ar
from Myla's house.

He could hear the cries of the Hunters behind him. He reached Myla's
house, and found the door unlocked.

* * * * *

They were all together--the one-eyed man, the bald old woman, and Myla.
They showed no surprise at his entrance.

"So they picked you in the Lottery," the old man said. "Well, it's what
we expected."

Barrent asked, "Did Myla skren it in the water?"

"There was no need to," the old man said. "It was quite predictable,
considering the sort of person you are. Bold but not ruthless. That's
your trouble, Barrent."

The old man had dropped the obligatory form of address for a Privileged
Citizen; and that, under the circumstances, was predictable, too.

"I've seen it happen year after year," the old man said. "You'd be
surprised how many promising young men like yourself end up in this
room, out of breath, holding a needlebeam as though it weighed a ton
with Hunters three minutes behind them. They expect us to help them, but
mutants like to stay out of trouble."

"Shut up, Dem," the old woman said.

"I guess we have to help you," Dem said. "Myla's decided on it for
reasons of her own." He grinned sardonically. "Her mother and I told her
she was wrong, but she insisted. And since she's the only one of us who
can skren, we must let her have her own way."

Myla said, "Even with us helping you, there's very little chance that
you'll live through the Hunt."

"If I'm killed," Barrent said, "how will your prediction come true?
Remember, you saw me looking at my own corpse, and it was in shiny
fragments."

"I remember," Myla said. "But your death won't affect the prediction. If
it doesn't happen to you in this lifetime, it will simply catch up to
you in a different incarnation."

Barrent was not comforted. He asked, "What should I do?"

The old man handed him an armful of rags. "Put these on, and I'll go to
work on your face. You, my friend, are going to become a mutant."

* * * * *

In a short time, Barrent was back on the street. He was dressed in rags.
Beneath them he was holding his needlebeam, and in his free hand was a
begging cup. The old man had worked lavishly with a pinkish-yellow
plastic. Barrent's face was now monstrously swollen at the forehead, and
his nose was flat and spread out almost to the cheekbones. The shape of
his face had been altered, and the livid hunt-marks were hidden.

A detachment o