The crowd parted to admit the weaponcheck girl to its center. With a quick, deft movement she found McLeod's second parabeam, withdrew it and told him, "So are you."
More figures joined them, in police uniforms, the polished leather harness for twin parabeams creaking on each pair of hips, the gaudy blue and gold uniforms starched stiffly. "You're under arrest," one of them told McLeod. "You'll have to come with us."
"You're no more police than I am. Since when do police do anything more than direct traffic?"
"You'll have to come with us, sir."
"And then get killed trying to escape? Keep your hands off me."
At that moment, Weaver Wainwright made his way inside the wide circle of onlookers, his long sad nose drooping over his upper lip as he smiled at McLeod. "When our police reporter said it was you, I rushed right over."
"Sure," McLeod said bitterly. "Police reporter. Why don't you admit these people are a bunch of your killers? You've really tailor-made your accident this time, Wainwright. I guess I'll be killed trying to escape."
Wainwright regarded him with bland curiosity. "What I want to know is why you attacked the girl."
"He didn't attack her," Tracy said. "I was right here."
"In pitch darkness," the weaponcheck girl reminded her. Apparently McLeod's bribe had been topped.