As he crossed the western bank of the Huang Pu, the usual crowd of 
starving peasants and professional amputees washed around him like a wave 
running up a flat beach because, though riding here was dangerous, it was not 
crazy, and they did not know him for a madman. He kept his gray eyes fixed upon 
the picket of burning Feed lines that demarcated the shrinking border of the 
Coastal Republic, and let their hands tug at his coattails, but he took no 
notice of them. At different times, three very rural young men, identifiable as 
much by their deep tans as their ignorance of modern security technology, made 
the mistake of reaching for his watch chain and received warning shocks for 
their trouble. One of them refused to let go until the smell of burned flesh 
rose from his palm, and then he peeled his hand away slowly and calmly, staring 
up at Hackworth to show that he didn't mind a little pain, and said something 
clearly and loudly that caused a titter to run through the crowd.