It wasn't right to think that way. The master at Race-Through-God wouldn't approve. Not that John attended church regularly, as he'd told the Blast back in York. But still, such thoughts weren't right. They smacked of Integration. He kept his head still, but flicked his eyes around the crowded car. They'd made another stop, and now Outsiders were standing. They didn't seem to resent him, or, for that matter, pay him any particular attention. It was just that _he_ felt different, and that made him angry, and that led to his standing up and moving to the port and getting off at the next corner--all this instead of being sensible and staying on the snake until it returned to the span and York. But even as he stepped into the street, he was remembering how that girl had looked, with her big brown eyes and dark hair and golden skin. He muttered, "Damned, non-Aryan, foul-blood Outsiders!" Then walked quickly down the street when he realized he'd used terms of racial-superiority. Getting picked up here for profanity wouldn't be fun. He'd get six months in Re-education House for sure. * * * * * It was a hot, bright day and Upper City was clean, fragrant and beautiful, but John Stevens wasn't enjoying himself. He was filled with nagging irritation, growing angrier by the second without knowing exactly why. He began to search the eyes of people passing by--well-dressed Outsiders in their one-piece coroplast suits, colors ranging through all the hues of the rainbow. He felt shabby in his old brown plasts. Those eyes seemed to be sneering at him. They seemed to be looking at him with disgust and contempt. He was about to turn around and go back to the snake stop, about to obey the warning bell that had begun ringing in his brain, when it happened. It wasn't much, and yet it was the last straw--the one that broke the normal behavior patterns and left him at the mercy of his own emotions. A young woman, sleek and well-groomed, was passing with a little boy of about five. The child stopped dead on seeing John. In spite of himself, John stopped too. The child stared at John, eyes wide and filled with wonder. "Mommy!" he shrilled. "Mommy, _look_ at him!" The woman tried to hush her son, to drag him away, but the child eluded her grasp and danced back, still staring at John. "Look at him, Mommy! What a funny color--" John raised his hand as if to strike the child. He didn't mean it, not really, but he wanted to stop that high-pitched voice, stop those amazed eyes from examining him. The child screamed and ran to his mother. The mother shrank back, enfolding the little boy in her arms, and shouted, "Help! Help me, please!"