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into a bunch of wires and Mrs。 Feeny； she works over at Richard Sloat's house； she heard Uncle Morgan talking on the phone and he said the electricity came out； all of the electricity； and it cooked him； it cooked him so bad that his glasses melted all over his nose； only you don't know about glasses because you don't have them here。 No glasses 。 。 。 no electricity 。 。 。 no Midnight Blue 。 。 。 no airplanes。 Don't end up like Mrs。 Jerry； Mrs。 Henry。 Don't…
'Never mind was he ill；' the whiskered farmer said。 'Was he political？'
Jack looked at him。 His mouth was working but no sounds came out。 He didn't know what to say。 There were too many trapdoors。
Henry nodded； as if he had answered。 'Jump down； laddie。 Market's just over the next rise。 I reckon you can ankle it from here； can't you？'
'Yes；' Jack said。 'I reckon I can。'
Mrs。 Henry looked confused 。 。 。 but she was now holding Jason away from Jack； as if he might have some contagious disease。
The farmer； still looking back over his shoulder； smiled a bit ruefully。 'I'm sorry。 You seem a nice enough lad； but we're simple people here…whatever's going on back yonder by the sea is something for great lords to settle。 Either the Queen will die or she won't 。 。 。 and of course； someday she must。 God pounds all His nails sooner or later。 And what happens to little people when they meddle into the affairs of the great is that they get hurt。'
'My father…'
'I don't want to know about your father！' Henry said sharply。 His wife scrambled away from Jack； still holding Jason to her bosom。 'Good man or bad； I don't know and I don't want to know…all I know is that he's a dead man； I don't think you lied about that； and that his son has been sleeping rough and has all the smell of being on the dodge。 The son doesn't talk as if he es from any of these parts。 So climb down。 I've a son of my own； as you see。'
Jack got down； sorry for the fear in the young woman's face…fear he had put there。 The farmer was right…little people had no business meddling in the affairs of the great。 Not if they were smart。
CHAPTER 13
The Men in the Sky
1
It was a shock to discover that the money he had worked so hard to get literally had turned into sticks…they looked like toy snakes made by an inept craftsman。 The shock lasted only for a moment； however； and he laughed ruefully at himself。 The sticks were money； of course。 When he came over here； everything changed。 Silver dollar to gryphon…coin； shirt to jerkin； English to Territories speech； and good old American money to…well； to jointed sticks。 He had flipped over with about twenty…two dollars in all； and he guessed that he had exactly the same amount in Territories money； although he had counted fourteen joints on one of the money…sticks and better than twenty on the other。
The problem wasn't so much money as cost…he had very little idea of what was cheap and what was dear； and as he walked through the market； Jack felt like a contestant on The New Price Is Right…only； if he flubbed it here； there wouldn't be any consolation prize and a clap on the back from Bob Barker； if he flubbed it here； they might 。 。 。 well； he didn't know for sure what they might do。 Run him out for sure。 Hurt him； rough him up？ Maybe。 Kill him？ Probably not； but it was impossible to be absolutely certain。 They were little people。 They were not political。 And he was a stranger。
Jack walked slowly from one end of the loud and busy market…day throng to the other； wrestling with the problem。 It now centered mostly in his stomach…he was dreadfully hungry。 Once he saw Henry； dickering with a man who had goats to sell。 Mrs。 Henry stood near him； but a bit behind； giving the men room to trade。 Her back was to Jack； but she had the baby hoisted in her arms…Jason； one of the little Henrys； Jack thought…but Jason saw him。 The baby waved one chubby hand at Jack and Jack turned away quickly； putting as much crowd as he could between himself and the Henrys。
Everywhere was the smell of roasting meat； it seemed。 He saw vendors slowly turning joints of beef over charcoal fires both small and ambitious； he saw 'prentices laying thick slices of what looked like pork on slabs of homemade bread and taking them to the buyers。 They looked like runners at an auction。 Most of the buyers were farmers like Henry； and it appeared that they also called for food the way people entered a bid at an auction…they simply raised one of their hands imperiously； the fingers splayed out。 Jack watched several of these transactions closely； and in every case the medium of exchange was the jointed sticks 。 。 。 but how many knuckles would be enough？ he wondered。 Not that it mattered。 He had to eat； whether the transaction marked him as a stranger or not。
He passed a mime…show； barely giving it a glance although the large audience that had gathered…women and children； most of them…roared with appreciative laughter and applauded。 He moved toward a stall with canvas sides where a big man with tattoos on his slabbed biceps stood on one side of a trench of smouldering charcoal in the earth。 An iron spit about seven feet long ran over the charcoal。 A sweating； dirty boy stood at each end。 Five large roasts were impaled along the length of the spit； and the boys were turning them in unison。
'Fine meats！' the big man was droning。 'Fine meats！ Fii…ine meats！ Buy my fine meats！ Fine meats here！ Fine meats right here！' In an aside to the boy closest to him： 'Put your back into it； God pound you。' Then back to his droning； huckstering cry。
A farmer passing with his adolescent daughter raised his hand； and then pointed at the joint of meat second from the left。 The boys stopped turning the spit long enough for their boss to hack a slab from the roast and put in on a chunk of bread。 One of them ran with it to the farmer； who produced one of the jointed sticks。 Watching closely； Jack saw him break off two knuckles of wood and hand them to the boy。 As the boy ran back to the stall the customer pocketed his money…stick with the absent but careful gesture of any man repocketing his change； took a gigantic bite of his open…faced sandwich； and handed the rest to his daughter； whose first chomp was almost as enthusiastic as her father's。
Jack's stomach boinged and goinged。 He had seen what he had to see 。 。 。 he hoped。
'Fine meats！ Fine meats！ Fine…' The big man broke off and looked down at Jack； his beetling brows drawing together over eyes that were small but not entirely stupid。 'I hear the song your stomach is singing； friend。 If you have money； I'll take your trade and bless you to God in my prayers tonight。 If you haven't； then get your stupid sheep's face out of here and go to the devil。'
Both boys laughed； although they were obviously tired…they laughed as if they had no control over the sounds they were making。
But the maddening smell of the slowly cooking meat would not let him leave。 He held out the shorter of his jointed sticks and pointed to the roast which was second from the left。 He didn't speak。 It seemed safer not to。 The vendor grunted； produced his crude knife from his wide belt again； and cut a slice…it was a smaller slice than the one he had cut the farmer； Jack observed； but his stomach had no business with such matters； it was rumbling crazily in anticipation。
The vendor slapped the meat on bread and brought it over himself instead of handing it to either of the boys。 He took Jack's money…stick。 Instead of two knuckles； he broke off three。
His mother's voice； sourly amused； spoke up in his mind： Congratulations； Jack…O 。 。 。 you've just been screwed。
The vendor was looking at him； grinning around a mouthful of wretched blackish teeth； daring him to say anything； to protest in any way。 You just ought to be grateful I only took three knuckles instead of all fourteen of them。 I could have； you know。 You might as well have a sign hung around your neck； boy： I AM A STRANGER HERE； AND ON MY OWN。 So tell me； Sheep' s…Face： do you want to make an issue of it？
What he wanted didn't matter…he obviously couldn't make an issue of it。 But he felt that thin； impotent anger again。
'Go on；' the vendor said； tiring of him。 He flapped a big hand in Jack's face。 His fingers were scarred； and there was blood under his nails。 'You got your food。 Now get out of here。'
Jack thought； I could show you a flashlight and you'd run like all the devils of hell were after you。 Show you an airplane and you'd probably go crazy。 You're maybe not as tough as you think； chum。
He smiled； perhaps there was something in his smile that the meat…vendor didn't like； because he drew away from Jack； his face momentarily uneasy。 Then his brows beetled together again。
'Get out； I said！' he roared。 'Get out； God pound you！' And this time Jack went。
2
The meat was delicious。 Jack gobbled it and the bread it sat on； and then unselfconsciously licked the juice from his palms as he strolled along。 The meat did taste like pork 。 。 。 and yet it didn't。 It was somehow richer； tangier than pork。 Whatever it was； it filled the hole in the middle of him with authority。 Jack thought he could take it to s