lived their separate and rarely interconnecting days.
In the shoving and elbowing at the door, Jas lurched into the secret policeman who was holding him, then tripped and fell, ripping his shoulder painfully away from the man's hand. Someone tripped over him; someone else stepped on his leg; the crowd pulled Mother's Little Boy away from Jason. In a moment friendly hands helped Jas to his feet, and he began moving away in the crowd.
"He's cut!" shouted the security policeman. "Get him!"
He's cut? Jas realized as he threaded through the crowd that the security policeman wasn't alone. There had been more of Mother's Little Boys close enough to call to. Who?
For a moment Jas tried identifying people as they passed, before they came near him, but he couldn't — it was too dizzying, darting from mind to mind. And moving that quickly, impressions became vague, too fleeting to catch.
A hand grabbed at his hip. Jas lurched away. Again the hand was stronger than he expected, and pulling away took so much force that Jas fell to the ground. Someone stepped on his hand, hard, and Jas cried out in pain, but pulled his hand out from under the heavy boot. Blood leaped from torn–open veins, but Jas ignored it, scrambling to his feet. Hands reached for him. He swerved away, ducked, and then spotted a break in the crowd, ran through, and shoved his way into the mass of people piling up around the station doors.
Now the crowd that had helped him escape helped Mother's Little Boys to catch him. Where the people had been moving fast, his small size let him dodge through much faster than the police could. But with the crowd moving slowly, shoulder to shoulder, his small size was a disadvantage. He couldn't shove people out of the way, and Mother's Little Boys could. In a moment rough hands gripped him everywhere, and he was lifted off the ground and tossed into the air. When he came down there were six men around him.
He panted for breath. So did they. They looked angry. Wary, too, waiting for Jas to try something, to move. Jas didn't move. Blood dripped from his hand.
"What do you guys think I am?" he finally said. "Six of you to take a thirteen–year–old kid?"
The one who had first caught him smiled. "For a minute there, we were wishing for an even dozen."
"Well, you've got me," Jas said, still panting from the chase. "What now?"
But they just watched him, and the exhilaration of flight and pursuit gave way to the despairing knowledge that he was, indeed, caught, and there was no way he could stop them from doing whatever they wanted. Would it be the school, and facing charges as a Swipe? Or Radamand, and death to protect a rising politician?
Jas waited several minutes before it occurred to him that he didn't have to wait for answers to questions. He looked behind their eyes, and...
Just then a short stout man dressed in thirty year–old styles that looked brand new came up to their group.
"I'm amazed that you haven't hog–tied him," the man said.
Jas tried to find the meaning of the archaism, but hog–tied wasn't catalogued in his memory.
"Let him go," the man said. "And fix his hand, he's bleeding."
"If we let him go," one of Mother's Little Boys said, "we might never catch him again."
The stout man pushed his way into the circle, and looked at Jas with soft, kind eyes. He was so short that Jas looked down at him a little. Someone wrapped the injured hand. "Dale Carnegie cringes at their methods," the man said. This time the allusion rang a bell, and Jas smiled, reciting back: "You can catch more flies with a drop of honey than with a gallon of gall."
"Actually," the stout man interrupted, "Carnegie was only quoting someone else. Odd that you should know Carnegie and not Aesop." The man turned back to Mother's Little Boys. "He's in my custody now."
The policemen looked at each other uneasily. The man pulled out a little card and showed it to them. They nodded obsequiously and moved away.
The man turned back to Jas.
In the shoving and elbowing at the door, Jas lurched into the secret policeman who was holding him, then tripped and fell, ripping his shoulder painfully away from the man's hand. Someone tripped over him; someone else stepped on his leg; the crowd pulled Mother's Little Boy away from Jason. In a moment friendly hands helped Jas to his feet, and he began moving away in the crowd.
"He's cut!" shouted the security policeman. "Get him!"
He's cut? Jas realized as he threaded through the crowd that the security policeman wasn't alone. There had been more of Mother's Little Boys close enough to call to. Who?
For a moment Jas tried identifying people as they passed, before they came near him, but he couldn't — it was too dizzying, darting from mind to mind. And moving that quickly, impressions became vague, too fleeting to catch.
A hand grabbed at his hip. Jas lurched away. Again the hand was stronger than he expected, and pulling away took so much force that Jas fell to the ground. Someone stepped on his hand, hard, and Jas cried out in pain, but pulled his hand out from under the heavy boot. Blood leaped from torn–open veins, but Jas ignored it, scrambling to his feet. Hands reached for him. He swerved away, ducked, and then spotted a break in the crowd, ran through, and shoved his way into the mass of people piling up around the station doors.
Now the crowd that had helped him escape helped Mother's Little Boys to catch him. Where the people had been moving fast, his small size let him dodge through much faster than the police could. But with the crowd moving slowly, shoulder to shoulder, his small size was a disadvantage. He couldn't shove people out of the way, and Mother's Little Boys could. In a moment rough hands gripped him everywhere, and he was lifted off the ground and tossed into the air. When he came down there were six men around him.
He panted for breath. So did they. They looked angry. Wary, too, waiting for Jas to try something, to move. Jas didn't move. Blood dripped from his hand.
"What do you guys think I am?" he finally said. "Six of you to take a thirteen–year–old kid?"
The one who had first caught him smiled. "For a minute there, we were wishing for an even dozen."
"Well, you've got me," Jas said, still panting from the chase. "What now?"
But they just watched him, and the exhilaration of flight and pursuit gave way to the despairing knowledge that he was, indeed, caught, and there was no way he could stop them from doing whatever they wanted. Would it be the school, and facing charges as a Swipe? Or Radamand, and death to protect a rising politician?
Jas waited several minutes before it occurred to him that he didn't have to wait for answers to questions. He looked behind their eyes, and...
Just then a short stout man dressed in thirty year–old styles that looked brand new came up to their group.
"I'm amazed that you haven't hog–tied him," the man said.
Jas tried to find the meaning of the archaism, but hog–tied wasn't catalogued in his memory.
"Let him go," the man said. "And fix his hand, he's bleeding."
"If we let him go," one of Mother's Little Boys said, "we might never catch him again."
The stout man pushed his way into the circle, and looked at Jas with soft, kind eyes. He was so short that Jas looked down at him a little. Someone wrapped the injured hand. "Dale Carnegie cringes at their methods," the man said. This time the allusion rang a bell, and Jas smiled, reciting back: "You can catch more flies with a drop of honey than with a gallon of gall."
"Actually," the stout man interrupted, "Carnegie was only quoting someone else. Odd that you should know Carnegie and not Aesop." The man turned back to Mother's Little Boys. "He's in my custody now."
The policemen looked at each other uneasily. The man pulled out a little card and showed it to them. They nodded obsequiously and moved away.
The man turned back to Jas.
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