Father Exarkos put a hand on his arm and murmured something. Harkway leaned forward impulsively across the table and said, "Mr. Burgess, I've traveled a long way in the hope of discussing these problems with men of intelligence and standing in their community, like yourself. I hope you'll stay and give me the benefit of your experience. I shall be very much the loser if you don't."
Burgess was visibly struggling with his emotions. He stood up and said, "No—no—not tonight. I'm upset. Please excuse me." Head bowed, he walked out of the room.
There was a short silence. "Did I do the wrong thing?" asked Harkway.
"No, no," said Father Exarkos. "It was not your fault—there was nothing you could do. You must excuse him. He is a good man, but he has suffered too much. Since his wife died—of a disease contracted during one of the Famines, you understand—he has not been himself."
Harkway nodded, looking both older and more human than he had a moment before. "If we can only turn back the clock," he said. "Put Humpty Dumpty together again, as you expressed it, Mr. Cudyk." He smiled apologetically at them. "I won't harangue you any more tonight—I'll save that for the meeting tomorrow. But I hope that some of you will come to see it my way."
Father Exarkos' eyebrows lifted. "You are planning to hold a public meeting tomorrow?"
"Yes. There's some difficulty about space—Mayor Seu tells me that the town hall is already booked for the next three days—but I'm confident that I can find some suitable place. If necessary, I'll make it an open-air meeting."
Rack, thought Cudyk. Rack usually stays in town for only two or three days at a time. Seu is trying to keep Harkway under cover until he leaves. It won't work.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark shape in the doorway, and his first thought was that Burgess had come back. But it was not Burgess. It was a squat, bandy-legged man with huge shoulders and arms, wearing a leather jacket and a limp military cap. Cudyk sat perfectly still, warning Exarkos with his eyes.
The squat man walked casually up the table, nodding almost imperceptibly to Ferguson. He ignored the others, except the M.P.L. man. "Your name Harkway?" he asked. He pronounced it with the flat Boston "a": "Haakway".