They would learn better. There had to be superiors and inferiors, even in a society without slaves.
Dick was uncomfortably aware how many slaves -- ex-slaves -- there were in the crowd. They seemed to be coming out of their holes, more and more, all silent and burning-eyed; the burrows under Eagles must be empty of them: he had never seen so many at once before.
Up ahead, there was a curious, swirling movement in the crowd. People seemed to be gathering at one spot near the wall, and then almost immediately it was over, and the flow moved on unbroken.
As they passed the spot, Dick caught a glimpse of a young man standing white-faced and bewildered against the wall. Blood was streaming down his cheek. Dick recognized the face; it was one of Randolph's bully-boys, a man notorious for his ingenious cruelty with slaves. No one was approaching him or speaking to him; the crowd flowed silently past.
That was a bad thing, Dick thought, with his heart beating suddenly heavy and thick. There was the only real danger: if that kind of thing got out of hand --
He had a brief, incongruous flash of memory -- two garden slobs standing over a felled tree, cool shadowed in the early morning; and their axes glinted one after another: chunk, pause, chunk
"What is it?" asked Elaine anxiously; her fingers tightened on his arm.
"Nothing. Don't worry."
He was tense, alert, but nothing else happened. The crowd flowed on smoothly. They were passing the entrance of the Little Gold Corridor now, the place where he had had his first fight in Eagles, and he glanced down it curiously, as if expecting to see Keel there. But the corridor was deserted, the stream flowing silently alone.
Grossing the Four Ways on the old black and white mosaic floor, there was a little confusion as usual; people milling in the center, dodging around each other. Echoes broke hollowly under the many-vaulted ceiling; the crowd was as thick as he had ever seen it. There was a white-hatted Lone Star man, there two Indians in turbans, there a kepi, and slaves, slaves everywhere. Deep in the center, motion slowed almost to a standstill. The sound level had risen; there were voices speaking indistinguishably.
Dick saw the two Frankies exchange glances. Moving instinctively, he took Elaine's hand away and put his arm around her waist.
"Dick, what's the matter?"
He did not answer. Off to one side, the crowd was swaying, thick. Suddenly the air was full of noise; someone had fired a gun, shockingly loud, the echoes thundering away under the ceiling. Dick saw a whiff of smoke drift up from the middle of the crowd. Then he heard a low grumbling of many voices, and the crowd seemed to contract into itself. Someone was shouting; he could not make out the words. A Frankie, not one of theirs, was trying to force his way toward the disturbance, but the bodies were too closely packed. Others were coming across the floor on the run.
The two Frankie bodyguards looked at each other wordlessly; one jerked his thumb toward the nearest cross-corridor; the other nodded. Without further discussion, they grasped Dick and Elaine by the arms and moved off rapidly in that direction. Behind them, the uproar was growing.
Running men clogged the corridor, all hurrying toward the Four Ways; most of them were slaves. Some glanced at Dick's party; a few even broke their stride. But the movement was too strong, and they passed on. In the distance, a bullhorn broke out into loud, muffled speech. It went on blaring, incomprehensibly.
They turned at the next crossing, into Jewelers' Row. They were heading, Dick realized, for the shortest route to the Old Man's temporary headquarters in the Plaza. If they could get across the Plaza itself, Elaine would be safe.
The crowd was thinning. The noise from the Ways was almost inaudible behind them. All the little hole-in-the-wall shops looked empty, and they passed one that had had its display window broken recently: crushed bits of glass were all over the pavement.
Beside him, Elaine was silent and pale. She understood what was happening now, but she was not panicking. To get her safe, he thought: that was the first thing.
There was an intermittent rumbling, trundling sound up ahead. A little farther on, they saw what it was: a little fellow in servant's gray was rolling a heavy drum down the corridor. Where it curved around the Foley Fountain, making a little plaza, the slave stopped and with great effort got his drum upright. He was still some little distance away. They saw him pry up the lid and drop it ringing on the floor. He dipped in one hand and brought it out black.
They were near enough now to make out his face. It was a seamed, gray face, vaguely familiar, with little eyes of malice. The slave held his black hand at shoulder level, palm up. When a freeman passed in orange silk and lace, the ex-slave reached out and swung his hand. It landed with a splat. The man recoiled, with a dark blob over half his face. It was no one Dick knew -- a gray-haired man in his fifties. He stared at the slave in blank incomprehension: the slave grinned back at him, then laughed.
The man brought his hand away from his cheek and stared at it: the orange-gloved fingers were smeared with black grease. He made a choked sound and reached for the stick that was not at his belt. The slave grinned and waited.
They were near enough now to see everything: the man's flush of anger, the slave's gray cheek wrinkled in a smile. People standing around, nearly all slaves, were looking on in intent silence.
The man's hands were opening and closing. At last, pale, he turned away.
"Yahhh!" said the slave, in a raucous voice. All around him, other slave faces were bright and feverish; there was a murmur and a ripple of embarrassed laughter.
The Frankies, with grim expressions, were edging them around behind the mob. As they passed, the onlookers were moving in; a babble of voices began. Dick saw an old manservant leap at the drum and plunge his hand in. He brought it up dripping, black.to the elbow. Past, him, a dignified woman in violet came forward protesting hustled by the slaves crowding at her back. The old man turned deliberately, and planted his handful of muck squarely in her face. The crowd closed in, and Dick saw no more.
20
For hours the crowds had been roaring through the corridors of Eagles. Once started, it went on and on, incredibly, without a pause. At first the Frankies had tried to control the mob by exhorting them over the loudspeakers; then they had thrown up barriers across the main corridors. The mob had rolled over them; some Frankies had been killed. Now the rest were staying out of harm's way, on balconies and other perches in plain view, watching. The sound of the crowd never stopped, never varied, and it was a dreadful thing to hear: a rushing, roaring, inhuman sound, beating like surf at the eardrums, with a high, almost inaudible, nerve-grating treble of hysteria in it.
From insulting and killing freemen in the corridors, the mob had progressed to breaking down doors of private apartments, and for a while the booming of sledges had punctuated the uproar, with the crowds swarming suddenly around a door that had gone down, the corridors half-emptying, and then after ten minutes or half an hour of insensate destruction, the crowds would swarm out again until the whole thing repeated itself somewhere else.
Towards midnight, the Gismo Guards had fought a pitched battle in the Lower Mezzanine, using mortars, grenades and small arms. Someone had blasted down -half the ceiling on top of them, and the concussion had been felt everywhere in Eagles. A little later, some of the slaves had begun turning up with Gismoed weapons, but by then there were no freemen left to kill.