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Running
He d given considerable thought to just what to say and exactly how to say it.
Storra had helped. In the end, both decided it was not the sort of thing one
could drag out in hopes of muting the impact. Like butchering a dead and
dried-out baryeln, it was a thing best done quick.
 The Visitant cannot see you. The response he and Storra had expected to this
pronouncement was loud objecting, and he had prepared for that. Instead, an
eerie silence settled over the throng of would-be supplicants. It was not a
good sign. Not knowing what else to do, not having anything else to do, he
continued as planned.
 He is leaving, the net-caster declared, raising his voice slightly despite
the hush. Raising both right forearms, he pointed all four flanges skyward.
 To return to his home among the stars. He feels that his work here is done.
Improvising, he concluded,  He hopes one day to perhaps return to us to
continue the work he has begun. With that, he turned to leave.
It didn t work.
The protests began almost immediately, rising rapidly in frequency and volume.
 How can the Visitant leave now, when my family and I have been waiting here
for a two-day?
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 What of my infirm son? Who will help him now . . . ?
 I paid good money to gain this place in line . . . and for what?
 See here, net-caster, exclaimed a tall, thick merchant as he stuck his head
out from the depths of his ornate travel wagon,  who are you to tell us what
the Visitant will and will not do? I demand to speak to him myself.
 Yes, yes! insisted a female poorer in worldly goods but not in determination
as she pushed herself to the forefront.  I have come all the way from
Derethell Province to seek a cure for my blind nephew, and
I will not be denied by such as you!
 The Visitant, the Visitant! As the crowd took up the refrain Ebbanai, even
in the absence of physical contact with any of their twisting, coiling
Sensitives, could see emotions beginning to boil among them as ferociously as
one of Storra s spiced stews.
 Didn t you hear me? he yelled.  He s going home! he added, raising his
voice as much as he could while continuing to back up.  Don t you think even
the Visitant has a right to do that?
 What does a god need with a home? someone shouted from the center of the
crowd. At any moment, it threatened to turn into an aimless mob.  His home is
wherever he happens to be.
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Running
 Also, an increasingly desperate Ebbanai informed them,  he is out of many of
the medicines he dispenses, and needs to replenish them and do maintenance on
his instruments.
 Instruments! The young female was so angry her Sensitives were quivering as
if a current were being passed through them.  What does a sanctified one need
with instruments?
From within the flamboyant coach, a well-dressed oldster with wrinkling skin
flaps appeared.  All this talk of science is a cover, a mask, for the miracles
the Visitant performs! We all know that such things are a fantasy, to mollify
the rabble, and that the holy one s cures are the result of spells and magic.
Rising from his driving squat, the coach s tethet wrangler turned angrily on
his employer.  Either way, my money is as good as yours, and the Visitant as
likely to heal my bad leg as your inconstant bowels!
Louder argument between master and mastered ensued, which culminated in
several in the crowd taking up the driver s side. They started to rock the
coach with an eye toward putting it over on its side. On the other side of the
vehicle, adults and Nursets with offspring scrambled to get out of the way.
Rising shouts of anger were joined by the first screams of panic.
 The Visitant should see to the common folk first! someone was yelling
indignantly.
 I hear he takes those with the most money before any others, no matter how
serious their afflictions!
exclaimed another angrily.
Tightly curled flanges formed smooth, fingerless fists. Blows began to fall
among disputants, their resentment fueled by the fear that in spite of all
their hopes and demands, the net-caster s words might hold true. None in the
throng was ready to accept that they might have come all this way, with hopes
so high, for nothing. A loud crash came from the center of the developing mob,
where the fancy travel wagon had finally been tipped over. Still yoked to the
vehicle, the three in-line tethets that drew it began to kick out with their
short but powerful legs. Fresh injuries were added to those the supplicants
had brought with them.
Momentarily forgotten, Ebbanai wisely took the moment to turn and run.
Would any of them follow? Given the crowd s overwhelming need to entreat
Flinx, it seemed almost inevitable. For at least some, their desperate need to
seek his aid far exceeded their fear of how an angry
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Visitant might react to their uninvited attention.
Had he handled it badly? Ebbanai thought wildly as he raced back down the dirt
track. What else might he have done, what else could he have said? He and
Storra had worked out what he would say to the crowd beforehand, and his words
had not proven up to the task. A glance backward showed the first supplicants
surging around the simple gate. The weight of the mob pushed others forward.
Splintering sounds reached him as the gate crumbled beneath their combined
weight. As he increased his stride, he
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