"Prison," said Tam Peters.
"Oh, now see here--let's not be ridiculous--"
"Not so ridiculous," snapped Tam, his eyes brighter. "I figured it all
out, before I came up here. I knew what you were going to say. Sure,
go to Mercury, Tam, work in the mines a while--well, I can't do it
that way. And there's only one other answer."
"But, Tam--"
"Oh, it wouldn't take much. You know how the courts handle Sharkies.
Just a small offense, to get me a few years, then a couple of attempts
to break out, and I'd be in for life. I'm a Sharkie, remember. People
don't waste time with us."
"Tam, you're talking nonsense. Good Lord, man, you'd have no freedom,
no life--"
"What freedom do I have now?" Tam snarled, his voice growing wild.
"Freedom to starve? Freedom to crawl on my hands and knees for a
little bit of food? I don't want that kind of freedom." His eyes grew
shrewd, shifted slyly to Dave Hawke's broad face. "Just a simple
charge," he said slowly. "Like assault, for instance. Criminal
assault--it has an ugly sound, doesn't it, Dave? That should give me
ten years--" his fist clenched at his side. "Yes, criminal assault is
just what ought to do the trick--"
The big man tried to dodge, but Tam was too quick. His fist caught
Dave in the chest, and Tam was on him like a fury, kicking,
scratching, snarling, pounding. Dave choked and cried out, "Tam, for
God's sake stop--" A blow caught him in the mouth, choking off his
words as Tam fought, all the hate and bitterness of long weary years
translated into scratching, swearing desperation. Dave pushed him off,
like a bear trying to disentangle a maddened dog from his fur, but Tam
was back at him, fighting harder. The door opened, and Miss Jackson's
frightened face appeared briefly, then vanished. Finally Dave lifted a
heavy fist, drove it hard into Tam's stomach, then sadly lifted the
choking, gasping man to the floor.
The police came in, seconds later, clubs drawn, eyes wide. They
dragged Tam out, one on each arm. Dave sank back, his eyes filling, a
sickness growing in the pit of his stomach. In court, a Sharkie would
draw the maximum sentence, without leniency. Ten years in prison--Dave
leaned forward, his face in his hands, tears running down his black
cheeks, sobs shaking his broad, heavy shoulders. "Why wouldn't he
listen? Why couldn't he have gone to Mercury? Only a few months, not
long enough to hurt him. Why couldn't he have gone, and worked out in
the sun, got that hot sun down on his hands and face--not for long,
just for a little while. Two or three months, and he'd have been dark
enough to pass--"