was impassioned. The boy clearly scored. From the audience came a smattering of light applause and it was Thorn's turn to reply.
"Are you through?" asked Thorn.
"What are you worth. Thorn?" shouted the youth. "As much as Rockefeller?"
"Nowhere near."
"When Rockefeller was appointed Vice-President, the papers listed his income as slightly over three hundred million! You know what the slightly over was? Thirty-three million! Not even worth counting! That was his spare change, while half the population of the world died of starvation! Isn't there something obscene here? Does anyone need as much money as that?"
"I am not Mr. Rockefeller .. ."
"The hell you aren't!"
"Will you let me answer, please?"
"One child! One starving child! Do something for just one starving child! Then we'll believe you! Just reach out with your own hand, not your mouth, with your hand, and extend it to one starving child!"
"Perhaps I've done that," replied Thorn quietly.
"Where is he, then?" demanded the boy. "Who's the child? Who've you saved, Thorn? Who are you trying to save?"
"Certain of us have responsibilities that extend beyond one starving child."
"You can't save the world, Thorn, until you reach out for that first starving child."
The audience was with the heckler now. He was responded to with a firm and sudden applause.
"You have me at a disadvantage," said Thorn evenly. "You stand in the dark and hurl invective . . ."
"Then turn on the lights, I'll hurl it louder!"
The audience laughed and the houselights began to flicker on, the reporters and photographers suddenly rising, turning their attention to the back of the room. Jennings, the photographer, cursed himself for not having a long lens, and he focused on several heads, the angry youth centered among them.
On the stage, Thorn remained calm, but as the lights came up full, his manner suddenly changed. His eyes were not on the boy, but on another figure, hidden in the shadows some distance behind him. It was the figure of a priest, small in stature, a hat clutched tensely in his hand. It was Tassone. Even though Thorn could not see his features, he knew it was he, and it rendered him immobile.
"What's the matter, Thorn?" taunted the youth. "Nothing to say?"
Thorn's energy was suddenly gone, a wave of fear sweeping over him as he stood mute, gazing into the shadows. From a position beneath him, Jennings swung his camera in the direction of Thorn's fearful gaze, snapping off a series of shots.
"Come on, Thorn!" demanded the heckler. "You can see me now, what do you have to say?"
"I think . . ." said Thorn, faltering, ". . . your points are well taken. We should all share our wealth. I'll try to do more."
The boy was taken off guard, and so was the audience. Someone called for the lights to be switched out, and Thorn returned to his lectern. He struggled to find his place and then gazed up again into the darkness. And in a distant shaft of light, he could see the robes of the one who stalked him.
Jennings had returned late that night and put his films into the developer. The Ambassador had, as usual, impressed and intrigued him. He could spot fear as surely as a rat could smell cheese, and it was fear that he had seen through the viewfinder of his camera. It was not nameless fear, for it was evident that Thorn had seen something, or someone, in the darkness of the auditorium. The light had been poor and the camera angle wide, but Jennings had shot in the direction of the Ambassador's gaze and hoped he would find something when the film was developed. As he waited, he became aware that he was hungry and tore open a sack of groceries he'd bought on his way back from the hotel. He'd purchased a small barbecued chicken and a large bottle of root beer, and he set them out before him for a feast. The chicken was whole save for head and feet, and Jennings stuck it on the end of the root beer bottle so it sat upright, staring headlessly at him across the table. It was a mistake,
"Are you through?" asked Thorn.
"What are you worth. Thorn?" shouted the youth. "As much as Rockefeller?"
"Nowhere near."
"When Rockefeller was appointed Vice-President, the papers listed his income as slightly over three hundred million! You know what the slightly over was? Thirty-three million! Not even worth counting! That was his spare change, while half the population of the world died of starvation! Isn't there something obscene here? Does anyone need as much money as that?"
"I am not Mr. Rockefeller .. ."
"The hell you aren't!"
"Will you let me answer, please?"
"One child! One starving child! Do something for just one starving child! Then we'll believe you! Just reach out with your own hand, not your mouth, with your hand, and extend it to one starving child!"
"Perhaps I've done that," replied Thorn quietly.
"Where is he, then?" demanded the boy. "Who's the child? Who've you saved, Thorn? Who are you trying to save?"
"Certain of us have responsibilities that extend beyond one starving child."
"You can't save the world, Thorn, until you reach out for that first starving child."
The audience was with the heckler now. He was responded to with a firm and sudden applause.
"You have me at a disadvantage," said Thorn evenly. "You stand in the dark and hurl invective . . ."
"Then turn on the lights, I'll hurl it louder!"
The audience laughed and the houselights began to flicker on, the reporters and photographers suddenly rising, turning their attention to the back of the room. Jennings, the photographer, cursed himself for not having a long lens, and he focused on several heads, the angry youth centered among them.
On the stage, Thorn remained calm, but as the lights came up full, his manner suddenly changed. His eyes were not on the boy, but on another figure, hidden in the shadows some distance behind him. It was the figure of a priest, small in stature, a hat clutched tensely in his hand. It was Tassone. Even though Thorn could not see his features, he knew it was he, and it rendered him immobile.
"What's the matter, Thorn?" taunted the youth. "Nothing to say?"
Thorn's energy was suddenly gone, a wave of fear sweeping over him as he stood mute, gazing into the shadows. From a position beneath him, Jennings swung his camera in the direction of Thorn's fearful gaze, snapping off a series of shots.
"Come on, Thorn!" demanded the heckler. "You can see me now, what do you have to say?"
"I think . . ." said Thorn, faltering, ". . . your points are well taken. We should all share our wealth. I'll try to do more."
The boy was taken off guard, and so was the audience. Someone called for the lights to be switched out, and Thorn returned to his lectern. He struggled to find his place and then gazed up again into the darkness. And in a distant shaft of light, he could see the robes of the one who stalked him.
Jennings had returned late that night and put his films into the developer. The Ambassador had, as usual, impressed and intrigued him. He could spot fear as surely as a rat could smell cheese, and it was fear that he had seen through the viewfinder of his camera. It was not nameless fear, for it was evident that Thorn had seen something, or someone, in the darkness of the auditorium. The light had been poor and the camera angle wide, but Jennings had shot in the direction of the Ambassador's gaze and hoped he would find something when the film was developed. As he waited, he became aware that he was hungry and tore open a sack of groceries he'd bought on his way back from the hotel. He'd purchased a small barbecued chicken and a large bottle of root beer, and he set them out before him for a feast. The chicken was whole save for head and feet, and Jennings stuck it on the end of the root beer bottle so it sat upright, staring headlessly at him across the table. It was a mistake,
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