hly supplied with Extee Three and candy. Any of the
children who looked big enough to be trusted with them got knives
too, and plenty of candy.

Anna and Karl were standing where the queue was forming, watching
how they fell into line; so was Lillian, with an audiovisual camera.
Having seen that the Marine enlisted men were getting the presents
handed out properly, Howell strolled over to them. Just as he came
up, a couple approached hesitantly, a man in a breechclout under a
leather apron, and a woman, much smaller, in a ragged and soiled
tunic. As soon as they fell into line, another Svant, in a blue
robe, pushed them aside and took their place.

"Here, you can't do that!" Lillian cried. "Karl, make him step back."

Karl was saying something about social status and precedence. The
couple tried to get into line behind the man who had pushed them
aside. Another villager tried to shove them out of his way. Howell
advanced, his right fist closing. Then he remembered that he didn't
know what he'd be punching; he might break the fellow's neck, or
his own knuckles. He grabbed the blue-robed Svant by the wrist with
both hands, kicked a foot out from under him, and jerked, sending
him flying for six feet and then sliding in the dust for another
couple of yards. He pushed the others back, and put the couple
into place in the line.

"Mark, you shouldn't have done that," Dorver was expostulating.
"We don't know...."

The Svant sat up, shaking his head groggily. Then he realized what
had been done to him. With a snarl of rage, he was on his feet, his
knife in his hand. It was a Terran bowie knife. Without conscious
volition, Howell's pistol was out and he was thumbing the safety off.

The Svant stopped short, then dropped the knife, ducked his head,
and threw his arms over it to shield his comb. He backed away a few
steps, then turned and bolted into the nearest house. The others,
including the woman in the ragged tunic, were twittering in alarm.
Only the man in the leather apron was calm; he was saying,
tonelessly, "_Ghrooogh-ghrooogh_."

Luis Gofredo was coming up on the double, followed by three of
his riflemen.

"What happened, Mark? Trouble?"

"All over now." He told Gofredo what had happened. Dorver was still
objecting:

"... Social precedence; the Svant may have been right, according
to local customs."

"Local customs be damned!" Gofredo became angry. "This is a Terran
Federation handout; we make the rules,