"Think it out," Orrie Black had said. "Any time something interesting happens, anywhere in the country, some newstaper is going to report it. If it's interesting enough, people are going to flick in to see it, from all over the country. Now just think about that. With these long distance booths you can get. from anywhere to anywhere else just by dialing three numbers.

"If the crowd gets big enough a lot more people flick in just to see a flash crowd, plus more newstapers, plus any kind of agitator looking to shove his sign in front of a camera, plus looters and pickpockets and cops. Before anyone knows it you've got a riot going, with everypne breaking windows and grabbing what's in them. So why shouldn't we be the ones breaking windows?'

"The key, the crucial thing, is for there to be enough of us to help each other out. We should all be flicking in at once..." And they'd tried it out in the Third Watts Riot, which had lasted a full day and a half.

These days you were lucky if a flash crowd lasted two hours. And Orrie Black was in prison, and the others had gone their ways—all but Benny and Lou Garcia.

The Club dues. Not everyone had liked that idea, Benny included. Half your take! But it had paid off, and not just for the Clubhouse. The treasury had paid defense lawyers and hospital fees. Flicking into a riot was dangerous, even for a pro.

There must be a lot of it left in Lou Garcia's care. Quitting had cost Benny his share of that.

Still—he shuddered, remembering the last one. Despite previous experience, he hadn't expected it to grow so big so fast. Something trivial had started it, as usual. A line of people

waiting for tickets to a top game show had gotten out of hand. Too many people, not enough seats, somebody getting pushy, and Wham! A pocket riot, until it hit the news, and then a few hundred more flicked in to see the damn fools fighting.

Benny had flicked into the middle of it, already looking around for the stores—and the cops. The cops had learned something in past years. It wasn't that there were so many of them: it was their deployment. They tended to guard the most valuable store windows. Benny had spotted a furrier's, a small jewelry display, a home appliance store—all guarded by cops. He had seen clerks moving within the furrier's window, trying to get the goods out of harm's way.

He had pushed his way out into the swarm: newstapers with gyrostabilized cameras, a scattering of hand-lettered signs held high, and a hell of a lot of people caught up in it somehow, unable to flick out because the displacement booths filled with incoming passengers before anyone could get in. A lot of incoming passengers had been Club members. A normal enough crowd, but so thick!

The crowd had surged suddenly, downing the cops in front of Van Cleef and Arpel's. Benny had seen the small, wiry man who smashed the window, and scooped, and began pushing his way frantically toward the nearest booth. Toward Benny. And he was not a Club member.

As he passed Benny, Benny had hit him in the stomach and rifled the man's pockets while he was still doubled over. He'd had to fight to keep his feet, but the crowding was such that nobody had noticed what he was doing.

The crowd had surrounded the booth before he turned around. Benny had glimpsed a pair of cops holding back the crowd, letting them into the booth one at a time.

The next nearest booth was a block away, through an incredible sea of feet and elbows. His squat, massive body had been an advantage as he plowed through it. Long before he reached the booth Benny had noticed that nobody was flicking in any more. He had dropped the rings and watches then. Regretfully.

He remembered the sickening moment just after dialing, when the hinged bottom dropped out of the booth and he was sliding downhill. Others were sliding after him, all around the rim of the bowl, and there were hundreds at the bottom picking themselves up, some looking relieved, some furious. The cops had been on a raised, railed platform at the center of the bowl. A loudspeaker had been telling the crowd what they already knew: that they were at United States Central Riot Control, that they would be processed as fast as possible and released.

The police had searched him, photographed him, and sent off the photos for comparison with records of previous riots. His face was on record: he had been in other flash crowds. They had held him. They had held quite a lot of people, many of whom weren't even Club members.

"Just a coincidence," he had told the police. "It's funny how many flash crowds I run into. Never been hurt in one, though. I guess I'm lucky."

They couldn't prove different. They'd had to let him go.

But they knew. Benny hunched his big shoulders, remembering the contempt in their eyes. They knew. And his face and fingerprints had been caught in one more flash crowd. They'd get him if he kept it up.

It was time to quit.

What about the treasury? When most of the members had quit or been caught and sent up, would it be divided by the last few? Lou Garcia must think so. That was why he had gone with the others. That was why he was grinning.

Benny couldn't bring himself to like the idea. He had collected his share of the treasury. But what could he do? If he stayed in the Club but avoided the flash crowds, the others would get tired of collecting his share of the dues for him. They'd beat him up and kick him out.

It had happened before. Club activities depended tm there being enough members in a flash crowd to help each other. Goldbricks were not tolerated.

He stood in a corner booth, coin in hand, wondering where he wanted to go. Where to go, when a career has ended? What difference does it make? The flash crowd at Bloomingdale's was actually in walking distance, and he was tempted to go watch. The police barricades must be up by now. He could look across them, watch the Club in action.

No flash crowd had ever happened this close to the Club. A good thing it hadn't happened nearer...

The idea came to him that suddenly.

For Jerryberry Jansen, home was two rooms knocked together in what had once been a motel on the Pacific Coast Highway. The rooms sold as apartments now. They were cheap, and there was a swimming pool and access to the ocean. The concrete walk between the two rows of doors still had fading white diagonal lines on it.

Five o'clock found Jerryberry flopped bonelessly across the double bed.

For six years Jerryberry had been one of CBA's wandering newstapers, whose profession it is to flick about Los Angeles without leaving the booths, carrying a hand-held camera in hope of finding something interesting to report. He had developed legs like tree trunks. These days he went out on assignment: a step up, but it still involved legwork. Some day, he thought as he put his feet up on the pillows, JumpShift Inc. would start putting seats in the booths. But first they'd have to figure out how to flick the passenger out without flicking the seats out too.

The phone rang.

First he cursed. Then he heaved himself upright and put on a smile to answer. The smile sagged when the screen remained blank. A voice said, "Barry Jerome Jansen?"

"Speaking."

"The newstaper?"

"Right again. Who's this?" Jerryberry wondered if it was a crank call. The voice belonged on a bad actor playing the role of a tough.

"It doesn't matter who I am. How would you like the address of the Permanent Floating Riot Club?"

Jerryberry checked his first response, which would have been, "I'd love it." He said, "There isn't any such thing." That response was justified too. Nobody had ever proved the existence of a Permanent Floating Riot Gang. Every flash crowd attracted a certain proportion of looters. So what?

But he flipped a switch to record the call. The voice had said Club, not Gang.