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than the havoc he'd
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r/Alan%20Dean%20Foster%20-%20The%20I%20Inside.txt wreaked back in the tower.
This man didn't intend him any harm. But Tarragon and the police hadn't left
him with much choice.
So he walked over to the drunk and said gently, "Excuse me, but I have to do
this." The man stared up at the soaking-wet apparition and gaped. Probably he
thought he was looking at a fellow celebrant.
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Certainly Eric didn't look like a mugger.
The man said nothing as Eric put an index finger in the hollow of the drunk's
throat and pushed carefully. The man started to kick and fight. Moving behind
him, Eric kept up the pressure while holding the man immobile for another
minute. That was all it took for him to slump heavily in Eric's arms.
Letting him fall to the grass, Eric began with the coat, moved on to pants and
underwear. Personal belongings he stacked neatly nearby. He was about to do
likewise with the man's wallet, thought better of it, and removed the - loose
cash, shoving the bills into his own still damp wallet. The more he made his
actions resemble an ordinary robbery, the less likely anyone was to connect it
to his extraordinary activities. He left the credit cards alone. They were
useless to an ordinary thief.
The suit was a little large and hung loosely on his lankier frame, but not
enough to attract undue attention, he thought. He tucked the sleeves and cuffs
under and it looked better. At night the difference shouldn't be too
noticeable.
As soon as the stores opened he'd find himself a new set of clothes that fit
properly. He still had his credit card, though whether it was safe to use it
anymore he didn't know. Tarragon had already amply displayed his ability to
access information.
One thing he knew for certain: he couldn't go back to his hotel. That would be
as closely watched now as would Lisa's codo.
He made a bundle out of his old clothes, leaving his unwilling benefactor
snoring and snuffling naked on the grass behind him. There was a public
dispos-all situated near the rest rooms half a block away. A
few teens gamboled loudly around the water fountain, outrageous in their
swapped attire; boys in dresses, girls in suits, unisex makeup plastered on
every face. They offered up a few juvenile obscenities but otherwise ignored
him. The fountain was brightly lit and close to the street, and they weren't
really in the mood to slice any citizens. He was grateful for the inattention.
More trouble he didn't need.
He stuffed his old clothing into the safety chute and pressed the switch.
There was a muffled whoosh as the tube below sucked up the damning evidence,
sending it on its way along with several million tons of additional refuse
toward the power-plant burners.
From now on he'd have to be exceedingly careful of his movements. Tarragon
would be less than polite the next time their paths crossed. If he didn't try
to see Lisa again, he might be able to slip out of the city and pick up a few
threads of his former life. Former life. His future, like his mouth, was set.
He was going after Lisa, and Tarragon probably knew that as well as he did
himself.
How long would Tarragon's desire to avoid unwelcome publicity keep him from
notifying national authorities? Eric could plan better if he knew. Of course,
he was a murderer now. Or was he? It had all been in self-defense (or was it
resisting arrest?). The past hour was a muddle of screams and rapid movements
and confused thoughts. It might be that he hadn't killed anyone. But he'd
certainly damaged many.
He stumbled out of the park, following the beacon of the moving traffic lights
on busy First Avenue.
Staring down at his hands, he slowly turned his right hand palm-downward to
stare at the knuckles.
There was no sign of damage. Even his fingernails were unbroken. He clenched
his fingers, slowly let them unclench. An ordinary hand, surely. His hand,
smooth and uncallused. The same hand he'd grown
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