It did not take long for Bly Stanton to tell the history of the three
hundred men of his group, and that of the Mongoloid Himlo men, the last
of the invaders who were the remnants of those who came across from
Asia. All the while he spoke, his senses were full of these women. There
was a long silence when he finished his tale.
"The books did not lie then," the one called Naila said. "And what about
children...?" her voice faded.
"The last of the great bombs did irreparable damage," Mary said. "But we
will talk of that later. You have told us that there is a battle to the
death between you and these Himlos. Then why are you unarmed? Where are
your weapons?"
It was the first time Bly had been asked the question directly. And it
was the first time he had to think about it. He let his mind assemble
the facts in their proper order, and after a while he spoke:
"I do not _know_ why, except that I no longer want to know either the
touch or feel of a sword or knife. I do not want to harm anyone. Nor can
I explain why I feel this way."
Suddenly one of the women made a sound of horror. They turned to her and
saw she was staring in fascination at the torn part of Stanton's shirt
where the sword blade had entered. Mary and several others gathered
closer, and Mary parted the fabric to see the wound better.
"Look!" she exclaimed in wonder. "How deep it is."
For the first time, then, Bly Stanton saw the wound for what it was, a
death wound. He wondered--had he become immortal?--not in the sense he
knew, but in actuality, where death even by violence was not the end.