Rynason looked at their faces from where he stood in the doorway, listening to Manning talking to them.  They were hard men, mean and sometimes vicious.  Nameless faces, all of them, having no place in the more developed areas of the Terran civilization.  And maybe that was their own fault.  But Rynason knew that they were running, not to anything, but from the civilization itself.  Running ... because when an area was settled and started to become respectable, they began to see what they did not have.  The temporary quarters would come down, to be replaced by permanent buildings that were meant to be lived in, not just as places for sleeping.  Closets, and shelters for landcars; quadsense receivers and food integrators.  They didn’t want to see that ... because they hated it, or because they wanted it?  It didn’t matter, Rynason decided.  They ran, and now they were here on the Edge with all their anger and frustration, and Manning was ready to give them a way to let it out.

At the side of the mob he saw a familiar grey shock of hair—­Rene Malhomme.  Was he with them, then?  Rynason craned his neck for a better view, and for a moment the crowd parted enough to let him see Malhomme’s face.  He was looking directly toward Rynason, holding a dully gleaming knife flat against his thick chest ... and his lips were drawn back into the crooked, sardonic smile which Rynason had seen many times.  No, Malhomme at least was not part of this mob.

“We already know which direction they went,” Manning was saying.  “Lessingham will be in charge of the main body, and you’ll follow him.  If he gives you an order, take it.  This is a serious business; we won’t have room for bickering.

“Some of us will be scouting with the flyers.  Well be in radio contact with you.  When we find out where they are we’ll reconnoiter and make our plans from there.”

Manning paused, looking appraisingly at the faces before him.  “Most of you are armed already, I see.  We have some extra stunners here; if you need them, come on up.  But remember, the men who carry the shockers will be in front; and their business will be simply to down the horses—­any killing that’s to be done will be left to those of you who have knives, or anything lethal.”

There was a rising wave of voices from the crowd.  Some men came forward for weapons; Rynason saw others drawing knives and hatchets, and a few of them had heavy guns, projectile type.  Rynason watched with narrowed eyes; it had been a filthy maneuver on Manning’s part to organize this mob, and his open acceptance of their temper was dangerous.  Once they were turned loose, what could stop them?

There was a sudden shouting in the back of the mob; men surged and fell away, cursing.  Rynason heard scuffing back there, and sounds of bone meeting flesh.  The men at the front of the mob turned to look back, and some tried to shove their way through to the fight.

A scream came from the midst of the crowd, and was answered by an excited, angry swelling of voices around the fighting men.  Suddenly Manning was among them, smashing his way through with a stunner in his hand, swinging it like a club.