God's sake! How much did you pay him to put me away?"

He jumped quickly off the parapet, knocking the little boy to the ground, and hurled the hemlock into the fountain. He pushed his way past them and started to run. Then the woven garment twisted about his legs. He tried to lift it clear, but his foot caught in the hem and he stumbled.

Nat was the first to move. He picked up the little toy dagger and fell on the struggling man. Without hesitating, he plunged the knife between Mr. Sims' shoulder blades and held it till the older man was still. Then he stabbed again, without malice, without any emotion ... again and again.... The blade made an odd ripping sound each time it pierced the woven robe.

All of them looked away. One of the women leaned over the parapet, sick.

When he was finally done, Nat stood up and cleaned the knife on the grass and then motioned them all back toward the palace.

Mr. Hoode met them as they walked through the foyer. "Ah, Socrates' friends!" he said to Nat, who was dabbing at the front of his coat with a piece of tissue. "Was everything in order?"

"There was a slight change of plan," Nat said. "He decided at the last moment to make it Julius Caesar." He held the knife up in explanation.

"Julius Caesar! But—"

But they were gone, filing out through the front door, the women sobbing in their handkerchiefs. No one looked back.

The door hissed quietly shut. Mr. Hoode started at the sound and then walked slowly into his office, seized by a cold, limp rage. From his window, he could see them going down the driveway.

"Amateurs," he spat after them with deep disgust. "Damned, lousy, unimaginative amateurs!"

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