As soon as they fell into line, another Svant, in a blue
robe, pushed them aside and took their place.
"Here, you can't do that!" Lillian cried. "Karl, make him step back."
Karl was saying something about social status and precedence. The
couple tried to get into line behind the man who had pushed them
aside. Another villager tried to shove them out of his way. Howell
advanced, his right fist closing. Then he remembered that he didn't
know what he'd be punching; he might break the fellow's neck, or
his own knuckles. He grabbed the blue-robed Svant by the wrist with
both hands, kicked a foot out from under him, and jerked, sending
him flying for six feet and then sliding in the dust for another
couple of yards. He pushed the others back, and put the couple
into place in the line.
"Mark, you shouldn't have done that," Dorver was expostulating.
"We don't know...."
The Svant sat up, shaking his head groggily. Then he realized what
had been done to him. With a snarl of rage, he was on his feet, his
knife in his hand. It was a Terran bowie knife.
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