DON'T DEAL WITH TRAITORS! THE MOON BELONGS TO U.S.
BRUTUS, BENEDICT ARNOLD, AND KINSMAN ANOTHER U.N. SELLOUT OF AMERICA
And others that were worse. Most of them were profes- sionally printed, and many copies of them had been made available by somebody. The government? The hand-lettered ones were obscene.
Through the bulletproof windows of the limousine Kins- man could hear the seething roar of the crowd, booing and shouting at them. A woman's high-pitched screech: "Kins- man, you Quaker bastard, I hope they kill you like a dog!"
Nickerson smiled coldly. "See what I mean?"
"Good job of stage managing," Marrett muttered.
The cars slid past the mouth of Forty-eighth Street and beneath the overhang of the pedestrian mall, to a wild cacophony of screams and curses.
With great effort. Kinsman turned around to look out the rear window. Suddenly the crowd broke through the police line and surged onto the rampway. More police appeared almost magically and halfheartedly tried to hold them back from the entrance to the garage. In the background. Kinsman could see the mounted cops pulling gas masks over their faces while others slid gas masks over the muzzles of their horses.
"Stop the car," Kinsman ordered.
His voice was strong enough to penetrate the partition separating the back of the limousine from the driver's seat.
"Stop it!" he shouted.
The driver lurched to a stop.
"What are you . . ." Nickerson reached for Kinsman's metal-sheathed arm.
But he had already opened the limousine door and was climbing out, servomotors whining as he ducked through the door frame and stood erect.
A riot was beginning up at the entrance to the garage. The police were shoving at the crowd and the crowd was pushing back. Police clubs and electric prods were already in hand. The roar of anger was echoing down the concrete tunnel.
The air was foul. It stank of smells that Kinsman had completely forgotten: gasoline and rubber and burning gar- bage and urine. His eyes burned. But instead of going for his 526 oxygen mask, he trudged up the ramp toward the maddened, flag-waving, struggling crowd.
Dimly he was aware that Landau was running up behind him. And Marrett. And Nickerson, who probably had a gun on him. The ramp's slope was unnoticeabie to them. But to Kinsman it felt like climbing Annapurna. Step by plodding step: click, whine, hum, thump; click, whine, hum, thump. Frankenstein's monster invades Manhattan.
And suddenly the battling and shouting up ahead of him died away. Not all at once, but within the space of a half-minute it went from riot to silence, a shock wave passing through the crowd, numbing it to inertness. One gruff voice hollered, "Hey, what the hell is that?" Then utter silence from more than ten thousand people.
Except for the noises of Kinsman's exoskeleton. Slowly, laboriously, he worked his way up the ramp. Breathing was an exercise in concentration. His chest felt raw inside, too heavy to lift.
One of the policemen edged toward him, face shield down, gas grenade clutched in one hand, bullhorn in the other.
