d scavenge something edible.

He shuffled on. After a while, the cold bothered him less, and he passed
through the hunger spell. He rolled another smoke and sucked at it,
hardly thinking. It was better that way.

It was much later when the big caduceus set into the sidewalk snapped
him back to awareness of where he'd traveled. His undirected feet had
led him much too far uptown, following old habits. This was the Medical
Lobby building, where he'd spent more than enough time, including three
weeks in custody before they stripped him of all rank and status.

His eyes wandered to the ornate entrance where he'd first emerged as a
pariah. He'd meant to walk down those steps as if he were still a man.
But each step had drained his resolution, until he'd finally covered his
face and slunk off, knowing himself for what the world had branded him.

He stood there now, staring at the smug young medical politicians and
the tired old general practitioners filing in and out. One of the latter
halted, fumbled in his pocket and drew out a quarter.

"Merry Christmas!" he said dully.

Feldman fingered the coin. Then he saw a gray Medical policeman watching
him, and he knew it was time to move on. Sooner or later, someone would
recognize him here.

He clutched the quarter and turned to look for a coffee shop that sold
the synthetics to which his metabolism had been switched. No shop would
serve him here, but he could buy coffee and a piece of cake to take out.

A flurry of motion registered from the corner of his eye, and he glanced
back.

"Taxi! Taxi!"

The girl rushing down the steps had a clear soprano voice, cultured and
commanding. The gray Medical uniform seemed molded to her shapely figure
and her red hair glistened in the lights of the street. Her snub nose
and determined mouth weren't the current fashion, but nobody stopped to
think of fashions when they saw her. She didn't have to be the daughter
of the president of Medical Lobby to rule.

It was Chris--Chris Feldman once, and now Chris Ryan again.

Feldman swung toward a cab. For a moment, his attitude was automatic and
assured, and the cab stopped before the driver noticed his clothes. He
picked up the bag Chris dropped and swung it onto the front seat. She
was fumbling in her change purse as he turned back to shut the door.

"Thank you, my good man," she said. She could be gracious, even to a
pariah, when his homage suited her. She dropped two quarters into his