Runaways

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Roy Stood At The Edge Of The Square, feeling cold and alone, and looked around him with the eyes of someone who was now a stranger everywhere he went. It hadn't always been this way. But he was getting used to it

No one here spoke his language, Roy thought, but that probably was why he'd been given this job in the first place. Less chance that I might understand what they've got me carrying, he thought, only a little sourly. The idea that someone would actually send him off on a drop with a paper message was weird enough. He had studied the little flat-folded piece of paper in its plastic slip-carrier when he'd been alone on the way down here, leaning on a pole at the front end of the empty Metro car, but he hadn't been able to make anything of what he was carrying. It looked like a page ripped out of one of the old- fashioned hardcopy Michelin guides, incomprehensible enough on its own-printed in red and black, a bunch of little symbols followed by long passages in French, and a lot of numbers. It seemed mostly to have to do with restaurants, which only made matters worse for Roy, for he was hungry enough to eat a horse, which he'd abruptly discovered this morning that they actually did eat here. His stomach was going to have to wait, though. The gruff voice that always spoke to him from just out of visual pickup on the 'phone had been very definite-there was no telling exactly when the other courier was going to show up, and Roy was just going to have to wait where he was until she did.

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