"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable.
"Will you promise," I asked, "to abide by my decision?"
He kept on looking at me, his lips trembling in their fixed grin. "No!"
he said. "Never! You'll change your mind some day--you must! We'll go
back, then--I'll make you go back! Lorelei--" He collapsed, sobbing,
his head sunk in his arms.
I knew that what he said was partly true. Some day, when I slept, as I
would have to within months, he would go down to the control room, set
the keys for the return, and lock the combinations of the doors behind
him again. Sooner or later, in spite of me, _The Avenger_ would go
home. There was only one thing to do.
He was still slumped in his chair, his body shaken by his sobs. I rose
silently, and stood for a moment looking down at him. It was best that
it happen now; it was what he would have called "mercy."
_I extended my arms, looking at the corded, black-furred length of
them. I looked down at him once more, saying a silent farewell; and
then I clasped his gray head, very quickly, between my hands._