the shop was empty except for young nick pappageorge, dozing behind the long counter, and the pale morning sunlight that streamed through the plastic window. most of the counter was in shadow, but stray fingers of light picked out gem trays here and there, turning them into minuscule galaxies of frosty brilliance.

two niori, walking arm in arm, paused in front of the window display, then went on. two human youngsters raced by, shouting. cudyk caught only a glimpse of them through the pierced screen that closed off the back of his shop, but he recognized them by their voices: red gorciak and stan eleftheris.

there were few children now, and they were growing up wild. cudyk wondered briefly what it must be like to be a child born into this microcosm, knowing no other. he dismissed the thought; it was simply one more thing about which there was no use to worry.

cudyk had not spoken to anyone that morning, but he knew approximately what was happening. seu would have been busy most of the night, covering up the traces of last evening's riot. now, probably, he was explaining it away to zydh oran, the niori outgroup commissioner. harkway was making preparations for his meeting—another thing for seu to worry about when he got through cleaning up the last mess.

barring miracles, today was going to be very bad.

seu came in, moving quickly. he walked directly to the rear of the shop. his normally bland face looked worried, and there were beads of sweat on his wide forehead, although the morning was cool.

"sit down," said cudyk. "you've seen zydh oran?"

seu made a dismissing gesture. "nothing. not pleasant, but nothing. the same as usual—he tells me what happened, i deny it. he knows, but under their laws he can't do anything."

"someday it will be bad," said cudyk.

"yes. someday. laszlo—you've got to do something about harkway. otherwise he's going to be killed tonight, and there will be a stink from here to sirius. i had to tell him he could use town hall—he was all ready to hold a torch-light meeting in the streets."

"i tried," said cudyk.

"try again. please. your ethnic background is closer to his than mine. he respects you, i think. perhaps he's even read some of your books. if anyone can persuade him, you can."

"what did he say when you talked to him?"

"an ox. a brain made of soap and granite. he says it is a matter of principle. i knew then that i could do nothing. when an anglo-saxon talks about his principles, you may as well go home. he won't accept a weapon, he won't postpone the meeting. i think he wants to be a martyr."

cudyk frowned. "maybe he does. have you seen rack?"

"no. ferguson pretends not to know where he is."

"that's rather odd. what is his motive, do you think?"

seu said, "basically, he is afraid of rack. he cooperates with him—they use each other—but you know that it's not a marriage of minds. he knows that rack is stronger than he is, because he is only an amoral egotist, and rack is a fanatic. i think he believes this business may be rack's downfall, and he would like that."

he stood up. "i have to go. will you do it?"

"yes."

"good. let me know." seu walked out, as hastily as he had entered.

nick pappageorge had roused himself and was polishing a tall, fluted silver vase. cudyk said, "nick, go and find out where mr. harkway is. if he isn't busy, ask him if he'll do me the favor of dropping around to see me. otherwise, just come back and tell me where he is; i'll go to him."

nick said, "sure, mr. cudyk," and went out.

cudyk stared at the tray of unsorted gems on the desk before him. he stirred them with his forefinger, separating out an emerald, two aquamarines, a large turquoise and a star sapphire. that was all he had had to begin with—his dead wife's jewels, carried half across europe when a loaf of bread was worth more than all the gem stones in the world. the sapphire had bought his passage on the alien ship; the others had been his original stock-in-trade, first at the refugee center on alfhal, then here on palumbar. now he was a prosperous importer, with a business that netted him the equivalent of ten thousand pounds a year.

but the wealth was ashes; he would have traded all of it for one loaf of bread, eaten in peace, on an earth that had not sunk back to barbarism.

momentum, he told himself. momentum, and a remnant of curiosity. those are the only reasons i can think of why i do not blow out my brains. i wonder what keeps the others from it? seu? chong yin? i don't know. burgess has his fantasy, though it cracks now and then. ferguson has the sensibility of a jackal. rack, as seu said, is a fanatic. but why do the rest of them keep on? for what?