And he clutched at a handbag and bore it away in his mad flight.
"—or I take!"
An ornate brooch came free in his hands with a long strip of shimmering, diaphanous silk clinging to the pin. Her companion raced after Wan Nes Stan to remonstrate for the insult, but the madman struck him across the face.
He snatched the ring from the fallen man's finger.
And on he raced, through the bright afternoon sunlight, ever adding to his pile of loot. Galactics clustered behind him, talking to one another, in wondering, unbelieving tones.
But Wan Nes Stan, his lust to strive for power denied him, retreated within himself and substituted the childlike desire for glittering, beckoning things of jewel and credit. Denied even the chance to steal in this world where all was his for the asking, Wan Nes Stan returned to his youth and snatched things that had once been of value to himself and to those about him.
Worthless baubles!
But still he ran, clutching here and there and ever adding to his collection of gaudy junk.
And the final straw came when the Galactics, having no desire to be jostled or beaten, lined the broad sidewalk and quietly unfastened ornaments from jumper or dress or wrist or finger and held it out to Wan Nes Stan as he ran by.
"—I take!" he screamed, and then the scream became a whimper; they took from him the last pleasure of forcing them to part with the baubles and it broke him.