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Updated: June 14, 2025
Gofredo jumped onto the top of an airjeep, where they could all see him; drawing his pistol, he fired twice into the air. "Be quiet, all of you!" he shouted, as though that would do any good. It did. Silence fell, bounced noisily, and then settled over the crowd. Gofredo went on talking to them: "Take it easy, now; easy." He might have been speaking to a frightened dog or a fractious horse.
Some of the Skilkans were trying to get over the high fences on either side of the road really stockades of petrified tree-trunks. Others were firing, and this time they were shooting at the airjeep. It took one hit from a heavy shellosaur-rifle, and immediately the driver banked and turned away from the road, heading back.
"What I'm doing, now, is learning to be a Fuzzyologist, and this is the only place I can do it. I'll see you tomorrow, after I stop at the constabulary post." The people across the run Kellogg, Mallin and Borch, and van Riebeek, Jimenez and Ruth Ortheris were still up when Rainsford went out to his airjeep.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doors slide apart and an airjeep, bristling with machine guns, float in and rise to the ceiling. The first inarticulate roar was followed by a babel of voices, like a tropical cloudburst on a prefab hut. Olvir Nikkolon's mouth was working as he shouted unheard. He pressed another of the row of buttons on the arm of his chair.
He looked at his watch, as the light airjeep let down into the street. Oh-one-fifteen two hours and a half since the mutiny at the native-troops barracks had broken out. The Company reservation was still ablaze with lights, and over the roof of the hospital and dispensary and test-lab he could see the glare of the burning barracks.
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