"I don't," I growled. "I don't want to be held back just because I'm
white-skinned. But I've known enough reddies personally so that I try
to be fair."
"It's all right with me," she said. "I can see your point,
intellectually, though I can't really _feel_ it. But not many of the
people will out at Main Base."
"Free men," I muttered sardonically.
We went fishing, and swam in the tumbling surf, and stretched
lazily on the beach with the sun pouring over us. Or we might go
tramping off into the woods on a picnic, to run laughing back when
a sudden rain rushed out of the sky, and afterward sit with beer
and cheese sandwiches listening to a wire of Beethoven or Mozart
or Tchaikovsky--the old Earthlings could write music, if they did
nothing else!--and to the rain shouting on the roof. We might have a
little highly illegal target practice, or a game of chess, or long
conversations which wandered off every which way. I began to have a
sneaking hope that the spaceship would be delayed.
We went out one day in Barbara's little catboat. The waves danced
around us, chuckling against the hull, glittering with sunlight, and
the sail was like a snow mountain against the sky. For a while we
chatted dreamily, ate our lunch, threw the scraps to the hovering
gulls. Then Barbara fell silent.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing. Touch of _Weltschmerz_, maybe." She smiled at me. "You
know, Con, you don't really belong in the Legion."
"How so?" I raised my eyebrows.
"You--well, you're so darned honest, so really decent under that
carefully rough surface, so--reasonable. You'll never make a good
fanatic."
_Honest!_ I looked away from her. The bright day seemed suddenly to
darken.