ring at Sheila's room. Wife or
prisoner? He turned it over in his mind, knowing that her words couldn't
change the facts. But in the end, he dropped the key and half his money
beside her door, along with a spare knife and one of his guns.

He went by Izzy's room without stopping; technically, the boy was an
enemy to all Municipals. This might be neutral territory, but there was
no use pressing it. Gordon went down the stairs and out through the seal
onto the street entrance, still in the shadows.

His eyes covered the street in two quick scans. Far up, a Legal cop was
passing beyond the range of the single dim light. At the other end, a
pair of figures skulked along, trying the door of each house they
passed. With the cops busy fighting each other, this was better pickings
than outside the dome.

He saw the Legal cop move out of sight and stepped onto the street,
trying to look like another petty crook on the prowl. He headed for the
nearest alley, which led through the truckyard of Nick the Croop.

The entrance was in nearly complete darkness. Gordon loosened his knife
and tightened his grip on the locust stick.

Suddenly a whisper of sound caught his ears. He stopped, not too
quickly, and listened, but everything was still. A hundred feet farther
on, and within twenty yards of the trucks, a swishing rustle reached his
ears and light slashed hotly into his eyes. Hands grabbed at his arms,
and a club swung down toward his knife. But the warning had been enough.
Gordon's arms jerked upwards to avoid the reaching hands. His boot
lifted, and the flashlight spun aside, broken and dark. With a
continuous motion, he switched the knife to his left hand in a thumb-up
position and brought it back. There was a grunt of pain; he stepped
backwards and twisted. His hands caught the man behind, lifted across a
hip, and heaved, just before the front man reached him.

The two ambushers were down in a tangled mess. There was just enough
light to make out faint outlines, and Gordon brought his locust club
down twice, with the hollow thud of wood on skulls.

His head was swimming in a hot maelstrom of pain, but it was quieting as
his breathing returned to normal. As long as his opponents were slower
or less ruthless, he could take care of himself.

The trouble, though, was that Isaiah Trench was neither slow nor
squeamish.

Gordon gathered the two hoodlums under his arms and dragged them with
him. He came out in the truckyard an