Spencer and Thomas skirted the fighting and managed to dodge and duck their way across the lawn to the sidewalk of Sixth Street. They paused, out of breath.
"This is incredible," Spencer panted, looking back. "I've seen rough lines before, but this…"He shook his head. "There'll be people killed."
"Holy Mother of God," Thomas muttered. "Look at that." He pointed west at a troop of police trotting in formation north on Olive, blocking off the western edge of the square. They all carried rifles at the ready.
Spencer drew in his breath between clenched teeth. "We can't rest yet," he hissed. "Come on." He dragged Thomas across Sixth Street, waving and nodding to the carts they held up, and then both of them ducked behind the solid brick shoulder of a bank into an alley.
The rattle and pop of gunfire broke out as Spencer was scurrying up a fire-escape ladder mounted on the bank's wall. Thomas followed, taking the rusty rungs as quickly as he could, though his wound was stinging and his lungs felt ready to shut down entirely. If we don't stop to rest very soon, I'm going to pass out.
To his relief Spencer crawled out onto the lowest of the fire-escape balconies that faced Sixth, and a few moments later both of them lay panting on the close-set rails, watching the chaos in the square.
The android police had not moved in; they simply stood in an orderly line along the Olive Street sidewalk and fired volley after volley into the rapidly thinning crowd. At first a few people walked toward the police, their hands raised, but they were quickly chopped down by the unflagging spray of bullets. No one followed their example.
People clattered past beneath Thomas, shouting with panic and rage, and he could see, to the north, a similar rout surging east on Fifth, In a few minutes the square was emptied, though the receding tide had left dozens of sprawled figures littered across the green lawn. A horn was sounded, and immediately the firing ceased. The fog of white smoke that hung over the western edge of the square began to drift away on the wind.
"Don't move until they're gone," whispered Spencer. There were tears in his eyes, and he wiped them impatiently on his sleeve. Thomas simply stared between the iron bars of the railing at the square below, trying desperately to explain to himself how and why this had happened. There must be a reason. There must be.
The police unhurriedly slung their rifles over their shoulders, regrouped in the empty street and marched away south in a jogging step. When the echoes of their boots on the asphalt had died away, Spencer stood up.
"Let's go," he said. He leaned down and shook Thomas's shoulder. "Let's get out of here. We're already running on luck—we can't afford to push it by hanging around."
Thomas nodded and got to his feet, and they swung back down the ladder to the pavement. Scattered moans and yells from the square told of a few whose wounds were not immediately fatal; and some of the people who had fled were beginning to peer fearfully from behind nearby buildings to be sure the police really had left.
"Where to?" Thomas asked, looking nervously up and down the sidewalk. His nostrils flared at the acrid smell of gunpowder, which hitherto he'd only associated with the fireworks the monks had shot off on holy days.
"Back to the Bellamy," Spencer answered. "But first let's visit Evelyn. I want to find out more about this ration number giveaway."
"I thought you said she works at the police station?"
"Yeah, she does. We'll have lunch with her somewhere. Don't worry," he added, seeing Thomas's worried look, "they're not going to shoot us just for walking into the station house."
"Yeah? Yesterday I'll bet you wouldn't have thought they'd shoot us for standing in Pershing Square."
"Well, that's true. But twice in one day would be too outrageous. Come on—aren't you getting hungry?"
Thomas glanced at the bodies lying on the grass on the other side of the street, their collars and skirt ends flapping in the breeze. "I… don't know," he said.
"Don't look at them, dammit!" Spencer rasped. "You know what happened, so don't keep looking at it. Now let's go!"
Thomas nodded. "Sure," he said. "Sorry."
They had been walking for several blocks with pawn-shops, vegetable stands and bars to their right and a high, sturdy wooden fence to their left. Bright new barbed wire glittered along the top of it.
"What's behind this, anyway?" asked Thomas quietly, jerking his thumb toward the fence.
"Grazing land," Spencer answered. "Extends east to San Pedro Street, north to Olympic and south to Pico. And this street here, Main, is the western edge."
"What grazes th—" Thomas began, and then remembered St. Coutras's words of the day before. "Not… police?" he whispered.
Spencer nodded.
Thomas tried to imagine hundreds of policemen, stark naked, cropping grass on their hands and knees. Do they wear their caps, he wondered. Now that would be a truly weird sight—the sort of thing nightmares are made of.
"Do they wear their…" Thomas suddenly choked on suppressed laughter.
"What?"
"Their… hats!" Thomas gasped, and whispered, "Do they wear their hats when they're grazing?"
"Hell, no," Spencer said. His face twitched with impatience and amusement.
"It'd be a… hell of a spectacle," Thomas said carefully. "A million naked guys in policemen's hats, eating grass." Spencer snickered in spite of himself. "The city could sell tickets, repair its credit. People would love it." He did an imitation of a citizen loving it.
In a moment both young men were laughing uncontrollably, tears running down their cheeks. A few people walking by on the opposite sidewalk cast them contemptuous glances, clearly supposing them to be drunk.
"Pull…yourself together…for God's sake," giggled Spencer. "The damn police station is just around this corner, on Pico." They straightened up and did their best to assume solemn expressions. Thomas was surprised to find that he felt much more cheerful and confident than he had five minutes ago—the laughter, childish though it had been, had rid him of the dry, metallic taste of tension in his mouth.
They rounded the corner and pushed through two swinging doors below a weather-beaten sign that read LOS ANGELES CENTRAL POLICE STATION. Maps and indecipherable documents were tacked up on the walls of the waiting room, above the backs of old tan couches lining three of the walls. The place smelled of old floor wax.
"Something I can do for you gents?" inquired an officer behind a counter that stretched across the fourth wall. Thomas looked at him curiously—the officer's face was placid and unlined, with a somewhat low forehead and a wide jaw.
"Uh, no thanks," replied Spencer. "We just want to see someone in the bookkeeping section."
"Evelyn Sandoe?" the policeman asked, with a little V of a smile.
Spencer nodded, his face reddening.
"Ah, young love!" pronounced the officer, turning away.
Spencer made a rude gesture at his back. "Come on," he said to Thomas and led the way down a hall lit by genuine electric bulbs.
"He was an android?" Thomas whispered.
"Sure. I hate the way they… fake human feelings." Spencer shuddered. "I wish they didn't build them to look like people. What's wrong with, I don't know, horses, maybe, or monkeys. It's just too creepy when they talk and smile."
They passed a number of doors. Spencer finally opened one, and when they stepped into the room beyond it, they were confronted by ranks of young women at gray metal desks, sorting, stamping and filing papers. Thomas followed Spencer down an aisle and stopped beside him at the desk of a pretty, curly-haired woman in a brown sweater.