two buildings, a serviceway from alley to street. He started down it fast but looked back over his shoulder.
The cart was just disappearing. He never did see her face.
Two hours later he was back in his own neighborhood. He slipped down beside Baslim. "No good."
"Why not?"
"Snoopies. Squads of 'em."
"Alms, gentle sir! You swallowed it? Alms for the sake of your parents!"
"Of course."
"Take the bowl." Baslim got to hands and knee, started away.
"Pop! Don't you want me to help you?"
"You stay here."
Thorby stayed, irked that Pop had not waited for a full report. He hurried home as soon as it was dark, found Baslim in the kitchen-washroom, paraphernalia spread around him and using both recorder and book projector. Thorby glanced at the displayed page, saw that he could not read it and wondered what language it was—an odd one; the words were all seven letters, no more, no less. "Hi, Pop. Shall I start supper?"
"No room . . . and no time. Eat some bread. What happened today?"
Thorby told him, while munching bread. Baslim simply nodded. "Lie down. I've got to use hypnosis on you again. We've got a long night ahead."
The material Baslim wanted him to memorize consisted of figures, dates, and endless three-syllable nonsense words. The light trance felt dreamily pleasant and the droning of Baslim's voice coming out of the recorder was pleasant, too.
During one of the breaks, when Baslim had commanded him to wake up, he said, "Pop, who's this message for?"
"If you ever get a chance to deliver it, you'll know; you won't have any doubts. If you have trouble remembering it, tell him to put you into a light trance; it'll come back."
"Tell whom?"
"Him. Never mind. You are going to sleep. You are asleep." Baslim snapped
"Over that fence and between those houses."
"Thanks, mother! Come on, Juby."
Thorby waited. The woman continued whatever she was doing; her feet moved and the tub creaked. Then she stepped down and sat on the tub. She slapped it gently. "Stay where you are," she said softly. A moment later he heard her go away.
Thorby waited until his bones ached. But he resigned himself to staying under that tub until dark. It would be chancy, as the night patrol questioned everyone but nobles after curfew, but leaving this neighborhood in daylight had become impossible. Thorby could not guess why he had been honored by a turn-out of the guard, but he did not want to find out. He heard someone—the woman?—moving around the yard from time to time.
At least an hour later he heard the creak of un-greased wheels. Someone tapped on the tub. "When I lift the tub, get into the cart, fast. It's right in front of you."
Thorby did not answer. Daylight hit his eyes, he saw a small pushcart—and was in it and trying to make himself small. Laundry landed on him. But before that blanked out his sight he saw that the tub was no longer nakedly in the open; sheets had been hung on lines so that it was screened.
Hands arranged bundles over him and a voice said, "Hold still until I tell you to move."
"Okay . . . and thanks a million! I'll pay you back someday."
"Forget it." She breathed heavily. "I had a man once. Now he's in the mines. I don't care what you've done— I don't turn anybody over to the patrol."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Shut up."
The little cart bumped and wobbled and presently Thorby felt the change to pavement. Occasionally they stopped; the woman would remove a bundle, be gone a few minutes, come back and dump dirty clothes into the cart. Thorby took it with the long patience of a beggar.
A long time later the cart left pavement. It stopped and the woman said in a low voice, "When I tell you, get out the righthand side and keep going. Make it fast."
"Okay. And thanks again!"
"Shut up." The cart bumped along a short distance, slowed without stopping, and she said, "Now!"
Thorby threw off his covering, bounced out and landed on his feet, all in one motion. He was facing a passage between two buildings, a serviceway from alley to street. He started down it fast but looked back over his shoulder.
The cart was just disappearing. He never did see her face.
Two hours later he was back in his own neighborhood. He slipped down beside Baslim. "No good."
"Why not?"
"Snoopies. Squads of 'em."
"Alms, gentle sir! You swallowed it? Alms for the sake of your parents!"
"Of course."
"Take the bowl." Baslim got to hands and knee, started away.
"Pop! Don't you want me to help you?"
"You stay here."
Thorby stayed, irked that Pop had not waited for a full report. He hurried home as soon as it was dark, found Baslim in the kitchen-washroom, paraphernalia spread around him and using both recorder and book projector. Thorby glanced at the displayed page, saw that he could not read it and wondered what language it was—an odd one; the words were all seven letters, no more, no less. "Hi, Pop. Shall I start supper?"
"No room . . . and no time. Eat some bread. What happened today?"
Thorby told him, while munching bread. Baslim simply nodded. "Lie down. I've got to use hypnosis on you again. We've got a long night ahead."
The material Baslim wanted him to memorize consisted of figures, dates, and endless three-syllable nonsense words. The light trance felt dreamily pleasant and the droning of Baslim's voice coming out of the recorder was pleasant, too.
During one of the breaks, when Baslim had commanded him to wake up, he said, "Pop, who's this message for?"
"If you ever get a chance to deliver it, you'll know; you won't have any doubts. If you have trouble remembering it, tell him to put you into a light trance; it'll come back."
"Tell whom?"
"Him. Never mind. You are going to sleep. You are asleep." Baslim snapped
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