The fat man was standing in front of a shop in the next block, picking at a blemish on his chin and eyeing the window display. He looked up with a frown, started away as Brett came up.
"Wait a minute," Brett called. "Didn't you see the Gel? the one that cornered me back there?"
The fat man looked back suspiciously, kept going.
"Wait!" Brett caught his arm. "I know you're real. I've seen you belch and sweat and scratch. You're the only one I can call on—and I need help. My friend is trapped—"
The fat man pulled away, his face flushed an even deeper red. "I'm warning you, you maniac: get away from me...!"
Brett stepped close, rammed the fat man hard in the ribs. He sank to his knees, gasping. The panama hat rolled away. Brett grabbed his arm, steadied him.
"Sorry," he said. "I had to be sure. You're real, all right. We've got to rescue my friend, Dhuva—"
The fat man leaned against the glass, rolling terrified eyes, rubbing his stomach. "I'll call the police!" he gasped.
"What police?" Brett waved an arm. "Look. Not a car in sight. Did you ever see the street that empty before?"
"Wednesday afternoon," the fat man gasped.