Forward the Foundation

"A coke-icer," said Raych in just as surly a fashion (he would not be a Billibottoner if he displayed courtesy), using the slang term he remembered well from the old days.

The term was still current, for the server handed him the correct item, using his bare fingers. The boy, Raych, would have taken that for granted, but now the man, Raych, felt taken slightly aback.

"You want a bag?"

"No," said Raych, "I'll eat it here." He paid the server and took the coke-icer from the other's hand and bit into its richness, his eyes half closing as he did so. It had been a rare treat in his boyhood-sometimes when he had scrounged the necessary credit to buy one with, sometimes when he had received a bite from a temporarily wealthy friend, most often when he had lifted one when nobody was watching. Now he could buy as many as he wished.

"Hey," said a voice.

Raych opened his eyes. It was the man at the table, scowling at him.

Raych said gently, "Are you speaking to me, bub?"

"Yeah. What'chuh Join'?"

"Eatin' a coke-icer. What's it to ya?" Automatically he had assumed the Billibotton way of talking. It was no strain at all.

"What'chuh doin' in Billibotton?"

"Born here. Raised here. In a bed. Not in a street, like you." The insult came easily, as though he had never left home.

"That so? You dress pretty good for a Billibottoner. Pretty fancy-dancy. Got a perfume stink about ya." And he held up a little finger to imply effeminacy.

"I won't talk about your stink. I went up in the world."

"Up in the world? La-dee-da. " Two other men stepped into the bakery. Raych frowned slightly, for he wasn't sure whether they had been summoned or not. The man at the table said to the newcomers, "This guy's gone up in the world. Says he's a Billibottoner."

One of the two newcomers shambled a mock salute and grinned with no appearance of amiability. His teeth were discolored. "Ain't that nice? It's always good to see a Billibottoner go up in the world. Gives 'em a chance to help their poor unfor'chnit sector people. Like, credits. You can always spare a credit or two for the poor, hey?"

"How many you got, mister?" said the other, the grin disappearing.

"Hey," said the man behind the counter. "All you guys get out of my store. I don't want no trouble in here."

"There'll be no trouble," said Raych. "I'm leaving."

He made to go, but the seated man put a leg in his way. "Don't go, pal. We'd miss yer company."

(The man behind the counter, clearly fearing the worst, disappeared into the rear.)

Raych smiled. He said, "One time when I was in Billibotton, guys, I was with my old man and old lady and there were ten guys who stopped us. Ten. I counted them. We had to take care of them."

"Yeah?" said the one who had been speaking. "Yer old man took care of ten?"

"My old man? Nah. He wouldn't waste his time. My old lady did. And I can do it better than she can. And there are only three of you. So, if you don't mind, out of the way."

"Sure. Just leave all your credits. Some of your clothes, too."

The man at the table rose to his feet. There was a knife in his hand.

"There you are," said Raych. "Now you're going to waste my time." He had finished his coke-icer and he half-turned. Then, as quickly as thought, he anchored himself to the table, while his right leg shot out and the point of his toe landed unerringly in the groin of the man with the knife.

Down he went with a loud cry. Up went the table, driving the second man toward the wall and keeping him there, while Raych's right arm flashed out, with the edge of the palm striking hard against the larynx of the third, who coughed and went down.

It had taken two seconds and Raych now stood there with a knife in each hand and said, "Now which one of you wants to move?"

They glared at him but remained frozen in place and Raych said, "In that case, I will now leave."

But the server, who had retreated to the back room, must have summoned help, for three more men had now entered the store, while the server screeched, "Troublemakers! Nothing but troublemakers!"

The newcomers were dressed alike in what was obviously a uniform-but one that Raych had never seen. Trousers were tucked into boots, loose green T-shirts were belted, and odd semispherical hats that looked vaguely comic were perched on top of their heads. On the front of the left shoulder of each T-shirt were the letters Jo.**

They had the Dahlite look about them but not quite the Dahlite mustache. The mustaches were black and thick, but they were carefully trimmed at lip level and were kept from luxuriating too widely. Raych allowed himself an internal sneer. They lacked the vigor of his own wild mustache, but he had to admit they looked neat and clean.

The leader of these three men said, "I'm Corporal Quinber. What's been going on here?"

The defeated Billibottoners were scrambling to their feet, clearly the worse for wear. One was still doubled over, one was rubbing his throat, and the third acted as though one of his shoulders had been wrenched.