Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [38]
The bake shop was just ahead—into a cozy room crowded by two tiny tables. He ordered pastries and a cup of coffee from a red-cheeked girl in starched white. He reached for his money, hesitated. The city guard just might be looking for him. It wouldn't do to leave a trail of gold pieces all over town, but if there were some smaller coins in among the sovereigns . . .
He concentrated, picturing silver pieces, then checked the contents of his pocket. Success! He selected a quarter, handed it to the girl, started for the door—
"Beg pardon, sir," the girl called after him. "Ye've give me furrin money—by mistake, I don't doubt . . ."
Sure enough, a U.S. two-bit piece. "Sorry," he muttered; he took out a gold piece and handed it over. "Keep the change." He flashed her a quick smile, started out—
"But sir! A whole sovereign! Wait here half a sec and I'll pop across to Master Samuel's stall and—"
"Never mind; I'm . . . ah . . . in a hurry." Lafayette went up the steps, the girl behind him.
"Ye must be daft, sir!" she called indignantly. "A sovereign fer tuppence 'orth o' cakes?"
People were staring. A lantern-jawed woman with a basket on her arm jerked as though someone had pulled a wire attached to her neck. She pointed.
"It's him!" she squawked. "Last night, at the grand ball. I seen the rascal, plain as I'm seeing him now, when I come in to trim the wicks!"
Lafayette plunged past her, rounded a corner at a full run. Behind him a shout was rising; feet pounded in pursuit. He glanced back, saw a big-chested man in an open vest round the corner, hair flying, legs pumping.
O'Leary sprinted, bowled over a cart loaded with gimcracks and miniature pink-and-white Artesian flags, skidded into a narrow alley, pounded up a cobbled way toward the looming wall of a church. Someone shot from a side alley ahead, whirled, arms spread; Lafayette straight-armed him, jumped the sprawling body, emerged into an open court. There was an eight-foot wall rimming the yard. He ran for it, leaped, caught the top, pulled himself up and over. He dropped into a tiny back yard where an old man trimming roses with a pair of heavy shears opened a toothless mouth as Lafayette bounded past him through a door, along a short dark hall redolent of wood smoke and burst out onto a quiet side street. He paused a moment, took a deep breath, looked left and right.
The hunt, rounding the corner half a block above, gave a shout as they saw him. He whirled, dashed off down the slope. If he could make the turn ahead in time to duck out of sight before they caught up . . .
The street curved, widened into a plaza with a fountain surrounded by flower stalls and a dense throng of shoppers, vivid in the shafts of morning light pouring down past the cathedral towers. An inviting street turned off to the left just ahead. He ducked into a crouch as he pushed in among the crowd; maybe they wouldn't pick him out in the press if he didn't stick up so high. People gave way before him as he worked his way through, back curved, neck bent. A motherly woman handed him a copper. A legless man seated under the lamp post on the corner with a hat in his lap gave him a resentful look.
"Hey, buddy, you joined the union?"
O'Leary dodged past him, straightened, went up the street at a lope. The geography of the town, it occurred to him, was similar to that of Colby Corners. The main difference was that back home they'd leveled the ground; here the streets wound up and down over the little hills and valleys that in a less romantic clime had been hammered into drab horizontality.
The street he was now in was analogous to the alley running behind Pott's Drug Store and Hambanger's Hardware. That being the case, if he took a right just ahead, and another right, he'd hit the park—and maybe, among the trees and underbrush, he could lose his pursuers. He could hear them behind him, closing in again. He caught a glimpse as he rounded the corner. A big man with a pitchfork was in the lead now, running