“There’s purple freaks all over,” Lebansky replied. “Anything could happen. The police are here, but it seems we’ve got some flakes. Mitch has gone down to stop the jerk in the bus, but he’s gonna need help.”
“Stay there with him,” the face on the screen said. “Heshak and Mu can bring the UNSA people back here. Check in with me again when it’s under control.”
“Roger.” Lebansky flipped off the unit and exchanged a few words with the two Jevlenese, who nodded. He came back along the bus and climbed out the door that Koberg had left open. Two of the yellow-uniformed police outside immediately began jabbing at him and flailing their arms. Lebansky showed a badge and shouted them down, then pointed at the minibus that the UNSA group were in and the other vehicles blocking its way back onto the throughway. The policemen faltered, then nodded and rushed away to begin clearing a way through. The other police, meanwhile, were running back and forth among the already excited crowd and seemed to be doing more harm than good. Above it all, in the background, came Koberg’s voice, roaring at the driver of the pink bus.
Lebansky stuck his head back in the door. “That’s all it needed. One of the cars underneath all that junk down there had their deputy police chief in it. Look, it’s all gonna get crazy here. These two guys will take you on to PAC. We’ll see you when we get there.” Without waiting for a reply he slammed the door and gave the side a thump to send the driver on his way. Ahead, one of the policemen waved them forward.
“I think it’s stopped,” Sandy said, peering back through the rear window. “Yes, it is. Some of the kids are coming out now.”
“That’s a relief, anyway,” Danchekker said, having sat tight-lipped throughout.
“The tour guide never said anything about this,” Duncan muttered. It was a reflexive attempt at bravado. He was visibly pale.
Around them, the structures and buildings of Shiban closed together and merged into a single, monolithic composition of levels and precincts penetrated by avenues and transportation ways, as the highway became a vast tunnel sweeping into the city proper.
CHAPTER TWENTY
There was nothing to be done, Hunt told himself. Accidents happen. Whatever would happen to the school party lay in other hands. He could do nothing but wait to find out the news when they got where they were going. He concentrated on absorbing the scenes outside and tried to put it out of his mind for the time being. The silence from the others in the bus told him that they were struggling with the same feelings.
But it soon became apparent that they hadn’t left all their difficulties behind them just yet. As they passed an enclosed square of window facades crisscrossed by walkways on several levels, they saw a commotion ahead, involving a crowd of purple-clad people spilling out onto the roadway and causing vehicles to halt. One of the Jevlenese escorts voiced a command to the vehicle’s monitor panel, and the bus veered away down a slipramp to take a different route.
“What now?” Hunt murmured apprehensively.
“You don’t think it could all be for us?” Duncan said.
But farther along the lower route the crowds became thicker, jostling, shouting slogans, and blocking the throughway, heedless of the blaring horns and curses from the occupants of stranded vehicles. Again the minibus was forced to detour, this time into a side street flanked by shops and doorways. But after several more zigzag turns through the labyrinth that the part of the city they were now in was turning into, they found themselves back in the rally. This time there was no getting through. The intersection at which they had halted was jammed with marchers, some carrying banners, the rest linking arms to form a solid phalanx of chanting ranks. A flood tide of humanity closed around, while other vehicles that had been following blocked any way out behind.
Duncan stood up and peered anxiously through a side window. “There’s another bunch coming up the street, green ones this time,” he muttered.
“Best to stay put inside the vehicle,” Danchekker pronounced, clutching his briefcase determinedly on his knee.
“I’m not so sure,” Duncan said. “It looks to me as if we could have trouble breaking out.”
The Jevlenese evidently agreed. One of them jabbed a finger several times in the direction the bus had been heading. “PAC, that way. Not far,” he said. “Go feet now best. This bad news.”
Hunt nodded. “Let’s go.” Danchekker hesitated for a second longer, then concurred.
They clambered out into the throng. Whatever the shouting was about was a mystery, since it was all in Jevlenese. One of the escorts led the way, pushing and elbowing to force a passage through, and the other brought up the rear. But despite the group’s attempt to keep together, the ebbs and flows of the tide around them drew them apart. Danchekker and Sandy managed to stay close to the leader; but a gap developed between them and Hunt, and then another between Hunt and where Duncan was with the other Jevlenese, both of whom were being carried away sideways.
“That way!” the one who was near Duncan shouted, pointing with a raised arm at a stairway on the far side of the intersection, leading up to a system of overlooking galleries and walkways. “Head for stairs…“ He vanished in a swirl of people, and the rest of his words were drowned in a roar of voices.
Somebody backed into Hunt and trod on his instep, painfully, at the same time swinging an arm that caught Hunt across the mouth. Hunt shoved him away. The man collided with another, and they both went down. Then a knot of people pushing from the other direction sent Hunt sprawling over both of them.
At that moment, a group with green-crescent banners appeared on one of the levels above and showered leaflets on the marching Purples, and pandemonium broke out. As Hunt was trying to regain his feet, everyone around him began rushing forward as if impelled by a common instinct. He rose onto one knee and started to straighten up, whereupon a fat woman in a red-and-black jumpsuit careened into him and knocked him down again. She stumbled and fell heavily on her knees alongside him, shrilly exclaiming something that he didn’t understand. He tried again to rise, but she was clawing at his collar, using him as a prop to pull herself up.
“Get off, stupid cow!” Hunt shouted, and was answered with a stream of what sounded like alien obscenities. He fought his way to his feet and looked about desperately, but the others had disappeared. Swearing to himself, he plunged into the turmoil, setting his sights on the stairway that the Jevlenese had indicated. But before he was a third of the way there, the marching tide flowed around him and carried him with it toward one of the exits from the intersection. A chanting man in a purple hood tried to link arms with him.
“Let go of me, you daft sod,” Hunt snarled, wrenching himself away.
Another arm grasped his from the other side. Hunt tried to pull away, but the grip remained firm and insistent. “I do believe I hear another voice from back home,” a voice yelled in his ear. It sounded American. Hunt jerked his head around and found himself staring at a ruddy, snub-nosed face with a short, hoary beard, eyes that glittered like light gray ice, and a mouth that couldn’t suppress a mirthful twitch, even in the circumstances. The face was topped by a panama hat sporting an outrageous yellow band with red and white polka dots. Hunt could feel himself being urged along in the direction of the flow.
“Sorry,” Hunt yelled back. “I’m not going on any Batman rallies today.”
“Neither am I. I’m going home. But you won’t get anyplace upstream in this. Have to ride with it until we can jump out.”
“Where?”
“Just stick close.”