The door opened and Danny was through it like a sprinter. The robot reached out; it just wasn't fast enough. It was experienced, but not in capturing a boy trained in spaceman gymnastics. Intact, Danny wriggled free. Not a shred of skin or clothing remained in the grasping hands.
He eluded the second robot and changed direction. Deliberately he collided with the man. Of the two Danny was smaller, but not by much. Besides youth, he had the advantage of momentum. Startled, the man went down. By the time he scrambled to his feet, mad enough to follow, Danny had entered a genuine twentieth century alley, complete with trash cans. Danny was certain the man hadn't seen his face.
He had visited Culture City often and was at home in it. It was a good gamble the psych squad wasn't. Danny ran on, dodging through the narrow passageways, and, when he was well ahead of them, climbed an inconspicuous fire escape to the top of a building and watched the psych squad blunder by below.
Satisfied he hadn't been observed, he went inside the building and presently emerged on a main street, breathing a little heavily, but otherwise a normal boy, face washed and hair combed.
Culture City was beginning to come to life with the evening trade. More people were on the streets and he mingled with them. But he knew his escape was only temporary, unless....
He bought a confection and munched on it though his stomach quivered and refused to have anything to do with the intruding material. He had to act natural, and something like that seemed called for. He picked up a stick from the trash that, true to the period, littered the streets. He swung it nonchalantly as he circled back to the drugstore. He passed through that as fast as he dared.
Into the parking lot again. He searched along the borders of it until he found what he wanted. Then he approached the sidewalk psychiatrist. "It's me, Danny," he said in a low voice.
The S.P. seemed surprised. "What do you want?"
"I'm going to give myself up," he said. "You've got my fingerprints."