The pair of Spaceforce guards at the gates,
wearing the black leathers of the Terran Empire, shockers holstered at
their belts, were drowsing under the arched gateway where the
star-and-rocket emblem proclaimed the domain of Terra. One of them, a
snub-nosed youngster only a few weeks out from Earth, cocked an
inquisitive ear at the cries and scuffling feet, then jerked his head at
me.
"Hey, Cargill, you can talk their lingo. What's going on out there?"
I stepped out past the gateway to listen. There was still no one to be
seen in the square. It lay white and windswept, a barricade of
emptiness; to one side the spaceport and the white skyscraper of the
Terran Headquarters, and at the other side, the clutter of low
buildings, the street-shrine, the little spaceport cafe smelling of
coffee and _jaco_, and the dark opening mouths of streets that rambled
down into the Kharsa--the old town, the native quarter. But I was alone
in the square with the shrill cries--closer now, raising echoes from the
enclosing walls--and the loping of many feet down one of the dirty
streets.
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