The airport was Babel rebuilt to feature runways. The concourses seemed to be filled with street-theater freaks, jugglers, puppeteers. Dadaist mime geeks, religious lunatics proclaiming the end of the world next Monday, Wednesday, or Friday depending on the cult, burned out chipheads, street girls, street boys, street whatevers, and drunks. Occasionally, passengers like themselves did their best to weave their way through the human detritus blocking their path. Security, such as it was, seemed totally oblivious except where outright violence was threatened. Serrin’s little group hadn’t gone ten yards without being offered girls, boys, expansion of consciousness by guru or pill, redemption by mail order, and membership in societies and organizations catering to every inclination imaginable and a few that weren’t.