"Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I'm kind of tired. Maybe I'd better go now." Before
long Kane made some rather moody good nights and went out.
Nat Hawkins twinkled at me. "I'm a little bushed myself," he said.
"Guess I'll hit the bunk too."
When he was gone, I sat smoking and trying to gather up the will to
leave. There was a darkness in me. What, after all, _was_ I doing
here? Gods, I believed I was in the right, but why is right so pitiless?
On Earth they represent the goddess of justice as blind. On Valgolia
she has fangs.
Barbara came over and sat on the arm of my chair. "What's the matter,
Con?" she asked. "You look pretty grim these days."
"My work's developing some complications," I said tonelessly. My
mind added: _It sure is. No way to call headquarters, the rebellion
gathering enormous momentum, and on a basis of treachery and racial
hatred._
Barbara's fingers rumpled my hair, the grafted hair which by now felt
more a part of me than my own lost crest. "You're an odd fellow," she
said quietly. "On the surface so frank and friendly and cheerful, and
down underneath you're hiding yourself and your private unhappiness."
"Why," I looked up at her, astonished, "even the psychologists--"
"They're limited, Con. They can measure, but they can't feel. Not the
way--"
She stopped, and the light glowed in her hair and her eyes were wide
and serious on mine and one small hand stole over to touch my fingers.
Blindly, I wrenched my face away.