The little credit thief shook his head. “I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Foeren, how about you?”
“I don’t like it either,” Foeren said. “Might be better to stay around the barracks for a while.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Barrent said. “It’s our city now. Isn’t anyone coming with me?”
Looking uncomfortable, Foeren hunched his big shoulders and shook his head. Joe shrugged and lay back on his cot. The rest of the new men didn’t even look up.
“Very well,” Barrent said. “I’ll give you a full report later.” He waited a moment longer in case someone changed his mind, then went out the door.
The city of Tetrahyde was a collection of buildings sprawled along a narrow peninsula which jutted into a sluggish gray sea. The peninsula’s landward side was contained by a high stone wall, pierced with gates and guarded by sentries. Its largest building was the Arena, used once a year for the Games. Near the Arena was a small cluster of government buildings.
Barrent walked along the narrow streets, staring around him, trying to get some idea of what his new home was like. The winding, unpaved roads and dark, weatherbeaten houses stirred an elusive tag-end of memory in him. He had seen a place like this on Earth, but he couldn’t remember anything about it. The recollection was as tantalizing as an itch; but he couldn’t locate its source.
Past the Arena, he came into the main business district of Tetrahyde. Fascinated, he read the store signs: UNLICENSED DOCTOR—ABORTIONS PERFORMED WHILE-U-WAIT. Further on, DISBARRED LAWYER. POLITICAL PULL!
This seemed vaguely wrong to Barrent. He walked further, past stores advertising stolen goods, past a little shop that announced: MIND READING! FULL STAFF OF SKRENNING MUTANTS! YOUR PAST ON EARTH REVEALED!
Barrent was tempted to go in. But he remembered that he hadn’t any money; and Omega seemed like the sort of place that put a high value on money.
He turned down a side street, walked by several restaurants, and came to a large building called THE POISON INSTITUTE (Easy Terms. Up to 3 Years to Pay. Satisfaction Guaranteed or Your Money Back). Next door to it was THE ASSASSIN’S GUILD, Local 452.
On the basis of the indoctrination talk on the prison ship, Barrent had expected Omega to be dedicated to the rehabilitation of criminals. To judge by the store signs, this simply wasn’t so; or if it was, rehabilitation took some very strange forms. He walked on more slowly, deep in thought.
Then he noticed that people were moving out of his way. They glanced at him and ducked in doorways and stores. An elderly woman took one look at him and ran.
What was wrong? Could it be his prison uniform? No, the people of Omega had seen many of those. What was it, then?
The street was almost deserted. A shopkeeper near him was hurriedly swinging steel shutters over his display of fencing equipment.
“What’s the matter?” Barrent asked him. “What’s going on?”
“Are you out of your head?” the shopkeeper said. “It’s Landing Day!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Landing Day!” the shopkeeper said. “The day the prison ship landed. Get back to your barracks, you idiot!”
He slammed the last steel shutter into place and locked it. Barrent felt a sudden cold touch of fear. Something was very wrong. He had better get back in a hurry. It had been stupid of him not to find out more about Omegan customs before . . . .
Three men were walking down the street toward him. They were well dressed, and each wore the small golden Hadji earring in his left ear. All three men carried sidearms.
Barrent started to walk away from them. One of the men shouted, “Stop, peon!”
Barrent saw that the man’s hand was dangling near his gun. He stopped and said, “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Landing Day,” the man said. He looked at his friends. “Well, who gets him first?”
“We’ll choose.”
“Here’s a coin.”
“No, a show of fingers.”
“Ready? One, two, three!”
“He’s mine,” said the Hadji on the left. His friends moved back as he drew his sidearm.
“Wait!” Barrent called out. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to shoot you,” the man said.
“But why?”
The man smiled. “Because it’s a Hadji privilege. On every Landing Day, we have the right to shoot down any new peon who leaves his barracks area.”
“But I wasn’t told!”
“Of course not,” the man said. “If you new men were told, none of you would leave your barracks on Landing Day. And that would spoil all the fun.”
He took aim.
Barrent reacted instantaneously. He threw himself to the ground as the Hadji fired, heard a hiss, and saw a jagged heatburn score the brick building next to which he had been standing.
“My turn now,” one of the men said.
“Sorry, old man, I believe it’s mine.”
“Seniority, dear friend, has its privileges. Stand clear.”
Before the next man could take aim, Barrent was on his feet and running. The sharply winding street protected him for the moment, but he could hear the sounds of his pursuers behind him. They were running at an easy stride, almost a fast walk, as if they were completely sure of their prey. Barrent put on a burst of speed, turned down a side street, and knew immediately he had made a mistake. He was facing a dead end. The Hadjis, moving at an easy pace, were coming up behind him.
Barrent looked wildly around. Store fronts here were all locked and shuttered. There was nowhere he could climb to, no place to hide.
And then he saw an open door halfway down the block in the direction of his pursuers. He had run right by it. A sign protruding from the building above the doorway said THE VICTIM’S PROTECTIVE SOCIETY. That’s for me, Barrent thought.
He sprinted for it, running almost under the noses of the startled Hadjis. A single gun blast scorched the ground under his heels; then he had reached the doorway and flung himself inside.
He scrambled to his feet. His pursuers had not followed him; he could still hear their voices in the street, amiably arguing questions of precedence. Barrent realized he had entered some sort of sanctuary.
He was in a large, brightly lighted room. Several ragged men were sitting on a bench near the door, laughing at a private joke. A little further down, a dark-haired girl sat and watched Barrent with wide, unblinking green eyes. At the far end of the room was a desk with a man sitting behind it. The man beckoned to Barrent.
He walked up to the desk. The man behind it was short and bespectacled. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Barrent to speak.
“This is the Victim’s Protective Society?” Barrent asked.
“Quite correct, sir,” the man said. “I am Rondolp Frendlyer, president of this nonprofit organization. Could I be of service?”
“You certainly could,” Barrent said. “I’m practically a victim.”
“I knew that just by looking at you,” Frendlyer said, smiling warmly. “You have a certain victim look; a mixture of fear and uncertainty with just a suggestion of vulnerability thrown in. It’s quite unmistakable.”
“That’s very interesting,” Barrent said, glancing toward the door and wondering how long his sanctuary would be respected. “Mr. Frendlyer, I’m not a member of your organization—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Frendlyer said. “Membership in our group is necessarily spontaneous. One joins when the occasion arises. Our intention is to protect the inalienable rights of all victims.”
“Yes, sir. Well, there are three men outside trying to kill me.”
“I see,” Mr. Frendlyer said. He opened a drawer and took out a large book. He flipped through it quickly and found the reference he wanted. “Tell me, did you ascertain the status of these men?”