INMATE SUE-ANN BRADLEY cowered in her cell. The Greensleeves was jumping. She had never—no, never, she told herself wretchedly—thought that it would be anything like this. She listened unbelievingly to the noise the released prisoners were making, smashing the chairs and commodes in their cells, screaming threats at the bound guards.
She faced the thought with fear, and with the sorrow of a murdered belief that was worse than fear. It was bad that she was in danger of dying right here and now, but what was even worse was that the principles that had brought her to the Jug were dying, too.
Wipes were not the same as Civil-Service people!
A bull’s roar from the corridor and a shocking crash of glass—that was Flock, and apparently he had smashed the TV interphone.
“What in the world are t
