Atlax was tired of the big city. He would have moved to the oversea areas and live on fish as soon as he had packed his stuff, thrombone and two cats. But he could not. Atlax was the city's gatekeeper. He played often with the thought, though. He could see the big cargos, loaded with the daily food ratios waiting in vain for him to open the locks, staring in disbelief along the river, the eyes of the romanian loaders slowly filled with tears, from too much rubbing. And than inevitable starvation, illness, death, all because of him.