Listeners at the back of the circle looked over their shoulders at Ran and the woman. Nevasans tended to be short and slightly-built by general human standards. The two foreigners stood out, even without Ran's white uniform and the glitter of Susan's dress.
Ran stepped to the outside and put his arm around the woman. He didn't look aside at the crowd, nor did he quicken his pace.
An emergency vehicle drove slowly down the boulevard. A blue strobe light pulsed above the cab, though its siren was silent. The driver was a policeman, but two soldiers in battledress sat in the open back of the vehicle, dangling their feet over the bumper.
"There's the Parisienne," Susan said quietly. She had a make-up mirror in her hand. She used it to glance at the street behind them. She didn't pull away from Ran, though they were past the group gathered around the taxi.
She closed the mirror. "They aren't following," she added. "I—didn't think it would feel like this. It frightens me." Her voice was calm.
"It's a bad time to be an outsider," said Ran, who'd been an outsider all his life. He quickened his pace slightly. A broad marquee labeled PARISIENNE jutted out in the middle of the next block, guarded by a uniformed concessionaire.
They crossed an alley between two extensive courtyards. A stone bollard at the mouth blocked the passage for any but pedestrian traffic. Signs dangled from either side of the alley, but the expensive boutiques were locked and shuttered.
Ran slowed. "Is there a back entrance to the hotel?" he asked. "I . . . don't like the look of the folks across the street."
Susan leaned past Ran for a better view. The mob—this lot wasn't a crowd or a gathering—filled both opposite lanes of the boulevard and was trampling the bushes of the divider. Ran could hear metal ring under heavy blows.
"The Grantholm embassy," Susan said. "The staff left yesterday, all but a caretaker or two."
"Come on," Ran said harshly. He turned and strode back toward the pedestrian way, half dragging the woman with him when she hesitated.
"The authorities shouldn't let that happen," Susan muttered. "The host country is responsible for the safety of all embassy—"
Someone at the rear of the mob saw the woman's blond hair and shouted, "There go a couple of Grantholm dog-fuckers!"
"Go!" said Ran at the alley mouth. He gave Susan a push in the right direction and released her.
The shop nearest the corner specialized in carved jade. Chromed steel rods two and a half meters long slanted from the wall to support the plush marquee. Ran grabbed one of the rods and wrenched it free. He backed a few steps down the alley, out of the pool of the streetlight at its mouth. His hands were set a meter apart at the center of the rod.
Well-dressed Nevasans, their faces contorted with fury, foamed around the bollard like the tide racing past a bridge pier. One of the leaders brandished a pistol. Ran stepped toward the mob, swinging the rod with all the strength of his torso behind the motion.
The man with the gun screamed as his skull cracked. He jerked a shot into the ornamental brick pavement at his feet
Ran backed, stabbed with the tip of the rod, and swung in another broad arc. This time he used the opposite end of his weapon. A Nevasan gripped the rod. Ran judged his angle, smiled like the angel of death, and thrust forward with all his weight. The glittering tube slid through the Nevasan's hands and punched his front teeth into his palate.
Ran backed another step. The shot had spooked some of the mob, and those still thrusting forward stumbled over the ruin of their front rank. Ran scanned his target. Both ends of his rod were black with blood.
"Don't breathe!" Susan Hatton said sharply. She hadn't run when he told her to. She reached past Ran, bracing her left hand on his shoulder.
The canister in her right hand went poom! and belched a cloud of gas toward the mob. The recoil lifted her arm. Nevasans sprawled.
"Now run!" she shouted. They fled together. No one followed. Stun gas lay as a bitter haze at the alley mouth.
Under the light at the end of the block, Ran threw down the steel tube. It was kinked at both points his grip had formed the fulcrum for his blows.
Susan led him across the street, dodging the light vehicular traffic. "The hotel?" he said.
She stopped at a grillwork gate. The building beyond the courtyard was of four stories, with balconies shielded by carved screens at each level. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asked as she touched the thumbprint lock.
"On a Cold Crew. In sponge space," said Ran. His eyes were dilated. "Only we used cutting bars and adjustment tools, and sometimes a man's line broke and he went sailing off forever."