He saw the distaste on the police sergeant's face as he walked to speak to the demonstrators. The man he picked out was middle forties, Jack guessed, because the hair that was lank on the back of his neck was streaked grey. The man was shivering in a poplin sports top that was keeping out none of the rain. He wore plastic badges for Anti-Apartheid and the African National Congress and the South West African People's Organisation. His jogging shoes were holed and worn, but he stood motionless in the streams of water on the pavement. His placard was

FREEDOM FOR THE PRITCHARD FIVE.

All six looked at him coldly, mirroring the stares of the policemen.

"Good morning. Can you tell me about your protest?"

"Pretty obvious, isn't it? You can read."

"I thought you'd want to tell me," Jack said.

"We don't need your kind of interest."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Just go up the steps and join the other fascists."

Jack read the man's supercilious stare. He had his hair cut short, he wore a businessman's rain coat, a charcoal suit, he wore a tie.

He looked hard into the man's eyes.

"Listen, I am not a policeman. I am not a snooper. I am a private citizen, and I want to know something about the Pritchard Five."

There must have been something in Jack's gaze, and the lash of his voice. The man shrugged.

"You can sign the petition."

"How many signatures?"

"One hundred and fourteen."

"That all?"

"This is a racist society." The man rolled his words, as if they gave him a satisfaction. "There's not many who care that four heroic freedom fighters will go to (heir deaths."