said—
'The stars are free
Though men be slaves.
Imprison me—
The stars are free.
And when the slaves
Look up, they see—
The stars are free
Though men be slaves.…'
I stared at the pale yellow stuff in my glass. I lifted it up to my lips, sipped it. It was vile, sweet, cloying-wine.
—All right, Swifty, you've had your drink, now get out and don't come back !
The words were repeated, louder, before I realized that they were directed at me. I looked up slowly, past a swelling orange-and-blue belly; up and up to a big, unshaven face, red with anger and wine. I stared at him curiously.
"We don't like your kind, Swifty," the mercenary said. "Better leave while you can still walk."
He swayed. Or maybe it was my eyes. I started to get to my feet, slowly, undecided whether I disliked his remark and his heavy, arrogant face enough to change them. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice, cold and analytical, was whispering that I would never get out of the place alive if I hit him. I decided that I didn't care. I didn't like his remark. I didn't like the way his mouth moved. I disliked his face intensely. It would be a pleasure.
Something slipped between us. Beardy orange-and-blue was pushed back. I was shoved down into my seat.
"Leave him alone," a clear voice said. "Can't you see he's sick?"
"Aw, Laurie," the mercenary complained like a little boy, "you'd comfort a mad dog. But this—"
"Leave him alone!" the voice said. Clear and bell-like and angry. Orange-and-blue faded away. Something jangled as it was leaned against the edge of the table. Something yellow and flesh pink and red and blue and dark brown slipped into the seat opposite me.
"I'm not sick," I said. It sounded surly. It was surly. I focused my eyes on her. Close, she was still pretty, even prettier, maybe. Her face was young, but her eyes, as they looked into mine, were blue and deep and wise. A man could lose his soul in eyes like those, I thought crazily. Laurie. Laurie. I liked the sound of that. I kept saying it over and over in my mind.
"You are sick," she said. "Up here." She tapped her forehead where the dark hair swept back smoothly at the temple. "But that isn't why I said it. I had to get Mike away before he got killed. He's a friend of mine. I don't like to have my friends killed."
I studied her face, wondering what it was that made her so attractive. "I don't like to see my friends killed either. But they die, they die. And you realize that you don't really have any friends. No friends. That makes sense, doesn't it? You don't have any friends, so you don't care if they die. You think I'd have killed him?"
She nodded slowly. "Oh, yes. You don't care any more. You don't care if you live or die. That makes you the most deadly thing in the galaxy."
"Almost the deadest, too," I said bitterly. I looked away. "You're right. I think I'd have killed him. Then the others would have killed me. But a man gets tired of running away. He runs so far and then he stops, and he won't run any more."
"Killing never solves anything," she said gently.
I looked into her eyes again. They asked me to listen, to understand. I laughed harshly. "It solves the problem of who gets killed, you or the other fellow. You don't know."
"I know."
"Yesterday—yesterday I would have agreed with you. Yesterday I would have done anything to keep from killing." I felt my lip curl up at the corner. "Yesterday I was a fool. Since then I've learned that if you want to live you have to kill. Since then I've killed four men."
She reached out quickly and laid her hand over mine. There was something maternal about it, like a mother soothing a child. "It hurts, doesn't it?"
I jerked my hand away. "What do you know?" I said. "The world is ugly. The world is disease and death, torture and betrayal, cruelty and lust and hate and fear and greed—Why shouldn't I kill? I've seen the face of the world. It's a grinning skull. It wants my life. It would like to tear it out of me,
'The stars are free
Though men be slaves.
Imprison me—
The stars are free.
And when the slaves
Look up, they see—
The stars are free
Though men be slaves.…'
I stared at the pale yellow stuff in my glass. I lifted it up to my lips, sipped it. It was vile, sweet, cloying-wine.
—All right, Swifty, you've had your drink, now get out and don't come back !
The words were repeated, louder, before I realized that they were directed at me. I looked up slowly, past a swelling orange-and-blue belly; up and up to a big, unshaven face, red with anger and wine. I stared at him curiously.
"We don't like your kind, Swifty," the mercenary said. "Better leave while you can still walk."
He swayed. Or maybe it was my eyes. I started to get to my feet, slowly, undecided whether I disliked his remark and his heavy, arrogant face enough to change them. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice, cold and analytical, was whispering that I would never get out of the place alive if I hit him. I decided that I didn't care. I didn't like his remark. I didn't like the way his mouth moved. I disliked his face intensely. It would be a pleasure.
Something slipped between us. Beardy orange-and-blue was pushed back. I was shoved down into my seat.
"Leave him alone," a clear voice said. "Can't you see he's sick?"
"Aw, Laurie," the mercenary complained like a little boy, "you'd comfort a mad dog. But this—"
"Leave him alone!" the voice said. Clear and bell-like and angry. Orange-and-blue faded away. Something jangled as it was leaned against the edge of the table. Something yellow and flesh pink and red and blue and dark brown slipped into the seat opposite me.
"I'm not sick," I said. It sounded surly. It was surly. I focused my eyes on her. Close, she was still pretty, even prettier, maybe. Her face was young, but her eyes, as they looked into mine, were blue and deep and wise. A man could lose his soul in eyes like those, I thought crazily. Laurie. Laurie. I liked the sound of that. I kept saying it over and over in my mind.
"You are sick," she said. "Up here." She tapped her forehead where the dark hair swept back smoothly at the temple. "But that isn't why I said it. I had to get Mike away before he got killed. He's a friend of mine. I don't like to have my friends killed."
I studied her face, wondering what it was that made her so attractive. "I don't like to see my friends killed either. But they die, they die. And you realize that you don't really have any friends. No friends. That makes sense, doesn't it? You don't have any friends, so you don't care if they die. You think I'd have killed him?"
She nodded slowly. "Oh, yes. You don't care any more. You don't care if you live or die. That makes you the most deadly thing in the galaxy."
"Almost the deadest, too," I said bitterly. I looked away. "You're right. I think I'd have killed him. Then the others would have killed me. But a man gets tired of running away. He runs so far and then he stops, and he won't run any more."
"Killing never solves anything," she said gently.
I looked into her eyes again. They asked me to listen, to understand. I laughed harshly. "It solves the problem of who gets killed, you or the other fellow. You don't know."
"I know."
"Yesterday—yesterday I would have agreed with you. Yesterday I would have done anything to keep from killing." I felt my lip curl up at the corner. "Yesterday I was a fool. Since then I've learned that if you want to live you have to kill. Since then I've killed four men."
She reached out quickly and laid her hand over mine. There was something maternal about it, like a mother soothing a child. "It hurts, doesn't it?"
I jerked my hand away. "What do you know?" I said. "The world is ugly. The world is disease and death, torture and betrayal, cruelty and lust and hate and fear and greed—Why shouldn't I kill? I've seen the face of the world. It's a grinning skull. It wants my life. It would like to tear it out of me,
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