AMcDonald's sign lay toppled across the highway like a giant turnpike; 
something had burned through the single pillar that thrust it into the air. A 
couple of young men were standing in front of it smoking cigarettes and, as 
Hackworth realized, waiting for him. As Hackworth drew closer, they ground out 
their cigarettes, stepped forward, and bowed. Hackworth tipped his bowler. One 
of them took Kidnapper's reins, which was a purely ceremonial gesture in the 
case of a robot horse, and the other invited Hackworth to dismount. Both of the 
men were wearing heavy but flexible coveralls with cables and tubes running 
through the fabric: the inner layer of armor suits. They could turn themselves 
into battle-ready hoplites by slapping on the harder and heavier outer bits, 
which were presumably stashed somewhere
handy. Their scarlet headbands identified them as Fists. Hackworth was one of 
the few members of the Outer Tribes ever to find himself in the presence of a 
Fist who was not running toward him with a weapon screaming "Kill! Kill!" and 
found it interesting to see them in a more indulgent mood. They were dignified, 
formal, and controlled, like military men, with none of the leering and 
snickering that were fashionable among Coastal Republic boys of the
same age.