Clack. Sway. Clack. Sway. You could call it 'walking,' he supposed. If I'd lost limbs on different sides of my body this would be easier. * * * Hordes of French schoolchildren had invaded the British Museum. They hooted and called to each other, running between the glass cases of Grecian pottery and endless clay slabs scratched with Linear B. Their sole teacher, a frazzled-looking man in a black sweater, gave apologetic shrugs but made no attempt to corral his charges. Vin came clacking onto the scene. The children went quiet. All eyes slid towards Vin as he hobbled like a fiddler-crab, kicking out with his left prosthetic leg, swaying forward, then thrusting down the cane in his right hand. A German couple five feet away stared. Vin felt the woman's gaze from under her long blonde bangs. "I'm not an exhibit," he told them, teeth clenched. The couple took a sudden interest in Early Etruscan Glazing Techniques. He worked his way over to a museum official wearing a plum vest. The middle-aged woman gave him a polite nod as he approached, but otherwise pretended not to notice his struggles.
