And, if that were so, then it meant that not merely the people of Earth, but the government of Earth, had negotiated, or had attempted to negotiate, with the children of another race. And that would be the mark of the difference, he thought, the difference between us.
Although, he told himself, that might not be entirely right.
Maybe he had been wrong in thinking, in the first flush of his bitterness, that he was a pet.
Maybe he was a playmate, an adult Earthman downgraded to the status of a child - and a stupid child, at that.
Maybe, if he had been wrong on the pet angle, he was wrong in the belief, as well, that it had been the children of Kimon who had arranged the immigration of the Earth folk.
And if it hadn't been simply a childish matter of asking some kids from across the tracks, if the adults of Kimon had had a hand in it, what was the setup, then? A school project, a certain phase of progressive education? Or a sort of summer camp project, designed to give the deserving but underprivileged, Earthmen a vacation away from the squalor of their native planet? Or simply a safe way in which the children of Kimon might amuse and occupy themselves, be kept from underfoot?
We should have guessed it long ago, Bishop told himself. But even if some of us might have entertained the thought, that we were either pet or playmate, we would have pushed it far away from us, would have refused to recognize it, for our pride is too tender and too raw for a thought like that.
"There you are, sir," said the cabinet. "Almost as good as new. Tomorrow you can take the dressing off."
He stood before the cabinet without answering. He withdrew his hand and let it fall to his side, like so much dead weight.
Without asking if he wanted it, the cabinet produced a drink.