Then he saw Pete Smith and waved a languid hand. "How's the pure-blood?" he asked.
"Living," Pete answered. "And I can see Mr. Aryan's doing all right for—"
Both froze as the patrol bubble turned the corner on racing treads and pulled up short. John considered making a run for it, but saw it was too late. Pete had arrived at the same conclusion.
"They picked our lips on the vocal-box," Pete whispered. "We're in trouble."
John didn't have a chance to answer. The two Blasts were out of their bubble and coming toward them. The tall one said mechanically, "Section twenty-seven, Earth Ordinances, using profane language on public lanes. Subsection twelve, covering classification of terms of racial-superiority as profanity due to its negation of established fact and the harmful effects—"
"Oh, shove it, Blast," Pete muttered. "We know the public scroll. So you picked us up on the box. So what?"
The CPCNC officer looked at him. "You people never will learn. Why don't you accept the status quo, learn to live like human beings?"
"That's what I always say," John murmured sarcastically.
The Blast stepped in and slapped him, hard. John rocked back on his heels, clenched his fists, but did nothing. The Blast slapped him again, not quite so hard but with a great deal more deliberation. John bit his lip and dropped his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "Why don't we act like human beings!"