Pop stared. Not at the money. It was more than he had ever seen in one pile before, but it wasn't that that shook him. It was the canvas packet. It was marked: Postal Service, EMV. Pop suddenly felt cold, as though an icy wind had touched him.
"You ... you killed a Patrolman for this," he said slowly.
"That's right, Pop," grinned Kane easily. "Burned him down in an alley in Lower Marsport. It was like taking candy from a baby...."
Pop Ganlon swallowed hard. "Like taking candy from a ... baby. As easy as that...."
"As easy as that, old man," Kane said.
Pop knew he was going to die then. He knew Kane would blast him right after turnover point, and he knew fear. He felt something else, too. Something that was new to him. Hate. An icy hate that left him shaken and weak.
So the boy's job hadn't been finished. It was still to do.
There was no use in dreaming of killing Kane. Pop was old. Kane was young—and a killer. Pop was alone and without weapons—save The Luck....
Time passed slowly. Outside, the night of deep space keened soundlessly. The stars burned bright, alien and strange. It was time, thought Pop bleakly. Time to turn The Luck.