"Myself, I never been Out. Not even Luna. Never wanted to. I stay here and have my little business--you can call it a business. You'll see, buddy, there are millions of guys like me. The controllers don't stop us. We're respectable. A damned sight more respectable than those...." "All right," snapped Craig. "Let's get out of here." "You got it bad, huh? This poly will fix that up. It's pure. You just come back to old Nave and get poly." "How ... how you get out of here?" asked Craig, nauseated. "Get lost pretty easy in the dark, huh?" The man was beginning to mock him. Craig lashed out suddenly at the unseen face in the darkness. He caught the thin throat in his left hand. His right left the packing box and cocked to deliver a blow. But he began to fall and had to let go. "Okay, buddy, okay," the other man said soothingly as Craig was forced to catch himself. "I _like_ ex-spacemen. I know lots of you. I sell you poly. You don't want to get tough with me." He shoved a block of ten small cubes into Craig's hand and, while Craig fished for his wallet, he produced a tiny, narrow-beamed flash. The transaction was quickly over. The cube was small enough to be forced without much difficulty into Craig's jacket pocket. The man led him back across the littered yard, through the empty store building, and out the front door. When Craig emerged onto the street once more, a uniformed figure was standing nearby. "He'll need two," whispered the man from behind him. Craig reached into his pocket and mechanically fumbled two of the small cubes of waxlike substance from the loose package. He placed them on the outstretched hand of the Civil Control officer. The officer did not look in his direction at any time, but accepted the offer and walked slowly on toward the station. Craig continued aimlessly down the long street. His head cleared as he walked and once more began to form a kind of vague plan. There was anonymity to a street such as this. There was also a kind of freedom. Everywhere in the universe, there were such streets. Neutralized streets, where a kind of compromise was reached between law and lawlessness. They were permitted because it was always necessary to provide such a place for those who were not permitted elsewhere. Those who would not fit, could not be "rehabilitated," could neither be jailed nor permitted complete freedom. Controllers of one kind or another patrolled such streets, keeping them in a kind of check--or, more accurately, in a kind of containment. But no amount of control would ever completely stamp out the likes of Nave, the bootlegger. Perhaps here, on this street, Craig could be "lost." Here he might find security for a time in anonymity, security and time to find a way ... to what? He did not know. "Mister! Mister!" cried a thin, high voice from somewhere to his left. "Here, quick!"