His arms were
flung high and his cloak went spilling away from them, rippling like
something alive. The jammed humans and nonhumans swayed and chanted and
he swayed above them like an iridescent bug, weaving arms rippling back
and forth, back and forth. I strained to catch his words.
"Our world ... an old world."
"Kamayeeeeena," whimpered the shrill chorus.
"... humans, humans, all humans would make slaves of us all, all save
the Children of the Ape...."
I lost the thread for a moment. True. The Terran Empire has one small
blind spot in otherwise sane policy, ignoring that nonhuman and human
have lived placidly here for millennia: they placidly assumed that
humans were everywhere the dominant race, as on Earth itself.
The Toymaker's weaving arms went on spinning, spinning. I rubbed my eyes
to clear them of _shallavan_ and incense. I hoped that what I saw was an
illusion of the drug--something, something huge and dark, was hovering
over the girl. She stood placidly, hands clasped on her chains, but her
eyes writhed in the frozen calm of her face.
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