[XVII]
Walton stepped off the jetbus at Broadway and West 382nd Street, paused for a moment beneath a street lamp, and fingered his chin to see if his mask were on properly. It was.
Three youths stood leaning against a nearby building. "Could you tell me where the block meeting's being held?" Walton asked.
"Down the street and turn left. You a telefax man?"
"Just an interested citizen," Walton said. "Thanks for the directions."
It was easy to see where the block meeting was; Walton saw streams of determined-looking men and women entering a bulky old building just off 382nd Street. He joined them and found himself carried along into the auditorium.
Nervously he found a seat. The auditorium was an old one, predominantly dark brown and cavernous, with row after row of hard wooden folding chairs. Someone was adjusting a microphone on stage. A sharp metallic whine came over the public-address system.
"Testing. Testing, one two three...."
"It's all right, Max!" someone yelled from the rear. Walton didn't turn around to look.
A low undercurrent of murmuring was audible. It was only 1815; the meeting was not due to start for another fifteen minutes, but the hall was nearly full, with more than a thousand of the local residents already on hand.