He broke into a rapid walk, and the crowd parted before him with much louder screeching. Here and there a biped, apparently braver than the rest, made threatening motions with bundles or knotted fists. A package struck him on the shoulder.
The Triomed began to run. He noted for the first time that he towered head and shoulders over most of the bipeds nearby, and his host's brain interpreted the smells of hate and fear all about him.
The crowd scattered wildly at his approach, but he was being followed. Panic began to clutch at the alien. What had he done wrong? Somewhere a wailing sound began—vehicles with glaring red lights swept past him with vicious, explosive noises. He felt a stinging pain in one leg, and glanced down to see it streaked with red.
Ahead of him a line of bipeds all clothed in identical blue sacs of fabric had formed, spilling from the vehicles as they halted. The Triomed stopped, sensing mortal danger. Behind him, the mob rumbled. Ahead the blue bipeds stood holding artifacts that the Triomed did not for an instant doubt were weapons.
No street opened on either side of him. He was trapped between the weapons, the mob, and two tall buildings. He hesitated only for a moment. With a desperate leap, he reached the second level of windows of the building nearest him and clung there, gasping.
A white-faced creature appeared and began poking at him with a steel rod that burned like fire when it touched his host's flesh. The creature screamed shrilly all the while.
With a sob, the Triomed swung himself onto the window ledge and began climbing upward, toward the roof of the building. It was slow work and the pain in his leg and burned shoulder slowed him down. He dare not free himself of his host now, for he was much too far from his ship to be able to return in his natural form.
There were searchlights in the street below, probing at him as he clung to the sheer facade of the building. Panic drove him upward. A continuous, wailing roar rose from the canyon below, a fear-laden hideous cacophony. The Triomed felt himself weak with terror, part of which was his host's and part of which stemmed from within himself. The terror and fear of not knowing what had gone wrong and why he stood now in such peril.
At last he reached the roof. He heaved himself over the parapet and lay for a moment, flanks heaving painfully. Then he stiffened with a new fear. He was not alone. The roof was occupied. A score or more of armed bipeds blocked him into a triangular corner of the roof. He got to his feet and stumbled backward. Their weapons were aimed at him. He retreated until the parapet stopped him, warning of the sheer drop to the street far below.