In the centre, Watson--bareheaded, his torso bare and his arms
naked. He had been given a pair of soft sandals, and a short suit,
whose one redeeming feature in his eyes was a pocket into which he
had thrust the automatic that he valued so much. It was more like
a picture of Rome than anything else. Whatever the civilisation of
the Thomahlians, their ritual in Watson's eyes smacked still of
barbarism.
But he was intensely interested in all about him. The avenues were
large. On either side the guards were drawn up eight deep, holding
back the multitude that pressed and jostled with the insistence of
curiosity. He looked into the myriad faces; about him, splendid
features, of intelligent man and women.
Not one face suggested the hideous; the women were especially
beautiful, and, from what he could see, finely formed and
graceful. Many of them smiled; he could hear the curious buzz of
conjecturing whispers. Some were indifferent, while others, from
the expression of their faces, were openly hostile.
Chick was in the middle of a procession, the Rhamdas marching
before and the crimson guard bringing up the rear. A special
guard: the inner one, Rhamdas, the outer one of crimson
surrounding them all.
The car started. There was no trace of friction; it was noiseless,
automatic. Chick could only conjecture as to its mechanism. The
black column of Rhamdas moved ahead rhythmically, with the swing
of solemn grandeur.
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