The bartender looked up. "Get lost, kid," she said. "No minors allowed." "Sorry, ma'am," I said. "I just wanted to use your telephone. I was packjacked, and I need to call the police." The bartender turned back to her soap opera. "Go peddle it somewhere else, sonny. The phone's for customers only." "Please," I said. "My father's an ambassador, from 1898? I don't have any money, and I'm stuck here. I won't be a minute." The spacer looked up from his drink. "Get lost, the lady said," he slurred at me. "I'll buy something," I said. "You just said you don't have any money," the bartender said. "I'll pay for it when the police get here. The Embassy will cover it." "No credit," she said. "You're not going to let me use your phone?" I said. "That's right," she said, still staring at her vid. "I'm a stranger, an ambassador's son, who's been robbed. A kid. Stuck here, broke and alone, and you won't let me use your phone to call the police?" "That's about the size of things," she said. "Well, I guess my Pa was right. The whole world went to hell after 1914. No manners, no human decency." "You're breaking my heart," she said. "Fine. Be that way. Send me back out on the street, deny me a favour that won't cost you one red cent, just because I'm a stranger." "Shut _up_, kid, for chrissakes," the spacer said. "I'll stand him to a Coke, if that's what it takes. Just let him use the phone and get out of here. He's giving me a headache." "Thank you, sir," I said, politely. The bartender switched her vid over to phone mode, poured me a Coke, and handed me the vid. # The policeman who showed up a few minutes later stuck me in the back of his cruiser, listened to my story, scanned my retinas, confirmed my identity, and retracted the armour between the back and front seats. "I'll take you to the station house," he said. "We'll contact your Embassy, let them handle it from there." "What about the kids who 'jacked me?" I asked. The cop turned the jetcar's conn over to wire-fly mode and turned around. "You got any description?" "Well, they had really nice packs on, with the traffic beacons snapped off. One was red, and I think the other was green. And they were young. Ten or eleven." The cop punched at his screen. "Kid," he said, "I got over three million minors eight to eleven, flying packs less than a year old. The most popular colour is red. Second choice, green. Where would you like me to start? Alphabetically?" "Sorry, sir, I didn't realise." "Sure," he said. "Whatever." "I guess I'm not thinking very clearly. It's been a long day." The cop looked over to me and smiled. "I guess it has, at that. Don't worry, kid, we'll get you home all right." # They gave me a fresh jumpsuit, sat me on a bench, called the embassy, and forgot about me. A long, boring time later, a fat man with walrus moustaches and ruddy skin showed up.