Gunnar Heim halted in midstride. He stood a while, turning his head in search of the voice that had risen out of the dark.
“Pour voir toutes ces dames.
Et la premiere qu’il a vue-”
It was some distance off, almost lost in the background of machine rumble to landward of the docks.
But only one man was likely to be making his mock with that sinister old ballad, in San Francisco on this night.
“Lut a ravi son ame.Rataplan! Rataplan!Rataplan-plan-plan-plan!”
Heim started after the sound. He could still move fast and softly when he wanted to. In a moment his
ears picked up the ring and snarl of a guitar played in anger.
“Rataplan!Rataplan!Rataplan-plan-plan-plan!”
Warehouses bulked black on his right. At this hour not very long before dawn, the city had dimmed; there was only a reddish haze above the roofs, and the remote luminous leap of the palace towers on Nob Hill. To the left a cargo submarine lay like a sleek moon-scaled dragon, but no longshore robots or men were at work around it. The bay was ebony and a shimmer of glade. Kilometers distant, the hills on the eastern shore made a wall besprinkled with artificial stars. The real stars were wan, and so was the defense satellite that climbed rapidly into view-as if all suns had withdrawn from a planet gone strengthless. Luna stood at half phase near the zenith. He could not see the light-spot of Apollo City on the dark side, through the damp autumn air.
