Both froze as the patrol bubble turned the corner on racing treads and pulled up short. John considered making a run for it, but saw it was too late. Pete had arrived at the same conclusion.
"They picked our lips on the vocal-box," Pete whispered. "We're in trouble."
John didn't have a chance to answer. The two Blasts were out of their bubble and coming toward them. The tall one said mechanically, "Section twenty-seven, Earth Ordinances, using profane language on public lanes. Subsection twelve, covering classification of terms of racial-superiority as profanity due to its negation of established fact and the harmful effects--"
"Oh, shove it, Blast," Pete muttered. "We know the public scroll. So you picked us up on the box. So what?"
The CPCNC officer looked at him. "You people never will learn. Why don't you accept the status quo, learn to live like human beings?"
"That's what I always say," John murmured sarcastically.
The Blast stepped in and slapped him, hard. John rocked back on his heels, clenched his fists, but did nothing. The Blast slapped him again, not quite so hard but with a great deal more deliberation. John bit his lip and dropped his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "Why don't _we_ act like human beings!"
The second Blast, a shorter, heavier man, waved his companion away. "Easy, Farn. Don't let this Yorker get you." He turned to the two adolescents, something like pity in his brown eyes. "We'll let it pass, this time. But we've got you down on our photopads. The next offense means Re-education House."
Neither boy said a word, but John's cheek burned and something in his chest burned even more.
The conciliatory Blast hesitated; then said, "Why don't you boys come down to Composite Youth Center? We've got the latest vizios, athletic--"
"We're members of Race-Through-God," John said, a quiet satisfaction in his voice. "The scroll says we can't be forced to attend CYC. Our master told us that. We go to meetings regularly."
Farn, the Blast who had slapped John, whirled around and stamped back to the bubble. "C'mon, Stan!" he called. "This filthy slum sickens me!"
Stan nodded, but lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. "You'll never get out of York, be issued a space visa, or do anything worth while if you stick to the race-church stuff, boys. You don't know what the Galaxy is like--the planets, the beautiful cities. It's really something. Just sign up for CYC. After that, you can qualify for Integration and meet some really beautiful ladies."