It said something for the breed, Cudyk thought—not enough, never enough, for you saw it only in pinpoint flashes, the noble individual who was a part of the bestial mob—but a light in the darkness, nevertheless.
Finally Rack spoke. "You, Tom?"
The youngster's eyes showed sudden pain. But he said, "I mean it, Captain."
There was a slow movement out from that side of the room, men inching away, crowding against their neighbors.
Rack was still looking past Monk's shoulder, into De Grasse's face. He said:
"All right."
He turned, still wearing the same frozen expression, and walked down the side of the room, toward the exit. Monk threw a glance of pure incredulity over his shoulder, glanced back at De Grasse, and then followed. Spider scrambled after.
De Grasse relaxed slowly, as if by conscious effort. He put away his gun, hesitated a moment, and walked slowly out after the others. His wide shoulders were slumped.
Then there was the scraping of chairs and boot-soles and a rising bee-hive hum as the audience stood up and began to move out. Harkway made no effort to call them back.
Cudyk, moving toward the exit with the rest, had much to think about. He had seen not only De Grasse's will, but Rack's, part against the knife of human sympathy. And that was a thing he had never expected to see.