Near the southern wall he saw someone under a sycamore-Selim, circling nervously. "Selim," Frank called quietly, sweating. He reached into his jumper pocket, carefully felt in the bag and palmed the trio of stem patches. Synergy could be so powerful, for good or ill. He walked forward and roughly embraced the young Arab. The patches hit and penetrated Selim's light cotton shirt. Frank pulled back.

Now Selim had about six hours. "Did you speak with Boone?" he asked.

"I tried," Chalmers said. "He didn't listen. He lied to me." It was so easy to feign distress: "Twenty-five years of friendship, and he lied to me!" He struck a tree trunk with his palm, and the patches flew away in the dark. He controlled himself. "His coalition is going to recommend that all Martian settlements originate in the countries that signed the first treaty." It was possible; and it was certainly plausible.

"He hates us!" Selim cried.

"He hates everything that gets in his way. And he can see that Islam is still a real force in people's lives. It shapes the way people think, and he can't stand that."

Selim shuddered. In the gloom the whites of his eyes were bright. "He has to be stopped."

Frank turned aside, leaned against a tree. "I... don't know."

"You said it yourself. Talk means nothing."

Frank circled the tree, feeling dizzy. You fool, he thought, talk means everything. We are nothing but information exchange, talk is all we have!

He came on Selim again and said, "How?"

"The planet. It is our way."

"The city gates are locked tonight."

That stopped him. His hands started to twist.

Frank said, "But the gate to the farm is still open."

"But the farm's outer gates will be locked."

Frank shrugged, let him figure it out.

And quickly enough Selim blinked, and said "Ah." Then he was gone.

# # #

Frank sat between trees, on the ground. It was a sandy damp brown dirt, product of a great deal of engineering. Nothing in the city was natural, nothing.

After a time he got to his feet. He walked through the park, looking at people. If I find one good city I will spare the man. But in an open area masked figures darted together to grapple and fight, surrounded by watchers who smelled blood. Frank went back to the construction site to get more bricks. He threw them and some people saw him, and he had to run. Into the trees again, into the little tented wilderness, escaping predators while high on adrenalin, the greatest drug of all. He laughed wildly.

Suddenly he caught sight of Maya, standing alone by the temporary platform up at the apex. She wore a white domino, but it was certainly her: the proportions of the figure, the hair, the stance itself, all unmistakably Maya Toitovna. The first hundred, the little band; they were the only ones truly alive to him any more, the rest were ghosts. Frank hurried toward her, tripping over uneven ground. He squeezed a rock buried deep in one coat pocket, thinking Come on, you bitch. Say something to save him. Say something that will make me run the length of the city to save him!