Earth, he said. Earth, can you hear me now?
You need no longer fear me and you need not worry, for I shall not come back.
But the day will come when there are others like me. And there may be even now.
For you can't tell a mutant by the way he combs his hair, nor the way he walks or talks. He sprouts no horns and he grows no tail and there's no mark upon his forehead.
But when you spot one, you must watch him carefully. You must spy against him and set double-checks about him. And you must find a place to put him where you'll be safe from anything he does ... but you must not let him know. You must try him and sentence him and send him into exile without his ever knowing it.
Like, said West, you tried to do with me.
But, said West, talking to the Earth, I didn't like your exile, so I chose one of my own. Because I knew, you see. I knew when you began to watch me and about the double-checks and the conferences and the plan of action and there were times when I could hardly keep from laughing in your face.
He stood for a long moment, staring into space, out where the Earth swam somewhere in darkness around the star-like Sun.
Bitter? he asked himself. And answered: No, not bitter. Not exactly bitter.