When a man strolled to his side and stood watching the workmen, he was not surprised. He waited for the other to speak.
“I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes,” the stranger said.
Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium tall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years [p147] beyond the age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy. “You’re Johnson?” he asked.
The man nodded.
Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would not come. “We have nothing to talk about,” was the best he could manage.
“Then will you just listen? After, I’ll leave—if you tell me to.”
Against his will he found himself liking the man, and wanting at least to be courteous. He inclined his head toward a curb wastebox with a flat top. “Should we sit?”
Johnson smiled agreeably and they walked over to the box and sat down.
“When this colony was first founded,” Johnson began without preamble, “the administrative body was a governor, and a council of twelve. Their successors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Then things changed. We haven’t had an election now in the last twenty-three years. St. Martin’s is beginning to prosper. Yet the only ones receiving the benefits are the rulers. The citizens work twelve hours a day. They are poorly housed, poorly fed, poorly clothed. They …”
Zarwell found himself not listening as Johnson’s voice went on. The story was always the same. But why did they always try to drag him into their troubles?