With Spike before him and the cold fin of the Venusian to the rear, they were led for hours into the darkness.
Rusty's head vaguely ached. He walked with closed eyes, almost slept.
He bumped into something—Spike. Had he slept?
Lothar grunted, "Settlement."
Rusty strained his tired eyes, could see nothing. They marched on.
A faint glow appeared in the distance, slowly widened, became dots of light. It was one of the smaller moon settlements, Spike said; chiefly populated by rich farmers who raised the delicious cavote, luscious fruit cultivated for the interplanetary trade.
They halted on the outskirts of the city.
The city was dark. There were few lights but Rusty looked at the shadowed windows and knew people were asleep there, peacefully in a commonplace existence. For a moment he revered their simple lives, and the ordinary held no memory of monotony but a yearning for its rest as his heart went into the city and softly cried for admission. But there was no response to his pleas, only the black windows, and his longings were but a hollow mockery of his weary soul. He was a fugitive, a convicted murderer in the eyes of all he might meet—he was as these with whom he had fled just punishment. Trapped by a laughing fate, he felt little hope for peace ever again. His loneliness flamed to rage.
"Where's the space port?" asked Spike.
"I take," said Lothar, who had been there before.