"If they trap 'im there's gonna be some dead police before the night's over," the second answered. "He ain't called the Berserker for nothing."
"I'd hate to be in his shoes. They've got a net around the district that a fly couldn't get through."
"I'd hate to be one of the police that corners him."
"He'll never get away this time."
"I wouldn't bet against him if I was you. The gamblers in the street are giving odds of two to one that he makes it."
"How do you figure he's got a chance?"
"I don't know. We're not cut out of the right stuff for that kind of thing. He is. When an opening comes he'll play for it, and he'll do it with a single-minded violence."
Suddenly Ostby's attention was drawn to a group of men collected at the corner ahead. Two thin lines of police were blocking the way and examining identity cards. He drew in a long, deep breath. Life for him on this world was one of a series of crises, unforeseen, but stationed along his way as regularly as mileposts.
Swiftly, but with studied unconcern, he looked about him. To turn back here would arouse attention. His cigar had gone out now, and he flicked it into the gutter.
To his right was an amusement place. He turned and entered.