He did not answer.

Then he heard a woman coughing, suddenly, spasmodically, at his back.

He turned, now that he was clean and could help.

A woman had collapsed upon her knees and she was spitting blood.

"Let me through," he said, but they did not.

Held back by a wall of shoulders, he watched her die or go into a coma. She looked dead to him.

He tried to walk away, hoping that they would not notice, now that their attention was focused elsewhere. He moved to the next corner, crossed, began to run.

They were again at his back.

Running had been a mistake, for now he felt the first blow that was not administered by a hand. Someone had thrown something.

The stone clattered upon the pavement. It had glanced off his shoulder, inflicting no real damage. Still, a bad sign.

Now that he had begun the thing, however, he could not halt. The speed dictated more speed. He shed his pack and raced ahead.

The stones came clattering around him.

One touched his scalp, mussed his hair.

"Murderer! Killer!"

What will they take? he wondered.

He reviewed his assets and thought of possible bribes. He had been able to buy his way out of some tight situations in the past. This one, though, did not seem of a negotiable nature.

A small stone missed him and struck against the side of a building. The next one did not; it hit him on the arm, causing considerable pain.

He carried no weapons. There was nothing he could do to avert their madness; and mad was what he judged them.

Another stone passed by his ear. He shook his head.

"Bastard!" someone called.

"You don't know what you're doing!" he cried out. "It was an accident!"

He felt moisture on his neck. He touched it, and his fingertips came away bloody. Another stone struck him.

Could he dash into a store? Might he seek sanctuary in some place of business? He looked about, but could discover none that seemed to be open. Where were the police?