At that moment a tall, lean man approached him. He was a stranger, with a bearing Sethos did not recognize.
"How do you do, Sethos," he said softly. "I understand you are the most accomplished of your group. May I ask a few questions?"
Someone from across town, obviously. He knew the type—they traveled between the cliques, learning of new trends and ideas to pirate. He had done it once himself.
"I'm sorry. I don't have any new goodies for your side of town. Why don't you go in and pester Brin? He's always easy to tap."
"You misjudge me. I'm not interested in stealing ideas."
"I know, I know. But I'm not for sale anyway."
Angered, Sethos turned and strode down the hill. The nerve of these apprentices, he thought. Some day they'll ask for autographed samples.
He stopped. A small autocar had caught his attention. On a wild impulse, he opened the door. "Good evening, little servant," he said gently.
The desire to move came on him more strongly now. Stooping, he got in, the seat cushions adjusting automatically to his posture, and a voice somewhere in the drive panel said, "Direction, please."
Yes—where to? He didn't know. But he had to get away.