Incors by the score already were entering its blatant palaces, intent on squandering their last few silver dollars or gold nuggets in an effort to forget their grinding, hopeless toil in mine or jungle. Others, better dressed and cockier, evidently had made a stake. They were going to the dens, usually to gamble away their winnings, but once in a while to pyramid them into the coveted million which meant freedom and a proud place in Wildoatian society.
A few Big Shots were drifting into the more expensive and exotic pleasure haunts, there to lord it over lesser men, take their pick of lesser women and indulge every whim their jaded fancies could invent.
Roaming the streets at random, the interlopers looked from blossoming terraces over breathtaking vistas; smiled at roving mountebanks and accepted flowers tossed by pretty girls.
"The place has a certain charm," Frank said grudgingly.
"Think so?" She led him into a street where glittering cafes—one was frankly called "The Clip Joint"—dope dens, telie theaters, circuses and houses of assignation rubbed elbows like thievish brothers.
Within a few minutes they saw an Incor in ragged coveralls stumble out of a "gambling salon", place an automatic to his head and blow his brains out. Later a blonde in sequin harness stepped behind her companion and slipped a stiletto between his plump shoulders. In both cases nearby policemen made no move to interfere. Instead, they blew piping whistles which brought street cleaners on the run to clear away the mess.
"Charm!" snorted Sadie. "Yes, in Nirvana you can do anything you please ... except look crosswise at a Big Shot, or go broke."
"Where are you taking me, anyway?" Sage tried to forget the things he had just seen.
"To the City Hall to look up an old friend of ours."
"A Big Shot?"