Randall set his guitar case on the ground and started to play as the sun rose over the square. The dome gave an artificial sheen to the natural light, and he wondered if the Arkadi owners really thought they had improved on the sun.
They thought they had improved on everything else, of course. Years of convention were thrown out the window, leaving signals where blue means go, amber stop; where a beconing hand called you across the street, a barrier to wait; where securit forces wore green, criminals blue; and where the town square was a circle.
He smiled as he greeted the early risers and put the conventions out of his mind. They were different in the next city, of course, and again different in the next after that. The system would have appealled to him, but he saw it for the order it was, the control. Ignorance of the law was no excuse; the one tradition to which they all clung.
Even now a green-uniformed officer was patrolling the buskers, her palm out to scan their permits. His own were in order, of course. Whatever his nature, there were some rules even he couldn’t escape.
Prison was order all over. Best to avoid it.