People in the costumes of many nations and many regions, a multi-colored river of people, flowed past the A’Chigua toward the Plaza. Martinho sped up, led his men into the stream. People made way; words of recognition followed. “It’s Joao Martinho and some of his Irmandades.” “ … the Piratininga with Benito Alvarez.” “Joao Martinho …” At the Plaza, a white truck of the Hermosillo Bandeirantes played its searchlights on the fountain. There were other trucks and official vehicles across the way. The Hermosillo truck was a working rig recently returned from the interlands, by the look of it. The inter-leavings of its extensile wings were still streaked with dirt. The break-line of its forward pod could be distinguished clearly—a distinct crack that ran completely around the vehicle. Two of its ground-lift pods didn’t quite match the white of the others, evidence of a field repair job. Martinho followed the pointing fingers of the searchlights. He moved forward to a line of police and bandeirantes holding back the crowd, was passed through on recognition, his men following.
