But, Hakiem reminded himself as he waited for his contact to appear, he was anold man: he wouldn't have lived to be old if he were too foolish. And Hakiem,who'd been safe on the sidelines, an observer and a certified neutral all hislife, was beginning to feel the tug of revolutionary fervor himself-politics, hewell knew, was an old man's game: old men sent young men out to lose theirlives for principles. He'd have to be careful not to become as deluded asthose the Ilsigi populace fought: the Beysibs, the Rankans, the Nisibisi andwhoever else wanted to put their stamp on his poor little sandspit of a town.

Whoever had sent him the note which had bade him come here (Hakiem, for the talemost worth telling this season, meet me at the bench under the parasol pine inPromise Park at midday, two days hence.) was willing to take outrageous chances:even in daylight, the Beysib discouraged public gatherings. Two, these days, wasa public gathering.

Still, this was the first time the rebels had tried to contact him, although itseemed to Hakiem that they should have realized they needed him sooner: withoutrumor, without the proper stirring stories of heroism and success, without avision of the Revolution to come, no insurgency could succeed.

Two blond, bare-breasted Bey women went by, their bulging eyes downcast,demurely veiled, Beysib males prancing behind them, and behind those, Ilsig boyscarrying sunshades.

When they'd gone, Hakiem took a deep breath. He didn't have any assurances thatit was the revolutionaries who'd sent him the note: he'd made an assumption, onethat might not be true. Either of the fish-women with their trained serpents whonow receded into the distance, their entourage behind, could have sent thatnote.

Hakiem rubbed his face, bleary-eyed and weary: this final indignity heaped uponluckless Sanctuary was almost too much for him to bear. Daily, the rubble piles