The Amerindian looked like drek, his complexion sallow, eyes red and sunken, forehead pricked with beads of sweat. He was sitting on the roadway, back against the wall of a building, looking for all the world like a halfdead rubby. This was exactly where Falcon had left him before heading for the gunlegger’s doss, and it didn't look like the runner had moved a hair in the meantime.