A few feet away, catastrophe suddenly broke loose. A faulty section of the sidewalk split without warning under his feet and he went pitching forward into the street. He clutched desperately at the trunk of a tall palm tree, but with a loud snap, it broke, throwing him head on into a parked road car. The entire front end of the car collapsed like an egg shell under his weight. For a long moment, the entire street was dead quiet. With difficulty, Hall pulled himself to his feet. Pale, astonished faces were staring at him from all sides. Suddenly the farmer started screaming. "That's him. I knew it. That's him." He was jumping up and down with excitement. Hall turned his back and walked in the other direction. The people in front of him faded away, leaving a clear path. He had gone a dozen steps when a man with a huge double-barreled shotgun popped out from a store front just ahead. He aimed for the middle of Hall's chest and fired both barrels. The blast and the shot struck Hall squarely, burning a large hole in his shirt front. He did not change his pace, but continued step by step. The man with the gun snatched two shells out of his pocket and frantically tried to reload. Hall reached out and closed his hand over the barrel of the gun and the blue steel crumpled like wet paper. From across the street, someone was shooting at him with a rifle. Several times a bullet smacked warmly against his head or his back. He continued walking slowly up the street. At its far end several men appeared dragging a small howitzer--probably the only piece in the local armory. They scurried around it, trying to get it aimed and loaded. "Fools. Stupid fools," Hall shouted at them. The men could not seem to get the muzzle of the gun down, and when he was a dozen paces from it they took to their heels. He tore the heavy cannon off of its carriage and with one blow of his fist caved it in. He left it lying in the street broken and useless. Almost as suddenly as it came, his anger left him. He stopped and looked back at the people cringing in the doorways. "You poor, cruel fools," Hall said again. He sat down in the middle of the street on the twisted howitzer barrel and buried his head in his hands. There was nothing else for him to do. He knew that in just a matter of seconds, the ships with their permallium nets and snares would be on him. * * * * * Since Jordan's ship was not large enough to transport Jon Hall's great weight back to Grismet, the terrestrial government put at the agent's disposal a much heavier vessel, one room of which had been hastily lined with permallium and outfitted as a prison cell. A pilot by the name of Wilkins went with the ship. He was a battered old veteran, given to cigar smoking, clandestine drinking and card playing.